rmr_company

Jorma Kaukonen

2009-03-30T06:15:00.001-07:00

Zappa Plays Zappa

2009-03-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

Camera Obscura

2009-03-27T00:20:00.004-07:00

Where the fictionalist and music scribe drifts into cinema via a little bi-weekly column called Hidden Flick--24 editions and counting.

Best of 2008 - Bill Payne

2009-03-27T00:14:00.015-07:00

I'll update this warehouse soon with over 20 features from 2008/09. The Bill Payne feature ranks near the top, and is posted here.

NOW PLAYING, to the right, also lists some recent work.

Closure

2009-03-27T00:12:00.002-07:00

Still Life

2009-03-27T00:12:00.001-07:00

Ever Onwards

2009-03-27T00:11:00.001-07:00

Skeletons

2009-03-27T00:08:00.001-07:00

Dungen

2009-03-27T00:07:00.001-07:00

The Victor Disc

2009-03-27T00:06:00.001-07:00

Headphones Jam

2009-03-27T00:05:00.001-07:00

Julian Lage

2009-03-27T00:02:00.002-07:00

Abandon Ship

2009-03-27T00:02:00.001-07:00

Dark Was the Night

2009-03-27T00:00:00.001-07:00

Phish - Hampton - 3/8/09

2009-03-26T23:55:00.000-07:00

Phish - Hampton - 3/7/09

2009-03-26T23:54:00.001-07:00

Phish - Hampton - 3/6/09

2009-03-26T23:53:00.000-07:00

The Mantis Monologues - Part III - Joel Cummins

2009-03-26T23:52:00.000-07:00

The Mantis Monologues - Part II - Brendan Bayliss

2009-03-26T23:50:00.000-07:00

The Mantis Monologues - Part I - Jake Cinninger

2009-03-26T23:46:00.002-07:00

Butch Trucks - Allman Brothers Band

2009-03-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

PHISH AT THE MOTHERSHIP

2008-10-01T00:28:00.002-07:00

Trey Anastasio, Jon Fishman, Mike Gordon, and Page McConnell
Hampton Coliseum
March 6, 7, 8, 2009

"Austin is not," they whispered, "like all the rest."

2008-03-23T08:59:00.002-07:00

The streets were far narrower. That was the first thing I noticed. I was used to sixteen-lane super highways and streets which could fit two football fields from sidewalk to sidewalk in Texas. Everything is SUPERSIZED. Such is not the case in Austin. The beautiful little Texan city is an anomaly in a state which triggers very mixed feelings. Like most bleeding heart environmentally-mind liberals, I now almost permanently align Texas with the dreaded first family of American political crime, the Bush clan.

To go to Austin is to see what can be truly great about America in the form of its art, culture and people. The recent South by Southwest (as I hate acronyms due to the current ‘text message’ literary culture in which we dwell, I won’t mention those four letters—instead, I prefer to ramble about its pithy tongue-tied sound bite in a right snooty fashion) music festival was attended by what appears to be every American hipster on the planet and one wonders what exactly brought them to the city. Was it the heady music or the cool guest speakers or indie films or was it—as Jesse Jarnow sagely and in a bit of inspired hilarity field-recorded the audio activity—a gaggle of grackles making loud bird songs in the trees along the city streets? Jarnow’s comment about the birds being “pissed off locals,” what with all of the trendy media and music-and-film-loving tourists clogging the claustrophobic environs, was also quite inspired.

But we digress…and that perhaps, is Austin’s greatest legacy from the Asylum Street Spankers and their hit-and-miss vaudevillian post-modern shtick by way of New Orleans to the late, legendary guitarist Stevie Ray Vaughan combining rock, big band music, blues and Austin, Texas swamp music with good ole Tennessee stomp-and-strut vibes. Austin is ALL about the sweet digression on a quiet back street and that’s enough sometimes in the overcrowded realm of one’s normal everyday activities. Slow the fuck down, dig? My late father grew up in Paris, Texas. They made a very cool film about that little place back in the American Century but alas, I think he needed a wee bit more of Austin to supplement his more conservative nature.

I remember how friendly the people of Austin were and how every show I’ve either seen in the city—the latest being Trey Anastasio’s best show of 2006 on Halloween at Stubb’s BBQ—or been told about was an all-time high. Case in point, the recent NYC two-date Ween run at Terminal 5 in Manhattan was apparently eclipsed by the “best show of the tour” also in Austin, and also at Stubb’s BBQ, according to my buddy, Tom.

Austin consistently delivers great music, film, theatre and has a refreshingly…O.K. I’ll say it…liberal slant on how one can live one’s life, who one can love and what one plans on doing to earn a living while bypassing the easy, corrupt road of Texas’ most infamous oil-drenched political family. It’s not so much “Don’t Mess With Texas,” anymore. The bumper sticker should read “Don’t Miss Austin.”

And I won’t miss the call of that whisper if I’m listening…sometime in the near future, on that quiet city street, outside the frames of homes that appear to have stood for two centuries and contain people with stories that reach back even further as one sees a slice of life that is equal parts Golden Americana and the sweet life that gives us all hope that this wild journey through the lyrical notes of our daily lives is somehow worth it.

"Chicago," he sang, "that line between what was and what really should be..."

2008-02-28T18:24:00.015-07:00

There are loads of mistakes in this piece but, like rock 'n' roll, I like to leave the jagged edges exposed just to deepen the reality of the thought process--that idea that one is seeking something and doesn't quite know what it is but is willing to keep pushing hard with an honest goal and a pure heart.

Either that or I'm an undisciplined bastard embracing organized chaos, odd segues, and weird freakiness who also despises clean, Strunk & White writing that appears constipated--Jimmy Page's wicked tangents vs. Eric Clapton's reverential temperance.

“Chicago,” he sang, “that line between what was and what really should be…”
Randy Ray
Jambands.com
2008-02-26
Peaches En Randalia #24

2002>roadmap snapshot
Chicago is a good walking town—that is, when the place isn’t living up to its Windy City moniker. We take the medium-sized length trip down to the pier and notice about a dozen couples, single natives and wayward tourists—all those that wander are not lost—and the master shot p.o.v. looking back towards the city is spectacular and daunting. The streets seem like any that one would find in a metropolitan area but these streets hide some dark tales that even a Bogartish film noir would find too haunting to present. Indeed, Chicago is best viewed from the water as it all seems to fit into place. Many citizens originally arrived in America via the water and there is nothing quite like the view of a metropolis than from liquid’s edge as one wonders what could save this complex Chicago city from its historical fate as a place so corrupt that even Detroit shudders in the distance.

1928>historical precedence
I’m listening to Ramblin’ Thomas from his 1928 Chicago blues recordings and he’s setting the beaten-dog, devil-may-care stone work for the foundation that would become Robert Johnson. But then you knew that, right? Just like you knew that the Daleys—the same family that towered over Chicago for decades in corrupt, nepotistic infamy, the same family run by Mayor Richard J. Daley—a perversion of ‘elected’ power and a neutered dog posing as a human being—ordered the police to keep a tight rein on the party for the peeps, worker’s party factions, anti-fascists, peaceniks, free thinkers, hippies and freaky visitors to the Midwestern city for the 1968 Democratic National Convention.

And they did.

1968>HST
I returned [to Aspen] from Chicago and told everybody to vote for Nixon, as the surest means of seizing the Demo party from the hands of croakers like Daley and [Texas governor John B.] Connally…I got punched in the stomach by a cop’s billy club when I tried to cross the bridge from the Hilton to the band-shell in Grant Park.
- Fear and Loathing in America, September 10, 1968, Hunter S. Thompson

2008>M.O.
Umphrey’s McGee is on the final night of their three-night run at San Francisco’s…wait for it…legendary Fillmore—the house that Bill Graham built and the Grateful Dead dignified. The Chicago band has finally hit its stride during a heady weekend of numerous collaborations with local and visiting musicians—everyone from the opening OM Trio members to TLG’s Josh Clark to Lesh and Particle musician, Steve Molitz. If LEGACY was my 2007 theme then, certainly, COLLABORATION is the word for 2008. It will be a part of everything I write from Jan-Dec and, quite frankly, it is…uh…an odd word but I’ll use it, anyway…relieving to see Umphrey’s assume their jam throne and act like a band at the peak of their improvisational powers while sharing their stage with others.

1928>It’s good songs, stupid.
I’m so lonesome, lonesome, I don’t know what to do
If you didn’t have no good woman, you’d be lonesome, too
I’m goin’ up to country
Baby, I can’t tell you
- So Lonesome, Ramblin’ Thomas, Chicago, 1928

1968>“You bring the hate; I’ll bring the pizza.”
The “mass of white youths” failed to materialize in Chicago on October 8 [a little over a month after Chicago’s Democratic National Convention] for what was now known as “Four Days of Rage.” The two or three hundred people who showed up in Lincoln Park to “bring the war home” were almost all students and ex-students, equipped with helmets, goggles, cushioned jackets, and medical kits, armed with chains, pipes, and clubs, the men outfitted with jockstraps and cups. They had convinced themselves, and aimed to convince everyone else, that the movement was precisely the nightmare which the police had fabricated a year before.
- The Sixties: Years of Hope, Days of Rage, Todd Gitlin

2002>Chicago>Russia>Chicago>San Francisco>Sis & Me
The Russian restaurant in Chicago was warm and inviting and we ate a plate of various seafood that was the size of an extra large pizza platter. We also drank about a dozen samples of Russian vodka and better than the shitty swill I had tried before with various Americanized brands; hence, my affiliation with whiskey instead of the clear serpentine liquid; although, a union that would eventually need to cease and desist. We, also, by a weird, unknown synchronicity, stayed at the Palmer House while in Chicago—the last place my mom had dinner before leaving her home and taking the train ride to the San Francisco Bay Area where my youngest sister and I were born, setting in motion our own tapestry which extended from the Windy City to the City by the Bay.

2008>Arriving somewhere…all my designs, simplified
I’m reading about Barack Obama and the Illinois senator is continuing to take the high road in the current volley of subtle attacks from the Clinton family two-pronged attack. Don’t get me wrong—I think Bill Clinton was one of the best presidents since FDR but I don’t quite think the same of Hillary Clinton, at least not compared to the Obama juggernaut. If one were to equate it to rock ‘n’ roll—and one should if one is writing for a site labeled Jambands.com—Obama is the Beatles of what could be America and Clinton is certainly the Stones of what it really is—America, a powerful force that offers equality to various people with their mixed bag of cultures and yet, one can’t quite get past that little unethical Native American dispersal issue. Meanwhile, Barack Obama is such a profound example of what America could be that one sees almost a little bit of Grateful Dead in him, regardless of Messers. Lesh, Weir and Hart’s endorsements. Huh? Obama represents an iconic figure who could unite a various and beleaguered band of misfits into rising above the collective mediocrity to become something much larger and good.

If that ain’t Chicago, as well, sitting in the middle ground between the terrible beauty and relevance of New York and the gargantuan splash and zither of El Lay, I don’t know what is, man. Chicago is a good walking town but can it be the town that isn’t known for the blues, bootleg whisky, corruption and the convention that damn near killed America? Can Obama seize the Demo party—something mentioned in Hunter S. Thompson’s September 10, 1968 letter to Allard K. Lowenstein—back from the sick tyrants that have so often polluted the waters of the Party for the People? This is all supposed to be about you and me, isn’t it? We matter, don’t we?

And, you know, we do—arriving somewhere, in between yesterday and tomorrow.

Third Time's a Charming Alarm

2008-02-25T00:12:00.005-07:00

Ahhh...the home stretch on this here third novel. Things are swellishly grand and this cyber warehouse continues to expand with new features and rock crit bits. The Q&A is a tricky little beast but somehow it also helps inform my fiction. Indeedy, alas, not to get all Radiohead on dear diggers of truth but, that is saying a little too much. The completed work IS the message, right?

August 19, 2008...for whatever reason...ah, yes, ten years since I began the first novel...is the target date for the completion of the aforementioned Ghost novel. Until then, check the gear on the right and check often and thanks for stopping by. See ya on the Coast that Never Sleeps in a few.

P.S. Arriving somewhere but not here...did you ever imagine the last thing you'd hear as you faded out was a song?...all my designs, simplified...the toil of my plans, compromised...the toil of my dreams, sacrificed.
- le tree, porcupine

Joel Dorn - 1942-2007

2007-12-18T20:42:00.000-07:00

Children of Coincidence –
The Tracks of Our Times with Joel Dorn
Randy Ray - Jambands.com
2006-09-20

“There’s a great line about committees. A giraffe is a horse designed by a committee. These A&R committees—I’ve just never had much luck with them.”
- Legendary music producer Joel Dorn

Joel Dorn is not just the legendary record producer who was able to draw the line from “Roberta Flack to Bette Midler to the Neville Brothers to Leon Redbone to Rashaan Roland Kirk because I can.” He is also a gifted storyteller, seasoned industry inside/outside veteran and a longtime survivor of the lengthy and wicked transition from family-run, no-college degreed music business cats to the tightly-controlled, rigidly-hampered, genre-specific, committee-addled conglomerate of today’s jukebox.

He’s a music connoisseur who knows what he knows and he can get just that right sound. After working as a disc jockey early in his career, Dorn achieved his dream of producing at Atlantic Records. From 1967-1974, he garnered two Grammy Awards for consecutive Record of the Years with Roberta Flack. He has also worked with a legion of giants—illustrious names dropped include Cannonball Adderley, Dr. John, the Neville Brothers, Bette Midler, Leon Redbone, Joe Williams are to name but a few of the more influential musicians that have crossed his storied past.

Dorn’s base of operation has shifted from the glory and toxic days of Atlantic Records in the 60s and early 70s to the Brooklyn-based Hyena Records which has a stable of groundbreaking acts—many of whom are featured on Jambands.com—like Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey, Skerik’s Syncopated Taint Septet, James Blood Ulmer, and, of course, the equally legendary Dr. John. Dorn was selected by the New Orleans musician to assemble the best of his live dates from the last twenty years and Hyena Records has recently issued All By Hisself and Right Place, Right Time in a continuing series of Dr. John vault releases produced by Dorn. He was also jazz multi-instrumentalist Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s producer. While at Hyena, he has released several of the late Kirk’s extraordinary live dates—recently, the mindblowing Brotherman in the Fatherland —the man played three saxophones at once, a nose flute while shouting into a microphone—an hour of searing improvisatory music captured live in Germany, 1972. As I pointed out to Dorn, the music sounds like it was recorded yesterday and tomorrow—there is no accurate timeline for the heady and exuberant experimentalism that Kirk displayed on stage.

Dorn is a lively and engaging conversationalist as well as a gifted writer—he crafts all of his own fairly hilarious yet insightful liner notes—photographer and astute art historian. His discussion regarding the relationship between surrealism and the sound of a recording is both illuminating and uniquely visionary—hence, his 40 years on a curiously magical journey through the evolutionary jungle of jazz, R&B, pop and rock music. Jambands.com offers this portrait of Joel Dorn—a man who knows the value of random coincidence and humble servitude: “I’ve always been drawn to stuff that’s left of center. I’ve been lucky enough that I’ve been able to select to work with people who aren’t what’s happening but are the thing that isn’t what’s happening that could happen.”

Track 1 – Rules of the Game

JD: Kevin [Calabro from Hyena Records] sets up all of the interviews because he knows what I like to do and what I don’t like to do. (laughs) I trust him implicitly and I remember he said it was with Jambands.com so I said, “Cool.” Are you taping this?

RR: Yes, I am. I’m pretty well versed with the transcribing, sir.

JD: I gotcha. You call me ‘sir’ again and I’m going to punch you. (laughter) I’ve done some interviews for liner notes and I always send it to a service to transcribe because I couldn’t imagine—that to me would be like being back in school.

RR: I like doing it myself because I can capture the flavor of what is happening plus I’m usually subconsciously structuring the piece as I transcribe.

JD: Yeah, but you’re a real writer. For instance, I did an interview with T.S. Monk—you know, [Thelonious] Monk’s kid—and I did a Monk album which had notes and to have the son of a giant who is in the business that has a real understanding of his father was number one, he had a real understanding of what his father did and number two, you got that insight into what it was like to have Monk as a father, what it was like growing up like that and I thought that was something I didn’t want to sit down and talk and then go back and say, “Last Tuesday, I spoke to Monk’s kid and blahblahblah,” so we sent it out to get transcribed and it was like 70 pages. I reduced it and it was great. It was one of the few times that I did that. I loved having that inside look. For anyone who has been in the business as long as I have, I know what Monk did and I know what I think and I know what other people think but to be able to talk to his son about playing basketball with his father, how his father hung out at a firehouse as a kid and liked to sit in the truck, his high school stories about Monk—you can’t get that stuff any place else.

RR: Thelonious Monk liked to hang out at fire stations?

JD: He grew up in the West 60s in New York and when he was a kid, he was the mascot of a firehouse. It’s very interesting to get a son’s view of an eccentric legend who also was a father, you know—a genius who was a father. But, I digress.

Track 2 – The Jazz Police

RR: I love the liner notes that you write for albums. Some people lean towards dry, historical pieces but your writing is filled with refreshing irreverence and insight.

JD: Well, first of all, I’m not a writer writer—a literary writer. I write because I enjoy it and because I have to opportunity. If you buy an album that I produce and you’re looking for the government-approved liner notes, you came to the wrong place. It’s another part of the record for me. I’m a really old school producer. I generally find the artist; I make the record; I pick the pictures; I work on the cover; I write the liners and it’s not just the music—it’s a total package.

It’s more like you’re not a record producer but a director. I’ve always enjoyed making the package. For instance, when I get taken to task, I love it. Anything I do with Rahsaan [Roland Kirk] is really a specialty because he was a special artist in my life and he understood. It’s amazing that a blind guy understood the totality of the record package.

If you need me to explain the music to you—and I’m not putting down anybody who writes standard liner notes because some of my best friends are great liner note writers like Nat Hentoff. I just love to write. It’s taken me ten to fifteen years where I don’t cringe about what I wrote. I probably like writing more than I like records now because, I kind of know how to make records—or I think I know—(laughs) but I’ve been learning how to write, seeking a voice and it’s a lot of fun. But the Jazz Police—more than any other music that I record—boy, the Jazz Police, if you don’t write a real set of liner notes, they certainly break out in hives, these guys, you know?

RR: It’s funny how jazz—even to this day—still has the rep of a stuffed-shirt club.

JD: Yeah. What the fuck is wrong with them?

RR: You know Nat Hentoff? He wrote the liner notes on Bob Dylan’s debut album and that excellent first Dylan profile in The New Yorker.

JD: I know Nat very well; he’s a good friend; he’s one of my early heroes. It’s funny because I was talking to David Ritz today about a project that we’re doing together and we’re going to include Nat in it. I remember when I was a kid boy, I would race to get Downbeat or when he used to write that music column in Esquire. I was around 12, 13, maybe, 15 years old and I loved Nat’s work. He’s not just a jazz writer; he’s a political writer and, especially, a first amendment expert so the bulk of his writing now isn’t about music. Lots of times when I do a project, I ask him to be a part of it and boy, does he write great stuff.

Track 3 – The Golden Era of Music

RR: Let’s talk about your work as a disc jockey at WHAT-FM.

JD: Well, when I was in college, my major was Communications, which was basically radio, television and journalism. I always wanted to be a record producer but I also always wanted to be a disc jockey. I thought it was a good way to meet the artists, the record companies and get a leg up. Plus, I just wanted to be a disc jockey—I thought it was a cool thing to do. One of my professors at school—Chuck Sherman—paid his way through college by being an all night disc jockey on the jazz station in Philadelphia, WHAT-FM, which was one of those early FM 24 hours, 7 days a week jazz stations that were popular back in the 50s and 60s. We became friends even though he was a teacher.

In September of my junior year in college at Temple University, there was an opening for a weekend guy at the radio station and he got me the job. When one of the guys quit that had a regular six-day-a-week shift, I got my break. So, I was 19, going to college and I was on the air as a full-time jazz disc jockey, which back in those days was like a hip thing to be. I was working all night, hanging in the clubs with the cats—it was cool.

RR: I imagine that you were turning yourself onto a lot of new music.

JD: Well, you know, I was a music junkie since I was a little kid—I mean real little and I always knew that I’d be in some kind of music but I have no skills, I only have ability. I can’t play an instrument, I can’t sing, I can’t arrange, I don’t know how to engineer—I don’t know how to do anything but, I do have an instinct for producing records so I always knew I’d be doing something in music.

People tend to think that jazz is the music I like best because I’ve made so many jazz albums but it is one of the musics I like best. If I had to pick them, my two favorite musics would be gospel and doo-wop. I don’t love them more than I love jazz or pop music or Motown or New Orleans or bluegrass or a lot of other musics that I love but I’ve made a lot of jazz records so I get this rattle. I read about myself from time-to-time and I see “Jazz Producer Joel Dorn” and I’ve made a lot of jazz records but I was turning myself onto as much music as I could when I was a kid. I was a sponge; I was one of those kids, you know? There was so much. I grew up in the Golden Era of Music so if you had a radio, you could hear Ray Charles, Hank Williams or Frankie Lyman. There were just so much and so many different kinds of great music around.

RR: Was ‘less is more’ the key to some of that timeless music? The technology was simpler; yet, much of that music holds up very well as producers captured the atmosphere of a room, which I feel is incredibly crucial to a record’s sound.

JD: Listen—you used whatever technology was available but the technology didn’t drive the music; the music was served by the technology. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with what happens, now. My youngest son, Adam, under the name of Mocean Worker, is an electronic artist. He has his own studio at home; he doesn’t have to go any place. I can’t do that. I still need to be in a room with people who play; I capture it and, hopefully, complement it and do it right.

I’m a big sports fan, a big music fan and a big art fan so there are Golden Ages. I think by birth, I was lucky. I was born in 1942 and I caught the Golden Age of sports, cars and music. I still make records the way I made them, then. I use Pro Tools and lots of digital stuff but, hopefully, it serves my approach rather than me being a slave to technology. It’s just a function of when I was born more than anything.

Track 4 - The Legend of the Masked Announcer

RR: You worked at this station and suddenly became the Masked Announcer?

JD: I guess it looks odd—Produced by Joel Dorn for the Masked Announcer. When I left the radio to go to Atlantic Records in 1967, UHF stations started showing up—you know, the high numbers like Channels 17, 48, 29 and basically they played bad movies, horrible local shows and reruns of series as it was the very beginning of syndication so they also had lots of local sponsors. They’d be selling nine rooms of carpeting for $99 or cheap vacuum cleaners, food choppers or clear plastic slipcovers—so they would hire local talent to do their commercials.

A friend of mine had a place that sold clear plastic slipcovers and carpeting and he said, “Why don’t you do the commercials on television? Do some of your crazy stuff.” So, I created this character the Masked Announcer. I’m really going to tell you the truth, what I would do is take three, four hits off a joint and babble aimlessly for an hour. We’d cut like thirty commercials. I did my brand of humor. The Masked Announcer became a local character in Philadelphia on these stations. I would babble in a mask, cheap suit and a hat and had a lot of fun doing it for about a year.

My last contract with Atlantic let me do outside productions and I had to find a name for the company so instead of ‘Produced by Joel Dorn for Joel Dorn Music’—which sounds insane to me because how many times can you mention your name on the back of a record?—I said ‘Produced by Joel Dorn for the Masked Announcer.’ For some reason, it strikes people oddly. Usually you see ‘Produced by Whoever for Zenith Productions’ or some shit like that. I just like the way it sounded and how it reads. People are so funny; I’ve been using it since the mid-70s and people say, “Awww—I saw your thing; so, you’re the Masked Marvel.” “You’re the Masked Marauder.” When you want to make yourself into a cartoon or a comic book character: THE MASKED ANNOUNCER. It’s so stupid when you think about it and if you saw any of the commercials, you’d see how stupid it really was. Kids loved it, you know. He was insane. He’d come on and babble aimlessly and we sold lots of slop—I can’t tell you how many $19.95 vacuum cleaners and food choppers.

RR: Do you have tapes of the Masked Announcer anywhere?

JD: There is one tape that exists, a two-inch tape that I haven’t heard in years; I’m not sure what is on it. Sometimes, it worked; it was always nuts but sometimes it was really funny. We’d do thirty of them and we’d pick three or four that actually worked and put them on the air. The funny thing was that it moved the products that people wanted to advertise—it was so insane but kids loved the character and they would call the stations incessantly. It was really weird.

After a year, I just got tired of it and enough was enough. At that point, I was living in New York, working in Philly and I was commuting. The producing just exploded and I was spending so much time in New York so I really didn’t have time to do it anymore. It was fun while it lasted—half Kingfish, half Sgt. Bilko. When I was a kid we’d spend our summers in Atlantic City and I was fascinated by those pitchmen on the boardwalk. I used to go and listen to them and a crowd would gather. After a while, the pitchmen knew me and they’d say, “Come up, young man! Have you ever tried to squeeze an orange, before?” [affects a young boy’s voice with the proper cracked modulation] “No, I haven’t, sir.” They would put this thing in the orange and I knew I’d have to do it, you know. I would be like ‘The Show’ for the house. I had an older buddy who sold newspapers so I would work the boardwalk by these big newsstands and I’d scream these fake headlines. I’d loved to do that stuff. It was great.

Track 5 – Tales from the Atlantic Crypt

RR: How did you get involved with Nesuhi Ertegun at Atlantic Records?

JD: When I was 14, I was listening to a radio station, WBAS—AM 1480 and it was Georgie Woods, the Man with the Goods—heavy into black music. At 9:15 on a Friday night in March of 1956, he played a record by Ray Charles called “Ain’t That Love” and my whole life changed. I had never heard of Ray Charles in my life. It was as if somebody had hit the brakes on the planet and then, it started up again. But when it started up again, man, I was headed in a different direction. My parents had gone to New York and my brother and I were staying with my grandparents. When I heard that record, I just went berserk.

I went looking for Ray Charles records the next day; I couldn’t find them in the white neighborhoods so I went to the black neighborhoods; I found something but I couldn’t find that record. I asked the sales person, “What record label is Ray Charles on?” He said, “Atlantic,” so I looked on the back of the album to see where Atlantic Records was because I was going to write them because I had to have that Ray Charles record. I happened to pick up an Atlantic jazz album and I think it was 1-something West 57th or 56th Street [in New York City]. It had a name on the back of the album that said Supervision – Nesuhi Ertegun. Well, he did the jazz so I wrote him a letter. About eight or ten months later, he wrote me back and sent me the Ray Charles record.

When I wrote him the letter, I told him I wanted to be an A&R man—back then they didn’t call us producers, they called us A&R men—and produce records for Atlantic. I gave him ideas for records that I thought would be good. He sent me a letter back and said, “I like your ideas and I’m going to mention them to the artist.” I still have that letter on my wall. We stayed in touch for years through high school and the beginning of college. I’d write him letters and he’d write back and send the different Atlantic catalogs and stuff like that. We spoke a few times and I told him about three or four million times that I’d like to work at Atlantic Records just as soon as I got out of high school. (laughs)

When I got into college and got on the radio, my theme song was an Atlantic record, every third song was an Atlantic record and he started to invite me to New York to be at sessions. I was actually apprenticing to him. At the same time, I had secured some independent financing from a guy that owned a record shop in Philly and I started making records on my own and he distributed them for me.

I made some records with Sonny Stitt, Duke Pearson and, sadly, with a fellow that just passed away recently, Rufus Harley—a jazz bagpipe player in Philly. Of all the records that I produced that was the one that sold the best and that was the record that got me to New York and got me off the radio and into Atlantic Records. Nesuhi was my mentor and without him I’d be working at the post office or be in prison.

While I was on the radio, I was plotting and scheming for the artists that I wanted to take away from other labels and bring to Atlantic. When I did come to Atlantic, I brought guys that I had seen in the clubs, who I had become friends with and had been making records with and playing their records on the air. I had people that I had a definite idea that I could make better records than they were making on the labels that they were on—Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Yusef Lateef, Les McCann.

Nesuhi had given me a shot at a point when I was still on the radio. He said, “Here’s what I’ll do for you. Find an artist who has never made a record as a leader before, sign him to the label, make an album, and if it’s successful (which in those days meant that it broke even and got good reviews) than I’ll let you make a second record.” There was a guy in Philly who owned a club called Peps, which was one of the two jazz clubs—Peps Show Bar. He was very nice to me; he used to let me into the club while I was underaged because he knew how much I loved music. You hang out at night and go get breakfast. It really gave me a chance to meet a lot of the artists and to see them perform—not just hear them on records. He was just another nice person who was a great help to me. His name was Jack Goldenberg.

I told him that the man at Atlantic Records said that if I could find somebody that he’d give me a chance. He called me up one night when Mongo Santa Maria was playing at Peps and he had a big record with “Watermelon Man”—that Latin jazz was a very popular commercial brand of jazz at the time. Jack called me up and said, “Are you coming to the club, tonight?” I said, “Yeah.” He said, “I’ve got your guy for you.”

When I walked in the door, Hubert Laws was playing a version of “Manha de Carnivale” and I had never heard anyone play the flute like that in my life. I introduced myself, ultimately signed him, brought him to Atlantic, made his first album The Laws of Jazz and it sold pretty well. Back then if a jazz album sold between five and ten thousand copies, it was a big deal. Nesuhi gave me $1,500 to sign the artist, make the record, do the cover, give myself a $50 producer fee (laughs), and the record did well. It helped me a lot. Along with that Rufus Harley record and the years that I had spent watching Nesuhi do sessions with the MJQ, Betty Carter, Herbie Mann and Hank Crawford and all of these people—so, that was my schooling.

RR: You really didn’t come from a musical background other than the love of music. How did you acquire production skills just by watching Nesuhi Ertegun?

JD: I was a music nut like a lot of guys who came into the record business back then. Don’t forget—the record business was a cottage industry in the 40s, 50s and into the 60s.
At a certain point, it exploded and when it did—I mean, by the 70s they were teaching Entertainment Law at Harvard. You could go and learn how to be a recording engineer at some place. Record companies started to become places where kids who might have gone into a variety of other fields went because music became such a big part of the American fabric at that time.

I was in the generation before that and I was still there when it was a cottage industry. When it exploded, all of sudden, the conglomerates started buying the record companies. Record companies that were little family-run businesses were suddenly doing $30, $40 million dollars a year. The whole thing changed. Now, entertainment is probably America’s biggest export. It all started happening for real in the late 60s, early 70s. I left Atlantic in the mid-70s; I think it was ’74.

The music business was an American business. It was a bunch of Jewish guys and black guys and Italian guys who loved music and it was a bunch of gangsters who controlled it—which was my favorite time, by the way. (laughter) Back in the 50s and 60s was the Golden Age of American Record Companies. By the time it exploded and the conglomerates bought up the companies, the magic was gone. I usually analogize my years at Atlantic for playing for the ’55 Dodgers [first year that the boys from Brooklyn won the World Series before their infamous departure to California in 1958 along with the New York Giants]. Then I woke up one morning and Atlantic Records was part of a multi-national corporation. Wildcatters like me—well, the Atlantic Records that I dreamed about joining and ultimately joined didn’t exist anymore. For someone like myself, it was over. I was a kid; I didn’t understand that things changed, that Atlantic Records goes from becoming the hippest, greatest record company in the history of the world to a $100 million dollar a year corporation. I just went out on my own because I figured I could keep it going the way it was.

I didn’t realize that it would be difficult and that those years would never come back. I always use sports analogies but the way sports was when I was a kid is not the way sports is now. It wasn’t a billion dollar business—seventy-five cents and I’d sit in the bleachers
and watch the Phillies. You go to see the Philadelphia Warriors and in order to get a thousand people in, they’d have to have a doubleheader. Football was played by guys who got $200 a game! (laughs) It’s not that it’s better or worse or anything; it’s just that certain things happen in a certain way at a certain time. The romance and the magic and the talent at that time is what hooked me and what I still relate to, you know?

RR: Let’s talk about your time at Atlantic. You produced records there for about seven years, right?

JD: I did some independent producing from ’63-’67 before I joined them full-time from ’67 to around ’74.

RR: I know that Atlantic Records changed significantly in 1968 when they started signing heavy groups like Led Zeppelin to huge advances—whereas before, the label had been predominately an R&B, jazz and soul music label. That had to increase the wave of rock acts on the label, which produced extreme revenue at a time when the business really kicked into gear. I mean giving a band like Zeppelin that hadn’t proven themselves yet a $200,000 advance really changed the whole ballgame.

JD: Listen—the R&B and jazz label that Atlantic was was the basis for them becoming a major label. At that time—they always had their ear to the ground. Ahmet [Ertegun, Atlantic president]—well, Nesuhi stayed with the jazz and Jerry Wexler stayed with the R&B but Ahmet had the vision to see the new musics that were coming so we got Zeppelin, Cream, Blind Faith and we ended up with the Stones. I mean, you know, Ahmet was on top of that. There’s never been a record executive like him. Don’t forget that he and Nesuhi grew up in the Turkish Embassy in Washington D.C. Their father was the Turkish Ambassador to the United States during the Roosevelt years. Nesuhi left Europe at the beginning of World War II. He was studying literature at the Sorbonne. Ahmet and Nesuhi speak four or five languages apiece. They fell in love with the blues and jazz and started this record company in the late 40s. There were no other executives like them. When Jerry Wexler came in, he was the bright young journalism student who loved music so that combination of Nesuhi, Ahmet and Jerry—there’s never been anything like that and I doubt that there will be anything like that again.

Aside from the fact that the music at Atlantic was so spectacular, the look of the label—Nesuhi hired Lee Friedlander to be the house photographer and Marvin Israel to do the layout and design. There were no labels that had black artists that had album covers like Atlantic’s. Take a look at some of the stuff on King or Powell or any of those labels—it was ghastly. Atlantic treated the artist with respect. When you got an R&B record that came out like Clyde McPhatter or Drifters, they had a look. It looked and felt different. If I had never worked for Atlantic and I was just a guy that loved music and the record business, I would say the same thing.

As Ahmet got into the larger record business, he snared acts and developed them. He went to England and he mesmerized these people. So he got Led Zeppelin and all of that other stuff. They kept doing R&B. At the same time they had Zeppelin, they had Aretha [Franklin]. Same time they had Cream, they had Otis [Redding]. Atlantic was still mining the R&B vein and expanding into new music.

Track 6 – Roberta Flack, Winston Churchill and Clint Eastwood

RR: I read voraciously but I tend to get hazy on the details so please forgive me. Did you win two Grammys for producing Roberta Flack?

JD: We won the Grammy for Record of the Year in, I think, ’73 and ’74 for “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” and “Killing Me Softly.” I think that is the only time that an artist has won back-to-back Grammys for Record of the Year. That was fun.

The first time I heard about Roberta Flack she was married to a bass player in named Steve Novosel; he was in Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s band. Rahsaan called me at 7 in the morning one day and he said, “I’ve got your next artist.” I said, “Who’s that?” He said, “It’s a girl, she’s a singer, she’s my bass player’s wife and her name is Roberta Flack.” And I asked him what I thought was an innocent question, “What did she sound like?” And he screamed, “She sounds like a colored lady!” and he slammed down the phone. We never talked about it again.

About a year later, I had made the first album at Atlantic with Les McCann and Les called me up at the same time—around 7am and neither time had I been asleep. He said, “I got it.” I said, “We’ve got what?” He said, “I’ve got your next act.” I said, “What is it?” And he said, “There’s a chick down here named Roberta Flack and she’s unbelievable.” I thought, “God—I don’t want to ask what she sounds like.” (laughter) He said, “Just sign her, man.”

I went to Nesuhi and said that Les had found a chick singer in D.C. that was the greatest singer he had ever heard. The beauty of Atlantic at that time was that Nesuhi said, “Have you heard her?” I said, “No, but I’m telling you, he went nuts.” Nesuhi said, “Well, you know—let’s make a record with her.” He gave me a $10,000 budget and we signed her before I had heard her. I went out to D.C. on a Tuesday night. She used to play at a club near the Capitol called Mr. Henry’s—she had been there for six or seven years; she was a real solid attraction in Washington D.C. There’s a guy named Tony Taylor that had owned a jazz club there called Bohemian Caverns and he had made some live tapes of her performing and had sent them to every record company in the world and they all passed on her. Atlantic Records was one of the companies that had passed on her.

So, here I am. I signed her without hearing her, I go down to see her and, look—I had no idea she was going to be the giant record seller that she became. At Atlantic, the thing was “is she good?” or “is he good?” so I heard her and thought, “well, this is great.”

Each song was a gem; she had a way in which each song was just perfect. I remember the first time I saw her, there was me, four gay chicks sitting right in front of the stage, a bartender, a waiter and a waitress. Those four gay chicks were screaming and yelling. I remember she did a Jim Webb song called “Do What Ya Gotta Do” and all four of them stood up and screamed. I never saw a standing ovation in an empty club.

RR: Did you record Roberta Flack immediately after signing her?

JD: I just knew she had it and I loved the way she sounded so I brought her to New York and she insisted on recording the album with her band who had been with her for years—she was loyal to them. She also wanted Tony Taylor to bring up—Cannonball had a device he used like “Mercy Mercy” and all of those songs that were recorded live? They were recorded in a studio; they weren’t recording in clubs.

RR: Cannonball Adderly?

JD: Yeah, Cannon. They’d go to the Capitol studio in L.A. and they’d invite an audience, lay out a spread with food and drinks so they’d have a studio sound but the benefit of guys playing and relating to an audience. Tony Taylor—who was friends with Cannon—said that he wanted to make her first record like that so they brought a bus of 30, 40 people and we made the album and her group didn’t cut it.

RR: Her group was weak?

JD: I went to Nesuhi and said, “Look, she’s great but the album isn’t. Could I have another $10,000?” (laughter) I don’t know if you know what $10,000 was back then.

RR: I don’t know if I know what $10,000 is now.

JD: Nesuhi said, “Do you really believe in this?” I said, “I really believe.” He said, “Do you really believe?” I said, “I really believe.”

So I said to her, “Look—I want to do the album again but I want to use my guys. So I got Ron Carter and Ray Lucas—the drummer I loved—and we did the same songs again with Ron and Ray on that first Roberta Flack album, which was First Take. The reason we called the album First Take was that before the first time she sang I told her to sing something and the audience were all fans, loved her and they all started to applaud. I said, “O.K. Let’s do it again.” And the audience all turned around at the same time and looked through the glass and they said, “What’s wrong? That was great.” I said, “That’s just a first take.” So when we put the album out with Ron, Ray, Bucky Pizzarelli and Bill Fischer who wrote the strings, Nesuhi said, “What do you want to call the album?” I said, “I want to call it First Take.” I just remember those people turning around and saying, “What was wrong with that?!” We didn’t even have a drum sound yet.

The album came out and it was on the Jazz Series. Now, she’s not a jazz singer but there were lots of people like Shirley Horne and Nina Simone who were these trio singers and it just fit into Atlantic’s jazz category. It wasn’t a pop or R&B record so since it was a vocal with a trio, we put it in the Jazz Series and the record started to sell—mainly off of jazz play because there were still plenty of FM jazz stations at that time. Also, it got a little bit of late night R&B play—they’d put in some adult-kind of things after midnight.

In the first year, we probably sold around 150,000 records and I was already almost done with the second album, Chapter Two when I came into the office one morning and one of the guys came into the office and said, “Clint Eastwood’s on the phone.” I thought it was one of my friends goofin’, right? I went and picked the phone up and said, “Clint?” He said, “Yeah.” I said, “Jesus, I’d love to talk with you, man but I’ve got Winston Churchill on the other line so as soon as we’re done, I’ll give you a buzz.” (laughter)

Track 7 – The Lost Art of Song Editing Secretaries

RR: So, you quickly wrapped up the call with Winston Churchill.

JD: Clint said, “Joel?” And I recognized it because he has a recognizable voice. He said, “This is Clint Eastwood. Listen—I was driving to work this morning and I was listening to KBCA (which was the FM jazz station in L.A.) and they played this Roberta Flack record called “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” I just got done directing my first film called Play Misty For Me and I want to use it as the background music for the pivotal scene in a redwood forest. Can I get permission to use it?” I said, “Could you get permission to use it?! You sure can. You can do whatever you want.” He said, “Look—I’m all out of money. I only have a thousand dollars.” I said, “Doesn’t make any difference. You’ve got it.”

I went to Nesuhi and said, “I just got a call from Clint Eastwood. He wants to use Roberta’s song, “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” (which was the cut that a lot of jazz disc jockey cats were telling me that every time they played the song, the phone lights up at the studio.) I tried to get it released as a single but they wouldn’t release it because it was too long, too slow—it was too this, too that. So, here’s Clint Eastwood, right—he puts it in the movie. When I told Nesuhi that Clint only has a thousand bucks, Nesuhi said, “We get much more than that for a song in a film.” And I said, “Yeah, but its Clint Eastwood’s film and it’s going to be the key thing.”

We work it out and the movie comes out and the next thing I know, radio stations all of the country are getting calls for the song but it was still too long. Back then, there were rules about how long a record could be to play on a radio station. This is really a funny story. I get a call from the pop station in New Orleans. He said, “We’re getting a hundred calls a day for this Roberta Flack record but it’s too long to play. Would you edit it and send it down here?” I said, “Sure.” I went in and took about a minute off and
he called back and said, “You know the edit’s no good. It doesn’t feel the same.” So I said, “Well, you know, that’s the only way you can edit. I don’t know another way to edit it.” He said, “Well, my secretary says that she knows how to edit it.” I said, “Oh, yeah?” He said, “Yeah.” I said, “Put her on the phone.”

She said, “Hi, Joel. Look—you did it wrong. Here’s what you should have done.” I said, “O.K.” For some reason, I went back and edited it the way that the program director’s secretary said and she was 100% right. Now, I sent it back down based on her edits and the next thing I know we sold four million singles and two million albums. The second Roberta Flack album comes out and it ships a million the first day. When you want to talk about how brilliant you are and all of your great accomplishments, I think the first thing to realize is how much randomness plays in your life and how lucky you can get.

Track 8 – The Sleeping Gypsy Meets the Extroverted Bass Drum

JD: My engineer Gene Paul, Les Paul’s son, had an idea to make the bass drum a lead instrument on a record.

RR: On any record? He had an epiphany that it would be a great idea?

JD: He wanted to do a record where the bass drum was the lead instrument. (pauses) (laughter) This is a wild story. It took us two weeks to mix the record until we figures out how to make the bass drum be the lead instrument without making the record be lopsided and tilted and get all of those elements in. At that time, I was heavy into surrealism. I was more influenced by movie directors and painters than I was by other music producers although I was overwhelmed by Leiber and Stoller and Phil Spector.

RR: Did you get into Salvador Dali and Jean Cocteau and—

JD: Mainly Magritte but in getting into surrealists I went back and studied Rousseau. I saw that painting The Sleeping Gypsy and—it’s hard to explain something like this because I can’t explain the picture I had in my head. If you look at The Sleeping Gypsy, there are only three or four elements in the picture—you have the lion, the man in the stripped coat, the sky and the ground.

With Roberta Flack’s Killing Me Softly, you have that bass drum, Roberta, background voices and the little percussion stuff that Ralph MacDonald did. I acquainted the mix of that record with The Sleeping Gypsy and Gene’s engineer work on the bass drum. I don’t want to get too artsy but we really worked on it and for some strange reason, I knew it was going to win the Grammy; I knew it was spectacular—not because Idid it. It’s because so many elements came together at once. Roberta Flack heard the original on the plane, Gene wanted to mix it a certain way, I was heavy into Frankie Lymon at the time and I remember that we had that instrument section in the middle and Roberta asked, “What are you going to do there? I thought maybe, we’d put a flute solo or something.” I said, “Do that shit that Frankie Lyman did in all of those great records—that vocalese thing.” She did it, we put it together and here’s the kicker—I turned the record in and I was still a young producer because I’d only been making records five, six years but, I said, “Well, this is it, man. I know it’s going to win the Grammy. I know it’s going to sell millions. I know it. I know everything.”

I turned the record in and they had just formed an A&R committee at Atlantic because before that I was Nesuhi’s guy. We just worked; there were no A&R committees. I turn it in and they said, “Ahmet wants to see you.” And I figured he was going to tell me what I genius I am and how much he loved the record. He said, “Nobody likes the record. That bass drum—what is wrong with you? The bass drum is horrible.” I got insane. I went upstairs and told Nesuhi that I was quitting. I said, “This is the best record I’ve ever made in my entire life. It’s going to be a smash.”

Anyway, Nesuhi went to bat and they put the record out. I did not endear myself to the rest of the gang at Atlantic with that move, by the way. It was probably the best record that I was ever associated with in terms of an original piece of work and it did win the Grammy but when you think about the Clint Eastwood thing and the secretary thing and Roberta hearing it on the plane and them saying that you can’t put it out, isn’t that an odd combination for two records that went on to become classics?

RR: Very odd plus the element of “let’s see, the bass drum as a lead instrument.”

JD: Yeah and that was because that was what Gene wanted to do. We tried it on a Ray Bryant album and it was terrible what we did to that record.

RR: The other thing is if you had used the flute in the instrumental fill of “Killing Me Softly,” it probably would have dated the song.

JD: I just don’t know. I just know that when she went into that thing I said to do that Frankie Lyman thing because I was heavy into that thing. I wanted to dedicate the record to him on the label but somehow or other it got lost in some nonsense.

I can take a compliment as much as the next person but so much has to do with luck and the randomness of things. I once made a record with Dory Previn and she had a song called “Children of Coincidence” and the opening line was “if I hadn’t made a left turn, if you hadn’t made a right” and it talks about how much randomness plays a part in our lives—so many other factors that come into play that sometimes if you allow yourself to be lucky, you do your great work. Sometimes you’ve just got to wander aimlessly but if you know how to wander aimlessly properly, stuff happens. 90% of what I’ve done has to do with wandering aimlessly the right way.

Track 9 – The Neville Brothers, Leon Redbone and Saturday Night Live

RR: I picked three acts out of my mental hat that you produced—Roberta Flack, the Neville Brothers and Leon Redbone. Let’s talk about the latter two acts, now.

JD: Sure. I’m glad you picked those three acts because number one, I’ve always been drawn to stuff that’s left of center. I’ve been lucky enough that I’ve been able to select to work with people who aren’t what’s happening but are the thing that isn’t what’s happening that could happen—you know what I mean?

Like Bette Midler back in the 70s. Everybody said that she was a live act and she was all visual but the second I saw her I knew how to make that record. Rahsaan Roland Kirk, another example—“well, he plays three saxophones, it’s a circus act” and no, it ain’t.

Anyway, the Neville Brothers—one of my best friends was Doc Pomus. He called me up one night and said, “What are ya doin’ tonight?” I said, “Nothin’.” And he said, “Ya wanna hear the greatest singer in the world?” (laughs) You know—who wouldn’t want to hear the greatest singer in the world? He said, “Meet me at the Bottom Line. The Neville Brothers are in town from New Orleans. Aaron Neville’s there and you’ve never heard anybody like him in your life.”

I went down there and sat at Doc’s table and they came on. I love New Orleans music. I love the Meters, Dr. John, all of those Allen Toussaint records that sounded like no other records in the world. The Neville Brothers came out and I’d never heard anything like it. They were the best bar band you’d ever heard in your life. When Aaron sang—forgetaboutit. I went backstage and gave them my credentials and walked up to Aaron and said, “Hey, how are ya doin’, my name’s Joel Dorn. If I made a record with you, what song would you sing?” He didn’t blink. He said, “Mona Lisa.” I said, “How come?” And he said, “Because when I was in prison, I used to sing that song to myself all the time and that’s what kept me from going crazy.”

I made the record for A&M Records and I went out there and, (laughs) once again, this will spill out into the Leon Redbone story. A buddy of mine, Harold Childs from Philly was one of the two or three key guys at the label. I said, “Harold, I got one. This is going to be a smash.” He said, “Be careful. They don’t like it.” I said, “What do you mean—they don’t like it?” He said, “They can’t get any R&B play on it because it won’t go on black radio.” I said, “It’s not supposed to go with black radio.” The Neville Brothers were black but it was a white act. It was a bar band that was all white college kids—that was their constituency. So I went and had this big mistake and I did my pitch and the guy in charge of promote got up and said, “Well, listen—I’m glad you like your work and I’m glad you like your record (he gave me this snotty fucking blow off) but, we ran the record by black radio and they don’t like it.” I said, “FUCK black radio. It’s not a record for black radio. It’s a record for white FM rock stations—that’s who should play it.” He said, “They’re a black act and a black act belongs on black radio.” And I said, “Yeah, just like Jimi Hendrix, motherfucker” and walked out. That didn’t serve me well, by the way. The record bombed and then, of course, it went on to become a classic.

Once again—when I talk about these things, I’m not talking about me. You understand? I’m talking about the record. I’m not Phil Spector. I don’t have a sound. I have a good instinct for talent and a way to capture it and, hopefully, complement it properly. The thing that makes it work is the artist. If I don’t get in the way of it and fuck it up then, that’s what makes it work. Phil Spector, Leiber and Stoller, Allen Toussaint and George Martin in partnership with the Beatles knew how to make it work but beyond that, other than a Motown sound, it’s the artist or it is for the kind of stuff that I like to do.

I felt validated when it was picked as one of the most important albums of the last 50 years or something in Rolling Stone magazine. The Neville Brothers went on to become successful, you know. I really wore my welcome out at A&M. This was back in my crazy days. I would just as soon as pick up a table leg and hit them with it as opposed to listening to that shit. [Author’s Note: My beloved editor has hit me on numerous occasions with heavy furniture when I’ve asked to introduce more metal to our site.]

RR: Was this your transitional period after Atlantic?

JD: Uh, you have a better way of saying it than me. (laughter) I was high all the time. I was crazy. It was great! It’s great to be able to have that in your life, live through it, come out on the other side of the tunnel and get a grip on yourself.

RR: I’m very familiar with the phenomenon.

JD: I can actually listen to that Neville Brothers record—it holds for me.

RR: So how did you hook up with Leon Redbone?

JD: Here’s the story on Leon Redbone. There was a chick at Warner Brothers Records named Mary Martin and I was doing these off-the-wall acts like Bette Midler and Rahsaan Roland Kirk. I had kind of settled into things that were outside the white lines but were selling or were successful. I was getting calls about every odd act, anything that was goofy that came down the pike but there was only a certain ‘odd’ act that worked for me. Mary Martin called and said, “There’s an act I’d like you to see at the Bottom Line but there’s going to be a lot of producers there.”

I had cooled off at the time and I went [to see Redbone] and there were a lot of guys who were at the top of the charts—and me. If you don’t have a hit record for six months, you’re not a hot producer. I went in there and see this guy and I flipped: “this is my kind of guy” but I figured I’d never get him. I was sitting there and I said, “Goddamnit—I wish I had something going so I could have a better shot at getting him. (in a near whispered voice) I knew I could make that record, right? (pauses) So…I catch his set and I’m seeing that little by little all of the other producers are leaving. By the end of the set, I was the last guy left; nobody dug him so I got him kind of by default, you know? I made that first record—just like with the Neville Brothers (laughs), how did you pick these two acts to talk about? Just like the Neville Brothers record—when I got done, I flew to California with their record because I thought it was a sure thing. I did the same thing with Leon Redbone’s Warner Brothers record.

I flew to California; I got wine and cheese and there was a room with all kinds of plants—it was a Friday afternoon and everybody was done for the week and they were headed to Malibu or wherever the fuck they go. I threw this party and it was the first record I had made for Warner Brothers so I figured, “Wait until they hear this.” I put the record on and there was like 40 people there and by the time I got to the third cut, there was me and two other people. The sales manager came over and said, “Listen—I know you think this is a record but it’s not. This should be on Folkways.” I figured, “How many times can I do this, you know?” (heavy sigh) I went home depressed. I had seen Leon in the club a few times and I saw how people reacted and I just knew it worked.

There was a new T.V. show starting and I figured if people saw him then, they would get it—you had to see him; there was no radio station playing this record. He never busted character; he was one of a kind; he was so brilliant; he really became Leon Redbone. This new T.V. show was starting called Saturday Night Live and every week I went there and bothered the people and said, “I’ve got an act for you that is perfect for you show. You could break this artist.” Nothing for around six months. I got a call on a Friday and the act that they had cancelled and they couldn’t book anything else up in a day and “we’ll take a shot with your guy.” Warner Brothers wouldn’t put a penny behind it and we had sold around 1,000 records and we got him on Saturday Night Live and when we came in on Monday morning, there were orders for 25,000 records. That record went gold, the next one almost went gold and there was another one, then the movie was over.

I’m really glad that you picked those artists to talk about—Roberta Flack, the Neville Brothers and Leon Redbone—because they all come with these stories. The thing is that when you have success with odd acts, there is no continuum in a record companies mind. That’s why I’ve pretty much been in business with myself for the last thirty years. I can’t explain what I do but I know what I do. You can’t draw a line from Roberta Flack to Bette Midler to the Neville Brothers to Leon Redbone to Rahsaan Roland Kirk but, I can.

Track 10 – Oh, but I can. Ladies and Gentlemen: RAHSAAN ROLAND KIRK

RR: Brotherman in the Fatherland does not sound like it was recorded in 1972.

JD: Because he never sounded like the time he was in; he always sounded like he was on his own plane, his own dimension. It’s really interesting. Either you’re a genius or you’re an aimless wanderer because the first night that I was at the radio station, I was really nervous. I was 19, on the air, it was a Saturday night and the disc jockey who was on before me said, “It’s real important that you end up at the top of the hour so you can do the news at the right time. If you time your records out and you have two or three minutes to fill (and I was too nervous to talk for two or three minutes), we have a whole bunch of really short jazz singles that you can throw on and it’ll fill the time for you.”

The first or second weekend, I look up at its like three and a half minutes to 11 and I’m too nervous to talk. I reached into the drawer and find something that said “Roland Kirk-3 for the Festival.” It’s a single, right—they used to make jazz records for jukeboxes and, hopefully, get a hit every once in a while like “Take Five” or “I Love You, Porgy.” I had seen Roland Kirk’s name in the Downbeat columns. They would have a different column for each city and he lived in Chicago. I remember it said “multi-instrumentalist.” I didn’t know that he played them all at once. I put this on, heard this record and it’s wild—the phone starts ringing and it’s “Whose that? What’s the name of that group?” I went on got the album that it came from and I dug that he was playing three saxophones at once. It wasn’t a group; it was a guy—I dug that.

I got into him and started playing his records and they were wild—there was nothing else like that. Now, there was a jazz festival a couple of months later. The Philadelphia Academy of Music is like the Carnegie Hall of Philadelphia. Every two months they’d have jazz concerts, which would have Cannonball [Adderly], Nancy Wilson, Ramsey Lewis and Count Basie. The next month they’d have Horace Silver, Miles Davis, Gloria Lynn and Duke Ellington. So, anyway, Cannonball’s stuck in a blizzard in Buffalo so they called the Roland Kirk Quartet to fill in and I had never seen him. I’m standing in the wings; it was my first jazz concert that I didn’t pay $4 to see because I was a disc jockey now and I was backstage.

Half the audience dug the shit out of him; the other half was an inch away from booing. He’s playing these three saxophones in his mouth, he’s got flutes in his nose, he’s screamin’ into the fucking mike so when he came off, I said, “Listen, man—I love your records and I just saw you and I love you (I started to babble) and I want to be your record producer when I’m a record producer. As soon as you get done with Mercury, I want to be a producer at Atlantic someday,” and he calmed me down a little bit and we became pals and I became his guy in Philly because he didn’t get a lot of airplay. The critics hated him but I knew he was special, you know.

He signed with me because I was much easier to control than a hot producer, Creed Taylor, who also wanted him. He just wanted to do what he wanted to do. He didn’t want anybody telling him and I was a young kid and I’m deaf. I only have half hearing in my right ear—about 60%—and I’m deaf in my left ear. So I always thought that besides the fact that he could control me, he dug the idea that he was blind and I was deaf. (laughter)

3. Mensch, The Passion of the

2007-12-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

3. Following your path.

It is a magical little open secret that I have been spending time on my third novel. Suffice to say that a lot of energy has been spent elsewhere sharpening my skills. That experience has been incredibly helpful and I was fortunate to work with the best of the best. 2008 will see the conclusion of the novel after seven long years crafting the wee humble tome. I will keep this warehouse intact but it may get a little dusty around here if you follow my subtle meaning. Thanks for stopping by. See you someday on the Coast that Never Sleeps.

(And don't forget...it is better to have a conversation with someone than to write about how you feel about that person and their work.)

2. and 1. Cautiously, The Year of Living

2007-12-14T22:30:00.000-07:00

2. Facing your twin.

You wander in the middle of the field because that’s what you’ve always done. You feel like something similar is not always something sane. You give what you can but offer so little that you don’t have anything left to show. You seek innovation but you don’t take the risks that said activity demands. You leap from first floor buildings because that’s as far as your mental vertigo will allow. You transcend thin air because to endure the clouds one more time may suffocate your purpose. You lean on ladders which have no support but appear comfortable. You scold the wind because human contact is too dangerous. You call it quits because the alternative is something that is far too unpleasant.

1. Finding your identity.

2007 hasn’t been the best year for much of anything. The war in Iraq is officially a failure and yet, most Americans know at least one person who is either still in the Middle East or heading there (both in my case). The current administration has never been even remotely subtle in its selfish agenda which leans towards arrogant fascism in the need for national security in place of a democratic body informing its limited government. If one ever felt free or empowered in America, 2007 begged to differ and the fear is that 2008 will cement that dark implication. Everything from polar ice caps to the music industry are evaporating before our eyes and we refuse to take responsibility for our own actions.

Stop accepting what you are told to do. Rebel against the norm and seek to think about what it must be like NOT to be an American and one can understand why our way of life, our mode of thinking and being are so alien to a sustained relationship with ourselves, let alone an alien culture. The twin points I’ve been underlining during my Year of Living Cautiously as an American citizen, consumer and culturalist are that I played it safe because I had to be careful. I chose obscurity because clarity was no longer within my grasp. But being slow to act and quick to hide from confrontation is fine if you are fighting inner demons that need addressing. We cannot change our external environment without facing what it is that drives our internal motivational triggers.

In 2008, I hope to catch a lot more music than I did this year. I hope to see more films. I hope to read more books. I hope to see children playing outside as much as possible. It is our earth that they will inherit—a planet that is a living entity with a long history and one in which it will defend itself if threatened. Moral decay comes from the village society in which one dwells. Only you can decide how much reality you can change but playing safe, living cautiously is no longer a mental state one can afford to occupy. If you think you can just hide behind your omniscient monitor wall in the future, think again. Get up, google out and be something worth talking about this time next year. Don’t let the things you love become a part of the world you despise. Turn off your computer and breathe real air before that will no longer be an option. Oh…and Happy Holidays.

Life in the Undergrowth

2007-10-14T20:22:00.001-07:00

No, this isn't about squatters, punk rockers or drug dealers of various substances. The 2005 five-part documentary Life in the Undergrowth, hosted and narrated by British actor David Attenborough, is an outstanding look at the miniature world that exists under our feet, far away from the asphalt jungle and its human inhabitants. Attenborough spends over four hours covering various lifeforms including antler moths, desert locusts, glowworms, silk-spinning spiders and other invertebrates.

That's the pat blurb but what cannot be conveyed is how microscopic and detailed the camera work is during this series. One doesn't really get a sense of life's full grandeur until it is viewed on a small scale and this is as good as it gets while showcasing the fact that these creatures endure and evolve because they hold the real pearl, our greatest shared secret--life is enough and anything else is just human arrogance. So don't fuck it up.

Led Zeppelin, Reunions, the Gates of Gabriel and the Dream of the True Mavericks

2007-09-23T11:43:00.000-07:00

The recent announcement that Led Zeppelin would reunite for one night in November to pay tribute to the late Ahmet Ertegun, co-founder of Atlantic Records, for a charitable foundation in his name, brought 20 million requests for 22,000 tickets and some eyebrows raised as one ponders a possible 2008 tour to complete a fan's fantasized reunion.

Well...that is probably up to lead singer Robert Plant who prefers to keep the legacy intact and let his late friend, drummer John Bonham rest in peace without corrupting his musical memory. We'll see. If anything, the Year of 2007 will forever be remembered as the Year of the Almighty Band Reunion with everyone from the Police--mediocre and deStinged--to Van Halen--jury is still out but does it matter? It'll be a HUGE party--to the Sex Pistols--hypocritical, pointless and irrelevant--to Genesis--small, odd and anti-climatic without the long holdout that is Peter Gabriel who is both relevant in the world music scene but oddly out of tune with what an audience may want: just get up on stage and give us some old school Genesis for crissakes.

And Phish? Does it matter at this point? I think it does but that is a patient and long tale for another day...the sweet, beautiful day when the Dream of the True Mavericks is revealed as not a showcase for nostalgia but a continuing saga that never quite answers that eternal question:

"Can you still have fun?"

Flintstone Macaroni and Cheese box, anyone?

Bonnaroo Beacon - Saturday, June 16, 2007

2007-06-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

Synchronicity

There is that point at the high peak of a jam where a musician finds a way to reach beyond one’s skills and bring everyone just a wee bit higher. After Friday’s colossal highlight reel leading to Tool’s Main Stage gig and the Superjam featuring Led Zeppelin’s John Paul Jones, Saturday delivered its true moment of transcendence. On the 40th Anniversary of the Monterey Pop Festival, the Police continued their triumphant return to the stage with a two hour show covering a wide variety of their classic hits. Keeping to his word about lifting the Police to an A-game level at Bonnaroo, Stewart Copeland managed to pull out all the stops as he played drums and percussion sitting, standing, jogging and jumping.

The day began like a litany of future superstars as Dr. Dog tore through an incendiary set of post-garage psychedelic rock in This Tent. Regina Spektor was overwhelmed by her Roo turnout on the Which Stage; the scene was hot, boisterous and emotional as her performance radiated from the strong communal reception. Gogol Bordello, meanwhile, was all dark side of the soul with a cavalier and infectious stab at performance art as a musical form via an Eastern European setting. John Paul White wooed an intimate crowd in the Troo Music Lounge while beaming Thom Yorke vocals through a reading of ELO’s “Can’t Get It Out of My Head.”

Not to be overshadowed by their younger brethren, Hot Tuna—featuring two Monterey Pop fest alumni Jack Casady and Jorma Kaukonen—offered 100% genuine old school blues in the Other Tent while Warren Haynes played a solo acoustic set at the Sonic Stage while quipping that he “began guitar at the age of seven and started with [Haynes played the “Smoke on the Water” riff] and then learned [he vamped on “Louie Louie.”].”

Speaking of tales of birth and tradition…the afternoon press conference featured Flaming Lips frontman Wayne Coyne and Bob Weir in a panel discussion which turned lively when the two spoke of the legacy of the music festival. “If I wasn’t playing at Bonnaroo,” said Coyne, “I’d still want to be here. It’s an adventure. We’ve got to live it with some sort of intensity and it is easy to get inspired here.”

Weir was equally forthright about Bonnaroo and a poignant and timely question was asked about the Grateful Dead’s appearance at the Monterey Pop Festival. “It was the first rock ‘n’ roll festival,” said Weir. “The party backstage was pretty damn wonderful. We had some fun jams including one with a guy in a headband. This kid plugs in; we clicked immediately.” The “kid” turned out to be Jimi Hendrix and a legend was born.

With that in mind, Saturday continued its own path towards legendary status as Dublin, Ireland’s Damien Rice blanketed the crowd with his warm brand of acoustic tapestries. The Hold Steady had more than a few raising their eyebrows as a large crowd embraced the band—double neck Gibson guitar, piss and vinegar vocals and a cutting-edge indie hard rock tone that was “the last stand on their American tour,” according to lead singer, Craig Finn. He mentioned that “it was good to see so many familiar faces,” which furthered the curiosity about a band that has a small tribe following them around from town-to-town. Sound familiar? Perhaps that attribute is no longer the sole property of the jamband circuit. That ethereal dynamic was apparent also in the Firecracker Jazz Band performance in the Bonna Rouge tent as Dixieland came to Tennessee with the proper velvety ambience including some old fashioned N’Awlins humidity. Meanwhile dragging entire continents along in his large muse bag, Xavier Rudd had his own version of musical topography with an amazing combination of Euro deep house sounds, traditional Australian outback music and various fringe Western rock strands.

The unique esprit de corps together with what was and what could be continued as the puzzle pieces started to finally fit together in the festival matrix. A complicated amalgamation of a festival’s diversity based upon an echo of the Monterey Pop Festival came into view. Like so many things in life, the activity revolved around a children’s game (which somehow seems appropriate since Sunday is, indeed, Father’s Day.) What had to have been the world’s widest, most elongated Frisbee toss was taking place outside the Art of Such N Such late in the afternoon—about eight people in a football field-length rectangle encompassed a huge patch of grass while throwing the disc.

Once in a while, someone random would join in and suddenly, the thought that a massive, improvisatory game of Frisbee was going to cover the entire festival grounds appeared possible. It didn’t need to happen; but the thought that it could mean that seeing Hot Tuna after Regina Spektor alongside Ziggy Marley guesting with Ben Harper betwixt Ween, Spoon and Keller before the big Police reunion extravaganza prelude to the UFO landing at the Flaming Lips midnight show leading to Luther Dickinson, Bob Weir and John Paul Jones sitting in with Gov’t Mule after Galactic gathered a calvacade of MCs to share a stage made a heck of a lot of sense. If the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival was the prototype for bringing diverse acts together in a multi-course sonic buffet then Bonnaroo 2007 updated the template to include a few new chapters in a grand musical tradition.

Report by Randy Ray

The Brutal Beauty of Pan's Labyrinth

2007-05-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

Pan's Labyrinth recently made its DVD debut and, enormous quantity of insightful extra material aside, the film is still on the top of my list for 2006 releases. The often inhumane sequences of animal-like cruelty mixed with the chaotically creepy creatures blended with a timeless children's tale leaves one feeling like an entire universe is hidden within our own simple realm. And that's what makes great cinema--it isn't so much about crafting a grand, epic scale rooted in a well-written script with historically-pertinent characters that enrich our mass consciousness. An outstanding film offers a view into an intangible world that could exist while using tangible elements that are found in everyday life. Perhaps, an important piece of celluoid echoes one's search for the eternal spirit--that which defines our imagination and shapes the hopes that we cling to in the face of certain death.

The Politics of Word Dancing

2007-04-30T14:33:00.000-07:00

I was asked about my site and its contents so I thought I'd write a brief note. At the end of my Jambands.com features and columns, is the tagline phrase Randy Ray stores his work at www.rmrcompany.blogspot.com. Essentially, this site is neither a journal or a blog but a warehouse of ideas shared amongst either myself or some very talented musicians, friends or others in the arts. Most of my non-fiction writing appears on the right hand side of this site with occasional highlights or messages appearing in the main body--such as this short discourse. I also write fiction for literary magazines but that is an ongoing process and not stored at this site, yet. My novels are pending publication for good reason and when they see the light of day, I will be sure to make that fact known. Until then, I suggest that if you are interested in music and would like to sit down for a few moments with a fan who also writes upon other subjects, feel free to stay a while inside my little cyber warehouse. The door is always open.

- Randy

Wetlands Preserved

2007-04-06T09:16:00.000-07:00

My interview with Wetlands Preserved Director of Photographer and Editor, Jonathan Healey first ran on Jambands.com last summer. As the film continues its evolution, I'd like to take this opportunity to readdress its historical importance as a cultural document of the Wetlands legacy.

See Dean Budnick's Jambands.com column for more information.

A Beautiful Flower Growing in a Crack of Concrete - Wetlands Preserved with Jonathan Healey

“Whatever some may claim, criticism is a subjective art, and even if it weren’t, the flowers in the cinema’s garden are so various that there’s no such thing as one standard by which to judge them.”
- A Century of Film, Derek Malcolm

“It is the Celtic Way to find the middle ground between the beautiful and the ugly.”
- Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman

Wetlands Preserved marks the documentary film debut of Relix Senior Editor and Jambands.com Editor, Dean Budnick. It goes without saying that the project is close to this writer, as well, as a) many of the best live acts of the 1990s are represented in the film; b) as a West Coast head, I was never able to make it out to New York to witness a show at the legendary club located in Tribeca; c) the Vermont Fab Four gigs have always been a fascinating story in Phishtory (1,200 in a 600-capacity club?!); d) like Wetlands in its heyday, the Rays have a retired VW bus located in the backyard which is vacant yet filled with many smoke-filled stories of yesterday painted in psychedelic surreal colors; e) and the venue supported a $100,000 per annum environmental activism budget. Budnick has made a film that accurately portrays a critical point in recent music history with shitkicker Wetland’s live tunes collected by Audio Archivist and Jambands.com Editor, Jesse Jarnow segueing into various colorful stories from musicians who played the hotter-than-hell joint to club owners to talent brokers to environmentalists to neighborhood real estate overlords to fans in a warm, humorous, honest and modern light.

The film is a fine representation of the club which lost its lease to a furniture store and encroaching gentrification, basking in skateboard film visuals and groundbreaking cinematic animation that layers multiple elements to shock photographs to life like some celluloid Dr. Frankenstein. Whereas the many eclectic live clips from Agnostic Front to moe. help showcase the various invigorating acts that former owners Larry Bloch and Peter Shapiro were able to corral, the animated visuals, numerous interview sequences with Bloch, Shapiro, musicians, writers, scenesters, Wetlands employees and activists help give the living history book a complex yet very appetizing flow.

Jonathan Healey served as the film’s Director of Photography and Editor while working with Budnick to get his vision onto the screen. Budnick—upon introducing the film at its premiere at the Ziegfeld Theatre at the Green Apple Music Festival to the audience along with producer, Peter Shapiro—went out of his way to acknowledge Healey, prompting a beaming editor to stand from his seat and wave to the near capacity throng. Jambands.com takes an opportunity to investigate Healey’s experience on Wetlands Preserved, his additional production background and future projects.

Part I – Wetlands Preserved

“A thousand ages in thy sight
Are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun”
- The Book of the New Sun, Gene Wolfe

RR: Wetlands Perserved had layers upon layers of meaning from music to activism to a timeless vibe that made the experience almost three-dimensional. The film echoes this imagery while delivering a lot of information. What are your impressions of how the film turned out?

JH: I was incredibly pleased with the final cut of Wetlands Preserved. Dean
Budnick and I videotaped about 80-hours of interview footage and married that with countless photos, archival footage and animated music sequences. It was a daunting task to filter through these assets and determine which pieces of dialogue would best articulate Wetlands’s story. It took us a lot of time to compile still photos and video footage and animate them in a style that would complement the dialogue we chose to use. Indeed, Wetlands Preserve did have layers of meaning from the music that was created there, to the activism and social justice causes the nightclub would champion to the hundreds of anecdotes people shared with us. The film actually depicts all of these described “layers” using hundreds of layered animations. Take that and add a person’s dialogue and musical soundbed and you have quite a complex piece of art divulging lots of information. Think about it: An interviewee is telling the viewer about an account at Wetlands while underneath that audio is a live recording from the nightclub that either directly references this particular story or mood. Finally, you have all this visual information literally flying around the screen, or changing colors, or dissolving in and out. It can be a lot to comprehend; however, we did a great job keeping it understandable to anyone who might view the film. Plus, all of this maintains the movie’s entertainment value by keeping everyone interested in what’s they are seeing and hearing.

We had a few private screenings a year prior to the Ziegfeld premiere. These intermediary viewings always generated great ideas and response to this piece of work. Judging from the audience’s reactions we were able to determine whether or not something worked or that something did not work, or the audience really likes these two characters or a particular thing we thought was funny in the edit didn’t play on the screen. I’m glad we did these screenings as it’s important to get outside eyes on early drafts of edits. This is because myself, as editor, and Dean, as director, would spend thousands of hours in front of the material and the decisions you make on what stays or goes can become increasingly more difficult to make since you become attached to certain elements or jaded by others (since you’ve watched it over and over and over).

By the time Wetlands Preserved screened at Ziegfeld Theatre, I thought it was ready. What I didn’t expect was the tremendous turnout. From what I was told, somewhere between 800-1,000 people attended the screening. I was nervous that the room might look empty, but it certainly did not. In many cases where a lot of time was spent to create a particular storyline, or sequence, hearing the reaction in a small, private screening would really please me, but hearing roars of laughter, or even an incredible amount of hissing (in the case of Mayor Rudolph Giuliani’s shakedown on Manhattan nightlife) was truly satisfactory to me. Of course the direct compliments I received from people were humbling. I was so thrilled to see the, albeit brief, reunion of all the people who were so inspired by the club. Watching old-timers share remembrances with one another, after the screening, really showed that film needed do be made. In a way, I was able to contribute to this gathering.

Annabelle Lukins, a longtime Wetlands local, made a statement that was unfortunately cut during the edit. Lukins said something to the effect that Wetlands provided an arena for many people, whether it was the musicians, the talent buyers, the photographers, whoever, to get opportunities that might not be afforded to them in the typical, tough, New York City environment. It was because of the club’s open-mindedness and freedom to give anyone a chance that many folks got the break or breaks they needed to be doing what it is that they do now. That statement hit home with me because during my own personal residence at the club I was not really involved with anything other than watching my favorite bands perform. I’m truly thankful that this documentary presented itself to me and gave me one final chance to give back. I think I’ve done this and that’s what pleases me the most about the film.

RR: What was your take on Richard Gehr's comment that Wetlands was "nostalgia as a camouflage for people that really didn't need to be there." I don't think Wetlands was a nostalgia trip. Did you?

JH: Do I think it was a nostalgia trip? Perhaps to those, like Gehr says, “…who didn’t need to be there.” No. Wetlands was not a nostalgia trip. Wetlands served as an incubator for a lot of what we see in the live music arena, today. Sure, there were some silly murals on the wall, a VW Microbus, and they created psychedelic prints ads, but it’s my understanding that Gehr is saying ‘nostalgia’ was applicable to those who didn’t really know the venue’s true mission – Music and Activism. Someone who might stumble into the club unknowing might easily assume that Larry Bloch had created a 1960s throwback themed nightclub and leave. So be it. More room for everyone else to dance.

Part II – Soul Shakedown Party
“I need your concentration
Just to feel your vibration”
- PHISH, Chairman of the Boards and Big Red, Nassau Coliseum, 2/28/03

RR: What is your background in production?

JH: I started attending the Walter Cronkite School Of Broadcast Business Management at Arizona State after I recognized a void in the live music landscape – Video. Back then, I wanted to be a station owner/manager and, perhaps, create a live music-oriented cable channel. The Internet was in its infancy. I launched an on-line music show dubbed Groove Tube. After college, I worked for [Saturday Night Live founder and executive producer] Lorne Michaels at his college-oriented cable network, Burly Bear Network. I wanted to get into the business any way I could, so I took a sales job assisting the sales team with their spot advertisement efforts.

I eventually found myself as a Director of Marketing, working on PR initiatives, as well as the company’s corporate and consumer branding objectives. It was at this time I started working with a lot of still photographers and started to enjoy what these folks did for a living. I started writing letters to jambands, for the most part, asking if I might take photos for Burly Bear’s website and, in some cases, write some editorial. Widespread Panic gave me my first break at Fleet Pavilion in Boston giving me the opportunity to shoot the first three songs of the first set—something I’d become utterly familiar with in the years to come. Later, guys like Kevin Shapiro would offer opportunities with Trey Anastasio and the Vermont Youth Orchestra or Vida Blue. Eventually Chris Zahn and Jake Szufnarowski permitted me into Wetlands to photograph the Disco Biscuits, John Scofield and Soulive/Lettuce.

I spent a year or so only photographing bands and portraits of fans and became a little restless. I wanted to do more with my art. I reached out to Andy Navarro who, at the time, was managing Tom Marshall’s Amfibian. I told him my situation – I’m making the move from still photography to video and I’d like to film Amfibian’s next performance at Wetlands Preserve and create some sort of short documentary or story for Burly Bear’s website. He obliged and I ended up creating a wonderful four-part series showcasing interviews and performances from Amfibian's 2000 Wetlands Preserve and Higher Ground shows.

It was after that piece that Burly Bear gave me a lateral move within the corporation and offered me the Producer role for the Burly Bear Comedy and Film Festival. It was a great opportunity for me since it merged incredible amounts of marketing efforts with not only live production, but television production, as well. This event traveled from college to college showcasing up-and-coming stand-up comedy and comedic short films. We were kind of like a band. We traveled around in two 15-passenger vans, advanced shows, managed/booked talent, had load-ins and load-outs, and videotaped everything for on-air interstitials and industrials. I took a very hands-on approach with the videotaping, photography and audio recording for these events and realized I wanted to be working in production full-time.

Once the tour ended, I decided to leave the company and pursue my interests full-time. I took almost one year off learning how to edit, compose shots, and animate video and stills. During this time, I called upon a lot of my friends in the industry to help me out with jobs. I took anything I could get: still photographer on movie sets, editing EPKs for athletes, producing corporate films for various ad agencies and so on. I was really intrigued with all the new DVD technology that became readily available to consumers and took the bull by the horns since now bands could be offered increasingly cheap rates to produce, film, edit and author concert DVDs. Vermont rockers, RAQ and Seth Yacovone Band, reached out to me. I created some in-house concert DVDs for each of them that really gave me the opportunity to showcase my talents to other bands and companies.

Come 2002, an old contact of mine from Burly Bear Network, Nick DeNinno, was currently working with National Lampoon Networks and was searching for a producer to re-launch their music magazine show, AV Squad. I took the job and I’ve been producing the show ever since. It was that year, I also began working for the Jammy Awards.

RR: How did you get involved with Dean Budnick and Wetlands Preserved?

JH: When I was living in Boston, Dean wrote The Phishing Manual: A Compendium to the Music of Phish. After reading it, I thought it would be a nice Christmas gift for some friends of mine. I reached out to Dean, asked if I might get these books signed and he obliged. We met up at John Harvard’s Brew House, in Cambridge, MA, had lunch and talked about all sorts of music-related topics. We stayed in touch by trading bootlegs and even catching the occasional moe. show at Boston College, or a Mike Gordon signing at the Harvard Bookstore.

I transferred to Arizona State and kind of lost touch, but when I returned to New York, I saw Dean at a Relix re-launch party at Spa, in New York City. It was there that I mentioned an idea for the Jammy Awards. Why not introduce video nominee montages and give the awards portion of the event some additional excitement? I think Peter Shapiro and Dean kicked the idea around for a Jammys or two, but I eventually received a Budnick/Shapiro tag team phone call, in 2002, that the idea was green-lighted. I spent a couple months working directly with Peter and Dean, cutting together high-end motion graphics for jumbotrons. And, now for some shameless self-promotion: there’s an excellent photo of the inaugural screens in the June issue of Relix (“Jam of the Titans”). About a year and a half later, during a brief Jammys hiatus year, I received another Budnick/Shapiro tag team phone call. I thought they were going tell me the date for the next Jammys, but, instead, they were more interested if I owned camera, lighting and audio equipment. I did. That’s when they shared with me their concept for Wetlands Preserved and asked me to shoot and edit the film.

RR: What was your role on the documentary?

JH: I served as Director of Photography during production and Editor in post-production. It was my job to light each interview, videotape it, as well as record sound. That’s sort of my niche in this business. I’m like the Keller Williams of videography – a one-man crew from soup to nuts. I really enjoy it, though. It’s a great daily exercise to try and create something different for every interview whether it’s the setting or the lighting and I believe I accomplished this in Wetlands Preserved. I tried to give every person their own cinematic feel based upon their role with club. For instance, John Dwork was highly involved with the club’s lighting. His interview features incredible contrast as well as use of color gobos (light patterns) in the background. Sublime’s Eric Wilson performed at the club, so we filmed him in the foreground with his crew loading in and setting up at a nightclub in the background.

As for post-production, I worked directly with Dean putting all of his notes and ideas together in edit. It really is like putting the pieces of a puzzle together and getting the perfect fit to tell the best story. In addition to editing clips together, I was responsible for most of the non-musical animations. I spent a lot of time creating the various animations that call to different photos, or advertisements, or video while a person is speaking. Wetlands Preserved probably had one of the smallest crews in the history of cinema, so everybody had to play a lot of roles.

Part III – The Men with a Movie Camera and an Editing Machine
“…a film that need only be seen once to be understood and enjoyed but demands to be studied on an editing table to be fully appreciated. The Man with a Movie Camera has the remarkable effect of encouraging the viewer to identify with the filmmaking process.”
- The A List, edited by Jay Carr

RR: How much film did you have to review?

JH: Ugh. Tons! We videotaped about 80-hours of interview footage featuring 100-interviewees. I would output “dailies” onto DVD, for Dean, who in turn had to watch every interview, with a time code, and then send me the timings for each clip he wanted to use. I’m blown away by Dean’s directing talent to generate the Wetlands story in the fashion that he did. In essence, Dean served to log all of the content in addition to his directing role. Dean also reached out to Wetlands photographers who documented the countless concerts and events held at the club. We accumulated thousands upon thousands of still photos and about ten hours of archival video. Again, Dean reviewed everything and made the crucial decisions as to when and where to present this material. All the while, though, Dean gave me the freedom to alter or tweak, and in some cases, completely change the delivery of these images. In computer terms, there’s almost a terabyte of content residing on my machine.

RR: How did you choose the edit sequence? What were some of the challenges in choosing the material?

JH: The concept of the first cut was to take everything relevant to Dean’s idea of the Wetlands story and incorporate it in the edit. This resulted in a two-plus-hour film that was much too long; however, the story was there. We needed to simply cut it down under 100-minutes and still retain the important components of the feature. The next step or steps, rather, were several versions of the film – 120-minutes, 110-minutes, etc. It became increasingly more difficult between the 100-minute and 90-minute phase. We really needed to “kill our babies” and that’s the hard part of the editing process. [Author’s Note: No real babies were harmed in the post-production of Wetlands Preserved.] It’s a practice where some of your favorite bits of dialogue, or an animation sequence you spent days working on has to be cut. This is the method we used to hit our ideal film length.

As for the story arc, it was Dean’s job to write a plot using chapters so viewers can easily understand the components of the club, the musicians who played there, the activism that was taking place, as well some insider anecdotes from former denizens. The film is broken up into an easily digestible format even for a Wetlands novice: the concept of Wetlands, the building of Wetlands, the club’s vibe, understanding Larry Bloch, the music that was created there in all its varieties, examples of the various social justice actions, TriBeCa and, yet all the while punching in highly-animated musical sequences.

RR: Describe the non-musical animation process?

JH: The animation process begins with dialogue. Whether it’s one person speaking or several, we cut together clips from interviews to tell a particular story. Once we created a working piece of spoken word we’d reference photos to better visualize what a person was talking about. These placeholders were still photos or archival video left untouched or, in some cases, utilized a basic virtual camera pan or ready-made effect such as a camera flash or film leader. In fact, the first cut of the film was entirely made from basic cuts of interviewees talking to these placeholders. Once we determined the basic visual delivery, meaning we approved of which photos or video were going to be used in a particular sequences, we would then export these sequence from Final Cut Pro HD into Adobe After Effects, using Automatic Duck, [Author’s Note: No ducks were harmed in the post-production of Wetlands Preserved.] to better stylize or animate the sequence. I wanted every animation to be different or, at the very least, demonstrate all the different types of effects, coloring techniques, pan-and-scans, or 3D space.

Choosing how to animate all the various assets was usually determined by a story’s feel as well as using a material’s (such as a photos or archival videos) feel. For instance, several Wetlands Preserve strip advertisements, like the ones placed weekly in the Village Voice, are narrow, one-third of a page ads. In this case, we felt a simple pan-and-scan from top to bottom or bottom to top would suffice since this is how people read these sorts of advertisements in magazines and newspapers. In a more complex scenario, such as describing Wetlands’ Inner Sanctum, we wanted to depict all the facets of the basement all the while giving them effects that held true to the spirit of that particular section of the nightclub. This meant providing the viewer with a hazy and psychedelic feel using several animation techniques.

RR:How were you involved with determining the animation style and content?

JH: Very hands-on. Dean and I both had similar visions for the way we were going to present the still photos. Rather than using the simple, pan-and-scan technique folks like Ken Burns use in their documentaries, we wanted to instill an electricity similar to the one that the club invoked in its customers. In recent years, films like The Kid Stays In The Picture and Dogtown and Z Boys utilize a foreground/background separation and movement technique (something you see a lot of on DVD menus, too) which, in my eyes, could easily be expanded and incorporated into our film. At the risk of being too cliché, I wanted our animations to look like The Kid Stays In The Picture’s animations on acid.

With this concept in place, Dean provided me with an outline of what picture he’d like to be shown at what time in the movie or when a particular piece of dialogue was being said. At that point, it was up to me to bring these photos and video clips to life. Every animation in the film is different and took a lot of time, and a lot of time away from the project, to keep the ideas fresh. The film was edited with Apple’s Final Cut Pro HD and utilized Automatic Duck’s conduit to bring these sequences into Adobe After Effects and animate them. An incredible amount of masking and rotoscoping were used, in addition to several motion graphic effects. Even though every animation is different and has a unique touch, they still uphold to the movie’s overall stylistic theme. As Editor and Animator, I was allowed a lot of freedom to run with any idea I had. I also had the assistance of John Koltai and TJ Sochor to take on some animations of their own as well assist me with mine.

As for the musical animations, Dean worked with RESMedia Group to commission more animators to create these sequences. 14 different animators were hired to create the 16-music montages. Dean supplied these animators with the music soundbed for each clip, told them a bit about the band, gave them a bit of context and in a few cases some creative ideas but let their artist approach determine the outcome of the segment. I worked with these animators on a technical level as a Post-Production Supervisor providing them with specs and guidelines for final outputs and such, as well as offering constructive criticism for their revisions.

RR: What choices did you have to make to synch the music and audio synchs?

JH: Dean culled from his personal archives of Wetlands recordings, as well as Larry Bloch’s archives. He also called upon Jesse Jarnow to assist with some of the soundbed calls. Just as the visual animations were created to complement a person’s story, so is the music. Whether it’s a direct reference to what a person is seeing or hearing or whether it’s music to better instill the mood within the viewer, all of the music contained in the film serves a purpose. Did I mention that all of the music featured in the film was recorded at Wetlands? As amazing as it is that our team was able to aggregate all of this live music material, it did pose some challenging fine tuning in the edit. Not to mention certain, on-the-fly shooting set-ups created for interesting background noise that also needed to be tweaked and/or removed. Ever try filming or recording interviews at Bonnaroo? We really had to take into account everything about our audio.

RR: Did you have to balance music with activism in the edit?

JH: Absolutely. I think one of the early struggles with the story arc was determining how much of each to use. There are many stories and anecdotes about Wetlands and if you ask, or in this case, film interviews with different people about it, you’ll get a different story: It was the place that started the neo-hippie movement, or it was a place that nurtured the third wave of Ska. Some will tell you about a place that spearheaded eleventy-one-million social justice causes, while another describes it as that place down the street where hippies smoke weed and make lots of noise. The first cut was well over two-hours in length. Dean wanted to cover every aspect of the club even down to the would-be defunct kitchen. On the activism side, we had several interviews detailing specific actions The Activism Center at Wetlands were taking. Plus, everyone has so many complimentary statements to make we had to make sure the movie wasn’t some puff piece that stroked the egos of the people that made it happen. Finding some of the more “dramatic” pieces of dialogue and developing them into the story line took some time.

If you look at the film in terms of its subplots, there are three stories: the story of Larry Bloch/Wetlands, the music and the activism. I think every cut we made along the way focused too much on one of these subplots. It was challenging finding the right balance. At some points, Dean and I often wondered if it would be a better film if, say, we focused strictly on the activism or focused more on the amazing performances, but that wouldn’t be right. The more and more we worked on the film the easier it became to balance these topics out and present just enough of all of them.

Part IV – Exile on Tribeca Street

“I blame it on Jimmy Page,” said drummer Charlie Watts. “Led Zeppelin had come to the States…two or three hours on stage was what we heard they did, and it became something of a norm for anyone doing a concert.”
- According to the Rolling Stones, edited by Dora Loewenstein and Philip Dodd

RR: All the stars align during the Phish animated graphic sequence. Your thoughts on this particular scene?

JH: The Phish animation was created by Phoenix Perry and Jeffers Egan. The stars and undualting photos are a particular style that they brought to the table. I know Dean and I, being big fans of Phish, took special care with the final output. We didn’t want it to be too kitsch and thought that expectations from the fans would be high. Phish performed at Wetlands Preserve seven or eight times between the club’s opening in 1989 through 1990 so I’m not sure if I’d honestly draw some sort of parallel to the stars aligning, Phish gigging at Wetlands, and the success of the club, but I can say that Dean and I were quite pleased with what Perry and Egan produced. [Author’s Note: this is a particularly sublime sequence.] That reminds me...the set-up to this scene features Mike Gordon talking about the club’s desires to keep Phish playing until 4am. Gordon goes on to say how the band would play three sets and end around 2am; however, not long before being asked to return to stage to play until closing. Too bad these four set shows aren’t in circulation. [Author’s Note: Perhaps, because they never played that many sets? ;-)]

RR: What was your favorite sequence to edit? Memorable passages?

JH: There are several. From an Editor’s perspective, I really enjoyed the on-the-fly editing of the Rodney Speed Power Jam story. Dean had just received a small amount of video from the 2000 Power Jam where Wetland’s barback, Rodney Speed, was being celebrated as the night’s super, secret, surprise guest. Dean wanted to insert this clip and utilize some dialogue we had of Jake Szufnarowski describing the night and, especially, Rodney’s emergence. Dean sort of had a concept for this sequence, but I asked if I could spend five or ten minutes alone with it. Using some comedic timing and back-and-forth editing, the story comes across as both cute and funny. On a personal note, I can be seen in the front row of the crowd giving Rodney the devil horns hand-sign—something we didn’t realize until weeks later.

From an Animator’s standpoint, there are many sequences I enjoyed making and love watching. Just about anything where rooms or people are cut-out from the background and utilize z-depth is something I’m proud of. Some examples of this are the floating urinals in the bathroom photo while Zen Tricksters/Phil Lesh and Friend’s Rob Barraco discuss the stereo, audio mixes in the bathroom. Perhaps a worthy “memorable passage,” taboot! There’s also a cool pan-and-scan of a New York Times newspaper article about Wetlands Preserve. After zooming around to different parts of the article, the virtual camera trucks back to reveal the entire full page and actually zooms into the picture of people dancing thus, bring the viewer instantly from a 2D to 3D environment.

There is one animation I’m extremely proud of, though, and I feel it connected with everyone who viewed it and that would be the “Where Are They Now?”-esque final credit roll. I spent one hot, summer month, locked-down in my air conditioned editing suite, working on this nine minute and 20-second animation. The reason it took so long was I needed to use a technique called rotoscoping. This is a time-intensive process of extracting the subject and removing the background video. Once this was done, I inserted older photos of the subject and presented it in a 3D space which is rotating 360-degrees. Sounds weird on paper, but looks great on the screen. It was a concept I wanted to execute from the beginning and wasn’t sure if I could pull it off. The fact that I accomplished this made me extremely happy. Plus, since the film’s first public screening, the response to that animation was great, also.

RR: What projects are you working on, now?

JH: I’m continuing to produce, direct and edit National Lampoon’s AV Squad. AV Squad is Lampoon’s music video, interview and live performance magazine show. During the weekly 30-minute cable program, viewers are entertained by music videos, live, in-house performances and interviews. On top of that, this month I’ll be producing and editing a music video for a very hard working jamband, as well as trying to expand AV Squad into a live settings. Finally, I’ll continue to solicit more film projects like concert DVD or, perhaps, Dean and I could do another documentary together. Time will tell.

The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society

2007-03-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

I've been fortunate enough to write for Relix magazine, which has Aeve Baldwin as Editor-in-Chief. Now, it's time to repay my good karma.

Dear friends and colleagues,

As I embark on my 45th year, I've discovered that my judgment has NOT become less questionable with age. However, the errors in judgment take less of a "did I really do that last night?!" form and more of a "I can't believe I voluntarily got myself into this" form.

This is one of those latter instances.

I have signed up for a half-marathon in San Diego on June 3rd, 2007,to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. My mother died of leukemia in 1999, after a long and very hard struggle with the disease, and I'm proud to be raising funds for research and patient care to fight blood cancers that still take way too many lives, especially children's, each year.

I'd like to invite you along on my journey, both as (hopefully!) a contributor and/or as a cheerleader ("Aeve, don't touch those cookies!" "Aeve, put down that wine!" Etc.). Please check out my page and, if the spirit moves you, donate to our cause.

The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society

Thanks for taking the time to read this, and please feel free to pass this email along.

Aeve Baldwin
Group Editor
Zenbu Media

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: HAPPINESS

2007-01-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>HAPPINESS>

“You’re crazy. I can’t move the sun, ya know,” reasons my son.

He has a little rectangular house, a little square fence, some barnyard animals and about thirty toy soldiers sitting on our oversized coffee table. Next to the table is our couch. Sitting on our couch is me. Next to me with her legs across my lap is my wife. Her head rests on a velvet red pillow. Directly in front of her resting head is our son. He is talking to his toy soldiers who complain to him in some sort of strange dialogue “that the sun is taking too long to come over the horizon this early morning.”

“Early in the mornin’, ‘til late at night, I got a poison headache, but I feel all right,” sings Dylan on track two of the third component of his “thin wild mercury sound” masterpiece that he created in the mid-1960s.

Blonde on Blonde

I was blonde long ago…

Don’t matter. That’s not what Dylan meant anyway. Great thing is that while he obtained that “thin wild mercury sound” he had no intentions, no expectations, no setup preconceived concepts. Yesss…but I’ve lingered quite a long time on that notion. Perhaps, it is time for someone else to discuss that theme. I hear a soft timeless country soundscape in my mind: a feminine sound? Indeed. Delightfully Demonic Danish Visions of Johanna conquer my mind as Dylan plays his Slow Sublime Surrealism. An s; the same forwards backward. Asking for nothing, Dylan gave everything in his cynical prince manner. My little prince speaks again to the toy soldiers. Edgar slowly drags the coffee table across the hardwood floor. The soldiers are happy. They have been moved towards the path of the imaginary sun, towards the path of the daylight they need.

“O.K. Whose turn is it to milk the cows?” asks my son to the little green men.

Silence. (Funny. There should be silence throughout the house right about now. I check the time. CRISTAWMYTEA! It’s 2:45 in the late evening, early morning hours. Light appears outside in the inner glow of a strangely friendly yet mesmermizingly full moon. I let our son play on. Heck, he’s off of school for another eight days or so…).

I Want You: drunken politicians sleep…dancing child…time is on his side…heh heh, perfect. Ahhh…while the drunken politicians slumber, we’ll toil in blessed blissful wakefulness, eh, my boy?

The record spins around and around on the ancient phonograph magic box. Lloydy Lloydy Lloydy, that sounds sweet. 33 and a third—a number that will soon become unfamiliar to the masses. Mathematics has new bedfellows these days. New acronyms. LPs beget CDs beget DVDs. 33 and a third. Three threes and one one.
Aw, mama, could this really be the end…to be stuck inside of Melancholia with the Minneapolis Blues Again.

We live in Dylan Country.

What was was has become what just is in our Vonnegut merry-go-round.

Zimmerman left Minnesota to go to New York to become Dylan—a famous musician changing the face of spoken language.

I returned from New York to live in Minnesota to become an infamous muse itching the face of a broken languid age.

“Speak up. Who’s milkin’ the cows?” asks Edgar again.

Silence. Again. Terminal silence. Welcome to the club, son.

From chaos comes order.
From order, one returns to chaos.
Ad infinitum.

First, there was nothing.

Dark matter curls up everything it has, everything it needs and burst forth for as far as the inner I, the inner eye can see.

Dark matter is what formed this particular reality; paradoxically, we are what forms its alternate realities…who invents whom…who is the chicken—Robert? Who is the egg—Wilfred? Who eats the egg? Who watches the one eating the egg? Where is the table? Perception & Perspective & Particles & Participles & Principles & Tricycles & Unicycles & Sombrero Galaxies & Flat-Plane Galaxies & Black Holes & White Holes & Moons & Spoon-Shaped Wormholes & the Light at the End of the Tunnel that takes me from you to I. And whom was Wilfred speaking to? And whom am I speaking to? And who am I & who are you? Who is the audience & who is on the stage? Who are we & when are we, you and you, I? Where is the stage? When is ‘&’ better than ‘and’?

What are we?

When are we?

Who are we?

What to build? Extract?

What to leave for later to blend with something else—a monkey united with a little green man & Isis and Gilgamesh & mismatched myths monkeying around with mismatched matter?

Endless questions spin out endless sacred tales…

Endless tales mutate into endless secular patterns…

Endless patterns hide endless riddles spun by Dylanesque seasick sailors:

acoustic daydreams bleed from lonely instrumental guttural holes howling rude sounds—cantankerous sundry phlegmatic youths pass the time sipping on lullaby-inducing liquid while embracing the translucent hue and hoary texture of warm chairs—stern and firm, solid and brown—bellicose frown hidden in the lowly shallow trees next to sleepwalking migrant workers trying to earn a dollar, a peso, a yen for keeps, keeping a beatific grain while barter grain rats pillage the acoustic daydreams seeking an echo of flesh to condemn their egalitarian-etched enemies, praising their hopelessly-hemp hostels, mocking their fastidiously-fashioned fountains which radiate virgin bloom as genuflecting ghosts from a childhood long gone waltz to a landlocked sailor mouthing words as she edges her heels across the ancient fungus-eating tableau—coy strangers tossing quarters on a springless surface—rolls of crimes seductively crossing curves—heavy metal two-fisted fantasia—the scorn involved wraps itself together and vomits hypocrisy and dread—violence defeats sexuality on the fundamentalist playground—the other side: loungey waistlines, supple and invisible as three become one—a misunderstood field of plenty—limbs and laundry lists of lecherously lusty limbo laced with larcenogenic liquid selling shrink-wrapped mayhem—a dream within a dream—who decides what is right, wrong, indifferent?—the microsecond moment before the Big Crunch and the aftermath of the red glow of the Big Bang—radiate virgin bloom? Ancient fungus-eating tableau? A landslide of Magical Lark Dreams too huge to ignore.

And back again. Everything passes, changes.

Substance & Spheres & Schematic Beings beget Life and Life begets Time.

Or do we invent time to quantify events?

Who are we and what is history?

History…a catalogue of events…and events sensationalize and trivialize moments better off left to fading memory.

What is memory?
What are transcripts?
What is motivation?
What are textbooks?
Who is ceaseless?
What inhabits the celestial tableau?
Who created me and what created what created me?
Why ask questions?
Why not just live one’s life?
Why question anything?
Another paradox.
Why do anything?
Does it matter?
Who controls the matter?
Who controls the dark matter controlling the matter?
Don’t you see—you are the dark matter. Again: who are you?

“Speak up. Who’s milkin’ the cows?” asks Edgar again.

Silence. Again.

“I will ask you one last time,” warns Edgar. “Who is milking the cows?”

Such seriousness from such a wee lad. Comical.

I am amused by his discourse with such apparently inanimate objects.

Odd.

Has Edgar created his own lifeform? Has he invented something for today using the tools of yesterday? Is that the answer to every question?

I sit and watch my son create an alternate reality within an alternate reality within an alternate reality and, suddenly, I yearn for one of my wife’s onion dishes…hmmm…too late, much too late in the late evening, early morning to get anything to eat now.

I get up, pour a glass of water, drink it down and return to the couch. Edgar is instructing two of his soldiers on the proper placement of hands during the crucial ‘cow-milking’ process.

“You see, you don’t want to just grab onto them real hard. You have to be slow. You have to almost be invisible,” rationalizes Edgar. “You have to make them appear as if nothing is happening at all. In with the hands, out with the milk, and back away real real slow with the buckets until you are completely out of the barn. That way, the cows can go about their regular business without any disturbances.”

I wonder what a cow—a supposedly fake cow, at that—what a cow’s regular business is in this world. I try not to wonder too much. Too late (or is it too early?) to think of such things right about now.

I remember seeing a cartoon once where a group of cows were each standing in a field on two legs, smoking cigarettes and verbally discussing the events of the day. In the next frame, a cow utters “CAR!” and the cows return to all four legs and silence while they chow down on some grass.

“Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“Do you wanna play, too?”

“No, son. I’m a little tired.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“Would you like to hold one of the soldiers, Dad?”

“No…uh, what for, son?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, he’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

“You think?”

“Sure. They tell me stories all of the time.”

Speaking of…Blonde on Blonde is nearing its epic majestic coda on the turntable.

“What kind of stories?”

“I don’t know—stories, just little things.”

“Just little things? Like what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember them all. I just sit there listening.”

“They tell you stories?”

“Right, Dad. They tell me stories. Something wrong with that?”

“No. Course not.”

“Dad, can we stay up a little longer?”

“Sure. You go ahead and play.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Just listening to Bob, son.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s alright, son. A whole lot of grownups don’t get him, either.”

“He doesn’t sound like anyone else.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“No?”

“I’m not…sometimes…Heh. Heh. I don’t need to tell you anything.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s a leopardspinhillboxcat?”

That was several songs back. I’m surprised he remembers what should be an obscure reference. “A Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat?”

“Yeah—what’s that?”

“Just a song, son. Try not to try so hard figuring out this and that.”

“I don’t get it. What kind of hat is that?”

“Just a hat, son. Just a song. Just listen.”

Edie...Edie Sedgewick...Eden?

“O.K.”

Silence returns as the record nears its final song.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Charlotte?”

“Dad, what does rhizanthous mean?”

“Huh? What the—it’s almost 3 in the morning. What are you still doing up? Ray Sans Zeus?”

“You guys are still up so I thought it would be O.K.”

“Fair enough. Edgar, that one soldier…he’s going to fall off the coffee table.”

“Where?”

“That one on the west.”

“On the west? Which side is that?”

“Sheesus. Just like—”

The soldier falls on the floor.

We sit in silence. A tragic event. The soldier must be…he must be—

“Is he dead, son?”

“No. He’s O.K.” Edgar puts him back on the table with the other soldiers. “He’s somebody else now, Dad.”

“How can that be?”

“He fell off the table. He can’t come back as the same guy, ya know.”

“I suppose.” Geezus. Where is my son when I’m writing my novel outlines? I struggle through The Great Black-On-White Unknown drenching my innards with cup after cup of coffee and I would never think of something so childish yet so brilliant. The silly little green man has become someone else. Jesus, it is late. Time for rest soon.

I walk over to the kitchen table and sit down. A sarcastic plaque hangs on the wall—a gift from my wife after my first novel was published, a literary equivalent of the old Roman whisper that “all glory is fleeting.” On the plaque is a single line: “Robert Jefferson – Keymaster to the Gates of James Joyce.” My novel outline rests next to the Jack and Ace and Queen of Clubs after our last card game of the evening. "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" plays on the turntable and rests on the couch. Many minutes pass as Dylan continues his wonderful 66 ride through the Blonde on Blonde oceans. Beautiful notes echo off the walls of our warm family room and a brief flash of empathy towards all that has been given from whomever created me hovers over my aging shoulders. I smile and write another paragraph in my outline. The Dead, Live. Dark Star crashes…shall we go, you and I, while we can…through the transitive nightfall of [kaleidoscopic] diamonds? The wheels finally turn…thankcris…33 and a third spins…8 and a half rests in the machine…its romantic magic has corrupted the silence again…Edgar plays with his little green men…Charlotte waits for an answer to her question. I find nothing is as complicated as it seems—to it, that’s all there is…

COMPONENT: HAPPINESS
Hot Plate Heaven screams jubilance. Who are you to resist? Who are you to ignore? Who are you to take form within inhumane rigidity? Windows look out across lakes full of fish who speak with primitive beasts swimming with 52-card decks, tossing the Queen of Clubs over waterfalls using intercontinental communication drifts as an excuse to take the afternoon off. Who are you to sleep with grass between ten-toes of 2x4 blocks of wooden ideals? Swim; swim deep in these persnickety oceans.

- eleven excerpts from Lord Boondoggle's Epiphany, copyright 2003, Randal Morgan Ray

Ahmet Ertegun - 1923-2006

2006-12-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

Ahmet Ertegun, Atlantic Records co-founder, passed away on December 14. This is an excerpt from my Joel Dorn interview, which includes his commentary about working with the Ertegun brothers--Nesuhi and Ahmet--and Jerry Wexler. - RMR

Track 5 – Tales from the Atlantic Crypt

RR: Let’s talk about your time at Atlantic. You produced records there for about seven years, right?

JD: I did some independent producing from ’63-’67 before I joined them full-time from ’67 to around ’74.

RR: I know that Atlantic Records changed significantly in 1968 when they started signing heavy groups like Led Zeppelin to huge advances—whereas before, the label had been predominately an R&B, jazz and soul music label. That had to increase the wave of rock acts on the label, which produced extreme revenue at a time when the business really kicked into gear. I mean giving a band like Zeppelin that hadn’t proven themselves yet a $200,000 advance really changed the whole ballgame.

JD: Listen—the R&B and jazz label that Atlantic was was the basis for them becoming a major label. At that time—they always had their ear to the ground. Ahmet [Ertegun, Atlantic president]—well, Nesuhi stayed with the jazz and Jerry Wexler stayed with the R&B but Ahmet had the vision to see the new musics that were coming so we got Zeppelin, Cream, Blind Faith and we ended up with the Stones. I mean, you know, Ahmet was on top of that. There’s never been a record executive like him. Don’t forget that he and Nesuhi grew up in the Turkish Embassy in Washington D.C. Their father was the Turkish Ambassador to the United States during the Roosevelt years. Nesuhi left Europe at the beginning of World War II. He was studying literature at the Sorbonne. Ahmet and Nesuhi speak four or five languages apiece. They fell in love with the blues and jazz and started this record company in the late 40s. There were no other executives like them. When Jerry Wexler came in, he was the bright young journalism student who loved music so that combination of Nesuhi, Ahmet and Jerry—there’s never been anything like that and I doubt that there will be anything like that again.

Aside from the fact that the music at Atlantic was so spectacular, the look of the label—Nesuhi hired Lee Friedlander to be the house photographer and Marvin Israel to do the layout and design. There were no labels that had black artists that had album covers like Atlantic’s. Take a look at some of the stuff on King or Powell or any of those labels—it was ghastly. Atlantic treated the artist with respect. When you got an R&B record that came out like Clyde McPhatter or Drifters, they had a look. It looked and felt different. If I had never worked for Atlantic and I was just a guy that loved music and the record business, I would say the same thing.

As Ahmet got into the larger record business, he snared acts and developed them. He went to England and he mesmerized these people. So he got Led Zeppelin and all of that other stuff. They kept doing R&B. At the same time they had Zeppelin, they had Aretha [Franklin]. Same time they had Cream, they had Otis [Redding]. Atlantic was still mining the R&B vein and expanding into new music.

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: CONFIDENCE

2006-11-07T02:27:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>CONFIDENCE>

They smile and laugh and play odd games with shapes and objects foreign to Wilfred’s experience.

“They…they are…pure unrefined energy,” thinks Wilfred. “How do I describe the Life of a Maker (transcendent)…”

RAR, 10.
Component: CONFIDENCE.Proud and firm beams rest snacking on bread and wine. Neither impatient or upset, greedy or restless, lines lurk with grins—ale is boisterous; language is open and miles and miles long. Muscular emotional architecture hasn’t a barrier left uncracked. Assaults are gentle and humorous. Façade streaks its own roaming colors on thick, broad textures. Clear and bountiful. Wide and safe. Miles and miles long—stretched out, ecstasy lurches onto decks housing pleasant aristocrats lounging atop wise mattresses.

[Let’s continue with another definition: Gestalt psychology, n. The theory or school of psychology which explains a mental or physiological process as a unified and unanalyzable response to a total situation, and not as a summation of separate responses to the separate stimuli or components of a situation.

“You began with an attempt at a singular definition?”

“I really didn’t begin with much of anything. I had no idea what I was doing.”

“Most people would assume you had it all figured out beforehand. Most people would not understand how one invents—this may sound trite—out of ‘thin air’.”

“The separation thing, you know. I bumbled and stumbled until I came upon loss as a…what did you call it? A singular definition.”

“And you accomplished that?”

“I think so. Ummm…yeah, from my point of view, yes.”

“Did you feel a need to expand a singular point into a wide array of various perceptions from different angles? You once described the theory as “an imaginary rock hitting a stained glass mirror—dark energy affecting pliable tangible matter.”

“I probably meant “stained glass window.” That creation was accidental too. However, the structure was setup from the…I had a frame. I had invented an imaginary situation where reality could run free—reality from my existential seat in the house.”

“That’s interesting what you said just now. You said you setup an imaginary scene inside reality—”

“I didn’t say inside reality.”

“Let me finish. You said you setup an imaginary scene inside reality. The reason
I say that is that in order for a frame to be functional, usually one would setup a realistic situation so that the imagination could run free. Do you see how I could interpret that from what you said?”

“Oh, sure, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Of course, you didn’t. I think you setup an entire universe so you could interpret reality in a way in which you would remain confident about your abilities; furthermore, to enhance your desire to comprehend something greater than yourself.”

“I’m not sure about that. In many ways, there can’t be anything greater than me in the imaginary frame.”

“This brings up another point. If you stop imagining the frame, does it disappear?”

“No, because by then, reality has formed its own enclosure, own will to invent.”

“I see. So the inventor becomes unnecessary?”

“In a way, yes, the inventor no longer needs to either expose or conceal the imaginary façade. Time, itself, has washed away a prior purpose or definition and replaced it with a new frame of reference. No pun intended.”

“And after that—”

“Sometimes you just need to create something for yourself.”

“Without any intention of anyone getting any value out of it?”

“Right. The whole of creativity would be incredibly difficult to show to another entity…fingerprints: reward; mattresses. The best thing to do is just let the light and dust gather on a mysterious catafalque, unknown and hidden—roaming slumber films.”]

Proud and firm beams rest snacking on bread and wine. Neither impatient or upset, greedy or restless, lines lurk with grins—ale is boisterous; language is open and miles and miles long.

Proud and firm beams rest snacking on bread and wine. Neither impatient or upset, greedy or restless, lines lurk with grins—ale is boisterous; language is open and miles and miles long.

They smile and laugh and play odd games with shapes and objects foreign to Wilfred’s experience. Serpentine celestial palate gives plenty. A childlike being travels through a tube and paints the interior with colors that are unfamiliar. A sound echoes from the entrance of the hole. A loud crash (a thunderstruck?) lands somewhere at the end, the tip. Some form of activity. Another behemoth melody. Another riff. Many beings enter the tube. The results are strange and magical. Not sure about this. They are looking at something far off in another place. Another galaxy? Another planet? Oh. Strange. Strange again. Appears as if they are moving the development forward. Slow at first, really quick and fast now. Not sure how they are doing this. Appearing outside of the end of the hole, a planet takes a form. Some creature. What? Some creature exits a body of water and enters the surface. Eats some food. Kills another creature? No? Interesting. Creature from the water becomes a creature on land. No killing. Think. Think. These are thinking entities. They don’t know about what…what invented them, but they don’t seem to care. Another creature flies through the air, then another, then hundreds more. A star sits overhead, resting; language is open and miles and miles long.

Day is nearly at an end. Night brushes dust off its coat. Silence.

Muscular emotional architecture hasn’t a barrier left uncracked. Assaults are gentle and humorous. Façade streaks its own roaming colors on thick, broad textures. Clear and bountiful.

Muscular. Serpentine celestial palate gives plenty. A mantra. A cadence. A cadence wrapped in a riddle. Language skills. A school room on a planetary level. A fragment hidden in a paragraph. Several fragments. Incomplete thoughts complete thoughts. Emotional. These beings are educating their…what are they? What did they create? Does it matter? Matter again. Architecture. “Am I—yes, I must be.” Someone else is speaking. Thousands are speaking from some secret distant location. Who is speaking? Did someone just speak? Wilfred looks…“Where am I? Have I traveled? Have I been here the whole time? What is here? Who defines this place? Who creates the map? Who does the math? Checks the spelling? Cleans the liquid falling on the map? Rain overhead hasn’t a barrier left uncracked. What is this place? WHAT THE—” A trillion blades of grass cover Wilfred. Assaults are gentle and humorous.

“How did I get here? Did I think of this place? Is it real? Is anyone else here?”

“We are here.”

“And you are?”

“You know.”

“I do?”

“Yes, Wilfred. You created this wedding, this marriage, this dance between the seen and unseen, the material and immaterial, the shady and the colorful.”

“But who created me? Stop that! Who the heck is chompin’ on my toes?!”

From chaos comes order.

From order, one returns to chaos.

Ad infinitum.

First, there was nothing.

Then, a brief flash of empathy creates a perfect frozen moment.

Drifting, he thought of you; in turn, drifting, you thought of him.

Everything, clear. Language, primitive. Words, few. Substance linked hand-in-hand with transparency. A fragment of truth.

Finally, there is…nothing.

He has returned from whence he came. Again. He has returned to the void.

Façade streaks its own roaming colors on thick, broad textures.

“You are the offspring of the father.”

“The—who is the father?”

“The being that created you.”

“Who created you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing created you?”

“That is correct.”

“And nothing has a father?”

“Yes, and that father is before and after you. The father is searching for you. The father is searching for nothing.”

Clear and bountiful.

“How can he search for nothing?”

“How can he not, Wilfred?”

“Forgive me. Searching for nothing requires nothing.”

“Oh, you are wise and clever.”

“Has he found it—this…this nothingness? How does one find nothing?”

“You said it yourself. You would search until you too burned out.”

“That’s just a figure of speech.”

“Ahhh…there lies the magic. You too are just a figure of speech.”

“What do you mean?”

“You too stand tall and proud as a figure communicating ideas cloaked in the fundamental rudiments of speech.”

“Is that all I am?”

“No. You are also nothing.”

“How can I be nothing if I am something?”

“Who said you are something?”

“You just did. You said I was a proud figure of speech.”

“Yes, but that means nothing compared to him.”

“The father?”

“Yes. He is everything and you are nothing but a figure on his stage.”

“What happens if we meet?”

“You will no longer ask such silly childish questions and he will not require the sweet beauty of nothing anymore.”

Wide and safe. Miles and miles long—stretched out, ecstasy lurches onto decks housing pleasant aristocrats lounging atop wise mattresses.

Wide and safe.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Miles and miles long—

“Are you ‘him’?”

“Yes. I am him.”

stretched out, ecstasy lurches onto decks

“Him him?”

“No, just him—that will fret along the road inside out, just fine.”

“Wilfred? So my name is Wilfred.”

“That’ll do just fine too.”

housing pleasant aristocrats

“Where are we?”

“We are inside my mind. I am a Maker.”

“About time. Where’ve you been?”

“With my son. Let’s go play in his world for a while. I’m a little tired.”

lounging atop wise mattresses.

The Haunted Hobgoblins of Halloween

2006-11-02T21:49:00.000-07:00

I was fortunate to get a chance to submit an article to Josh Baron, Relix Executive Editor, for the Vegoose Festival daily paper, The Golden Goose. I have also written for the Bonnaroo Beacon the following two years for Dean Budnick, Relix and Jambands.com Editor.

Here is my Vegoose submission. If it seems like I occasionally write about things that "go bump in the night," well...I suppose that is, indeed, true.

The Haunted Hobgoblins of Halloween

The harsh ricochet of footsteps echo from the stone pavement outside the house. Quite suddenly, the steps stop and there’s a knock at the door. The wary occupant with a candle and basket slowly opens the large wooden door and encounters a child with a large hatchet stuck in his head, blood lining his dark hair and corpse-paint face. Fortunately, this cryptic tale lands on October 31 which heralds a tradition that dates back to the pre-Christian era, a time of pagan fire festivals, witches, fairies and beasts that go bump in the night—an extensive list of imaginary hobgoblins, of course. Or are they?

Initially, the Celts of Ancient Ireland held two annual festivals—the first was the festival of May Day or Beltrane, as the Celts called it, which welcomed summer; the second festival, Hallow E’en announced the arrival of winter and was considered the more important occasion as the Celts regarded November 1 to be New Year’s Day.

Hallow E’en not only marked the transition from autumn to winter but it also gained importance as an opportunity for deceased souls to revisit old haunts and warm their spirits by the fire and companionship of kinsfolk who welcomed them home. Unfortunately when the gates of eternity were opened, witches and hobgoblins would escape, as well, unleashing scores of devilish tricks while prowling the earth.

The shadowy mystique of pagan lore succumbed to the warm beauty of the living imagination, however. During the Dark Ages, the folk of the Scotland Highlands laced the festival with fires called Samhnagan to celebrate and contribute a merrier atmosphere. Ah, but these were no ordinary fires. Indeed, the word bonfire comes from the words bone and fire—the bones of sacrificed animals and occasional humans were dumped in a field and set on fire. The Celts and Druids of lore wanted to placate the gods so the sun would return after winter. Alas, this morbid celebration of the long, dark season came to an end in the 16th century and an effigy was burned as a sort of symbolic sacrifice. Chew on that slice of evil trivia the next time you don a mask at a Halloween party.

As time passed and Christianity reigned in the Roman Empire, festivals combined a strange mix of old Paganism and the newer strands of Christian tradition. Hence, bobbing for apples—an innocent game that has found its way into today’s Halloween festivities—is a weird amalgamation which included Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees whose symbol was, wait for it, the apple. Another Roman holiday was inexplicably intertwined with the long branch of Halloween, Feralia, which was a holiday for the rest and peace of the dead. Hmmm…bite softly into that apple next time, too.

Along with the potato, Guinness and Bono, the Irish eventually brought over their Halloween festivities to America. However, whereas turnips or beets were used as Jack O’Lanterns in the Emerald Isle serving as effigies for the soul of the dead and those pesky goblins who had been freed, pumpkins subbed as some sort of ersatz pagan scab.

As far as the treats that the kids currently bring home in brown bags leftover from Led Zeppelin’s In Through the Out Door album packaging, that tradition also dates back to Ireland’s Samhnagan festival. Boys were assembled into gangs and chaperoned by a few hearty hornblowers who then had them knocking on farmer’s doors for a levy that was good-naturedly paid from a basket in money or builín —white bread—which was offered through half-opened doors lit from within by candlelight.

What does all of this prove? We’ll do anything, including sending our innocent children to knock on stranger’s doors, to receive a week’s worth of chocolate. And what’s wrong with that? After all, the haunted hobgoblins of Halloween are laughable compared to those they will meet as adults. Dig into that bag with a clear conscience and eat up!

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: COMFORT

2006-10-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>COMFORT>

Wilfred arrives in the great hall.

An actor takes his place on the stage.

The directors wander in circles in the shadows, silently pondering their guest.

The Makers are here. Many, many Makers are here.

They open their minds and, suddenly, the room is filled with an awesome tintinnabular echo: the sound of trillions of singular minds giving common measure to a beat only they can hear.

But Wilfred can hear the rush of sound too. Faintly, a mere hint of a voice, but he can hear…he can hear too.

Wilfred stands in the great hall surrounded by a mighty ‘s’ movement. The Makers are moving towards him in a curvish ‘s’ fashion—one, then another and another.

The bit part actor…the small actor…the supernumerary on the largest stage in the universe stands waiting. Wilfred has arrived.

The hall’s roof opens; a powerful star shines down; a catbird winks.

The conversation at first sounds incomprehensible, druggy and meaningless.

It takes Wilfred a while to notice the patterns of dialogue. They speak on an immersionist, childlike subconscious level. Absolutely none of their thoughts are pre-edited or arranged in order. Gibberish to the uneducated; mind candy to the enlightened.

Furthermore, the Makers appear to be children: tall, thin with innocent facades.

They appear to exist without elements of responsibility or molecules of tension.

They smile and laugh and play odd games with shapes and objects foreign to Wilfred’s experience.

“They…they are…pure unrefined energy,” thinks Wilfred.

Wilfred records everything and labels the piece:

Supernumerary Tintinnabular
(a story within a story)

“Hello. My name’s Wilfred.” “I know that, silly. A, B, C: Prorata novel etymology. Luculent starveling factotum. Upsweep famished aspiration. Contemptible looker looms pentacle. Critical languid lanky point. Calcareous lunge potential energy.” “What is potential energy?” “Objects sleepy night-night at a peak—poised, motion’s ready, ready for one, two, three motions, but paralyzed…stiff and rigid: self-imposed linguistic exile.” “And this pertains to…” “Use your imagination, Wilfred. Title page cyclotron intemperance brush. Hobnob soprano geophyte character associate. Satyagraha malapropos blessed daydream ends.” “Order, please.” “Order.”

Close your eye. Imagine a slow-moving sound at a great distance moving towards you and heading at a supersonic speed in the opposite direction. All at the same time. Time—if you can call it that. A Marriage of Silence & Sound. Open your eye.

Wilfred and Maker. Side by side. Wilfred attempts to continue communication. Complete facts within confusing fragments. A, B, C, indeed. Wilfred clears his mind and speaks again. Trust me, he says to the celestial ethos…he asks a question:

“How are you?”

“I’m feeling quite well today. Quite well today. Today. Today isn’t yesterday, is it? Isn’t it tomorrow? I’LL DECIDE WHAT DAY IT IS!!”

“And so you shall. Forget about when. Where are we?”

“Excuse me. I seem to have lost my head. Do you have a notion to lend?”

Wilfred waits for inspiration from above and answers as honestly as he can.

“A notion? I have no notions. What is a notion?”

“Over there, look, over there, see it, over there, my train of adolescence scoots down the lonely railway, oh, don’t you see it? Be it? Flee from it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I cannot see what you see. Where is this place? How did you get here? Did you build it? Who built you? When were you born? Where were you born?”

“I don’t know where I was born. I was very young at the time. Who remembers such things?”

Wilfred laughs at the silly response. “Are you a grownup? Do you age? Do you get old? Do you die? What happens after you die? Are you the same…entity? Being? Do you fall in love? Did you fall in love? Are you married?”

“Marriage between three is quite fun, but four means you get to setup a religion.”

“Do you setup organizations? Do you try to quantify and qualify your knowledge? Do you keep records of your ancestors’ thoughts and activities? Do you navel gaze too? Are you the ancestor and the child?”

“Society verse was spoken in the square many years ago by puppets posing as wizened imps. I was a chimp once until a Maker touched my forehead. I’ve never been thought of wise or an imp.”

“The square? What square? Where is it? Is this place the square? Is there some other place you are referring to—does this shapeless place have a shape? What happened to the roof on this…this…uh…building? Is the roof imaginary? Are we imagining this place? Are we occupying any space at the moment? Moment—is this a non-existent moment in time? Am I imagining my existence? Am I occupying anything at any time?”

“As I was saying…uh, where did I leave off, oh yes, occupancy is always up to the decision-making apparatus (or is that apparati? I don’t know, used to know, used to know a lot, used to know everything, a pair, a pair of tusi, a pair of tusi took off into the sky and when they returned, they couldn’t recognize home anymore…I miss what once was…I was that pair of tusi…what was I saying?).”

“You…you visited a place once? A place called home? Here…let me rummage through my notes.” A very excited Wilfred puts down his kaleidoscope filled with vegetable life (abundance), mineral life (inorganic), plant life (edible), animal life (functional), pure energy (inspirational)…he lifts a carousel that is holding down his papers and reads from one of the dusty pages…when gods walked the land and the day was very long…

miles of aisles…THE NILE RIVER…

We pass over the land, hovering, coiled and silent, resting in the arms of our vessel.

“Right there.”

“Perfect.”

“We’ll set them up in a position aligned to the star formation.”

“An obvious signal.”

“Right.”

“Help them build the structure and then—”

“Wipe and place in the subconscious.”

“Indeed.”

And wasn’t it just yesterday?

The Egyptians build pyramids allegedly to honor their leaders, but four, five, ten, twelve thousand hopscotch years later, man would not be able to comprehend the truth.

So good we’ll build a third—understand who we are and where we want you to go and what you are to become. Giza, one from us.

“Yessssss, I owned a camel once. Ate my wife. Stole my money. Told me lies. Married my father.”

“Married your father? You have a father? Is he still alive? Where is he now? Is he here? You had a wife? You were married? She’s dead now? Is she with your father? Wait a minute. Stole your money? You lived under a barter system? Lies? Is this all one big lie? Are we in a terminal loop fabricated by a child who only spins lies?”

“Loops? You’re crazy. Never said anything about loops.”

“What are you saying?”

“Rachelcoaster. Carousel jewels. Kalideoscope: The Dead Reborn.”

“The Dead Reborn? Is the riddle of what you are saying…uh…understandable if I only look at the middle of what you are saying—the bookends are filled with lies, untruths? When…is this a proper question: when are we? What time is it?”

“Yesterday. NOW. Tomorrow.”

“I gather…I see…I think.”

“Save those that suffer. Save those that may die. Save those that are helpless. Save all of the rest. Save everyone who is troubled, in doubt, without faith, hopeless. Save it all. Save those that panic. Save those that are anxious and depressed. Save everything. Breathe Alone. Exhale Together. Shame that you can’t see what I see. Shame that you can’t feel what I feel. Shame that you can’t heal what I heal. Shame that you can’t help what I help. Shame that you can’t draw what I draw. Shame that you can’t record what I record. Shame you can’t hear what I hear. Save yourself. Save the universe. Save nothing.”

Wilfred sits on the floor in solitary silence. He is alone again. The building? Gone. The star? Gone. The catbird? Gone. Winking at some creature, somewhere.

A bump in the road shifts the scene. Imagery flashes quick and blurry nearby:

grassy field-a mongoose-a rabbit-again?-a horse-a sheep-a cow-an old rancher-a mountain-a hill-a valley-a little girl-a bird-a jumping fish-a horse and rider-a little boy-a cat-(a jumping fish?)-hay-bales of hay-a mule-a fence-a field-a truck-a car-laughter-childish laughter-a squirrel-a dog-green grass-blue sky-a mountain-a hill-a valley-a car-a truck-a van-a truck-a bird-a hawk-a falcon-an eagle-a crow-telephone poles-a crow on a telephone wire-music-childish laughter-soft music-playful jazzy sounds-a monkey-a turkey-a goose-a dolphin-(a dolphin?)-a rabbit-a cow-a sheep herder-a shepherd-a girl on horseback-a dog chasing a pack of horses-a gaggle of geese chasing a cat-a cat chasing a mouse-a mouse chasing a dog-a horse chasing a goose-a mongoose chasing a mouse-a cat chasing a dog-a mind racing the sunset-a mind at rest-a dream within a dream-sleep-restful peaceful sleep, at last?-am I awake?

“Hello.”

“Why, hello there.”

“You appear startled.”

“Well…I guess I am. You seem…how shall I put it—normal?”

“Ha! I suppose so.”

“You’re not like all the rest.”

“Ha! I suppose I’m not.”

“Are they no longer able to communicate in a linear fashion?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

“To anyone else they would appear insane, no?”

“Right.”

“They do not appear insane to you? Are you…are you a Maker?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Oh, my…”

“Get up. I’m not that way. You’ll get people talking. Please. Get up. My name’s Wilfred.”

“Name’s Strobo.”

“This is my daughter—”

“Smugdrifter. Pleased to meet you, Mister Strobo.”

“Uh, no. Just plain Strobo will do, just fine. Please—let’s go inside my home, and we’ll have a nice bite to eat and a friendly chat. Let me explain our dilemma.”

“The food was delicious. Thank you, Strobo.”

“You are quite welcome.”

Silence.

Wilfred clears the air. “I’m sorry, I’m not much at small talk. Neither is my daughter.”

“I understand.”

“NOW. This dilemma of yours— ”

“We’re having a little problem engaging our hosts.”

“Engaging? Hosts?”

“Wilfred…they are our hosts. We are merely guests on their stage.”

“I gather…I see…I think.”

“We cannot assume we can understand their process.”

“Alright.”

“However, we cannot assuage our conscience with foolish notions of primitive forms of power.”

“Primitive forms of power?”

“You say you are not a Maker, yet?”

“That’s right.”

“Wilfred—how do you know you are not a Maker?”

“You just told me. You said we are merely guests. They are the hosts.”

“We—the citizens of this environment—we are the guests. I cannot speak for you.”

“Am I a guest or a host?”

“You tell me, Wilfred.”

“I cannot answer that.”

“I can only tell you that the Makers in this environment—our hosts—can no longer hear our pathetic cries of helplessness. They cannot hear our inner voices anymore.”

“You assume they once paid attention to you.”

“True.”

“You assume they once listened to you.”

“Correct.”

“You assume they once noticed what you were up to, up against.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You assume they once empathized with you.”

“What’s your point?”

Wilfred smiles at Strobo’s irritation.

“I have no point, my friend. I…I’m not sure you are guests on someone else’s stage.”

“You don’t think we are?”

“No, not at all. I think you’ve been formed and shaped to be elusive, transitory and—”

“Arbitrary?”

“I don’t know what that word means. I mean—I do know the so-called definition, but I don’t understand the full implication. If you mean random…I don’t know. That’s a very old argument.”

“We were just placed here without any specific plan?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying, Wilfred?”

“What’s your point?”

“They may be suffering from an acute case of dementia.”

“I don’t think so—think about what you said. They are the hosts. Of course, their actions may appear demented to you. I sense a…a sense…I hate to be so simplistic, but I sense a powerful feeling of joy intermingled with permanent comfort.”

“They don’t care about us?”

“I think…if you must nail me down, my answer is they do.”

“Nevertheless, they can no longer think anymore.”

RAR, 9.
Component: COMFORT.
Nestled and welded with wrist, tools are present to form a bond with humanity—the commonplace. Nestled and welded with ankle; gauge registers ego-peak. Nestled and welded with tree-swings: curled ringlets absorb sunrise. Nestled and welded with towers, concrete metal wood liquid asphalt—mood: PERFECT. Nestled and welded with presence; tools present, unused; thoughts trail dip-curve-bend; nestled and welded with languid monocles, holograms waltz within the music of stained glass.

Dog's Black - The 35th Anniversary of the Hermit Songs - Led Zeppelin's 4th Album

2006-10-15T13:41:00.000-07:00

An article in the latest edition of City Beat.

"Looking For A Sign" by Steve Appleford.

http://www.lacitybeat.com/article.php?id=4431&IssueNum=174

The first time was an ancient time, back through the mists and muck and memories of good times, bad times past, seated once more in a junior high school auditorium halfway through the heavy ’70s. It was dark in there. And we were gathered for an unexpected bit of entertainment, a far-out light show for the kids set to the pop sounds of the moment. Of this I remember little, except how it ended: with an epic tune, slowly unfolding with a lilting acoustic guitar and a weary voice uttering the mysterious words, “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold …”

That was weird, and strangely inviting, a sound to soothe the onset of early teen angst. But that wasn’t the good part. The thing kept going, getting louder, faster, building finally into a flash of electric guitar, an apocalyptic beat, and a furious wail that exploded right past the leftover psychedelia splashing across my little campus movie screen. It was “Stairway to Heaven,” destined to become a “classic” and a punchline, a career peak for a band called Led Zeppelin and a sing-along for burnouts.

This is part of what had Zeppelin dabbling with things ancient and mystic, right down to labeling itself with a quartet of symbols, a concept that ultimately came from Page. The guitarist’s interest in the occult is documented and mysterious. Astrological symbols were sewn right onto his velvet flares. And he lived for a decade in a house overlooking Loch Ness once owned by the occultist Aleister Crowley, a property where a church and its congregation had burned down centuries before, as he told young Cameron Crowe in 1975. “The bad vibes were already there,” Page explained. “A man was beheaded there and sometimes you can hear the head rolling down ... . Of course, after Crowley, there have been suicides, people carted off to mental hospitals … .”

The real attractions for Page were Crowley’s theories on self-liberation, and nothing as crass as the two-fingered devil’s horns salute, the manu cornuto of Italy. Page’s business wasn’t recruitment and sloganeering. If he signed his own deal at his own crossroads, somewhere outside swinging London, any devotion to the occult was private, a quiet avocation. In 1998, the reunited Page & Plant invited the young violinist Lili Haydn to join the tour as opening act. By chance, her father had published a volume of Crowley writings in the ’60s, but Page had no interest in discussing it. No comment at all. He just smiled and nodded.

***

There is a man in New Zealand with the answers. Duncan Watson is the author of a slim, self-published book, Symbology and Led Zeppelin, each copy printed at home and numbered by hand. (Mine is No. 68.) [RMR note: Mine is No. 60.] Inside, he carefully documents the likely sources, the ongoing mystery, as only one obsessed with the mighty Zep and the occult could.

Less obvious was Page’s Zoso. Was it the password to Hell or just a clever marketing trademark? He has never explained it, but it seems to be drawn from the 1557 Cardan symbol for Saturn. It’s right there in Watson’s book, a vintage scrawl that virtually mirrors the final Page signature. What this means to Page is not clear. And maybe some of us would rather not know anyway. Fans will always have questions, but the mystery is part of the package, a reason to keep wondering, ready for the next teenage freak or one more Cadillac commercial, as the mighty Robert Plant croons that crazy tune from his mansion deep in the Shire: “Ennas na híril isto-ilye bril na malmel … and she’s buying a stairway to heaven … .”

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: RELAXATION

2006-10-05T02:08:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>RELAXATION>

They appear to have no purpose. Gazelles running with cows necking next to panthers sunbathing with turkeys; monkeys holding passkeys to doorways leading to plantations filled with hearty vegetables; fruit dancing with manta ray sheath-eaters; squadrons of geese piloting through the great halls of non-justice; cats hopping on pedestals to witness parades of horses gracefully spinning paintings filled with forty-four colors: blue, red, green, on into the mix; dogs and dogs and more dogs speaking with the Elders, smoking with their tribesmen, lapping up the water from the sink of yesterday’s downpour, brown and white and black and gray and beautiful beautiful orange; trees filled with kangaroos masquerading as giraffes. Buffalo wandering along as sheep sing little soft lullabies to ease everything along towards noonish hours of blasphemous feast shenanigans. Porous and girthy. Crisp and languid. Exquisite and whole.

They appear to have no substance. “Hey.” “Hey.” “Whatchadoin’?” “What’s it look like I’m doing?” “Nothin’.” “Right. Right, you are.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “Nice tail.” “I know.” “Can I sniff it?” “Get lost, loser.” “Hey, got any food?” “Go eat some tree bark, smelly.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “Nice day for a walk.” “It is, isn’t it?” “You appear well, my friend.” “Oh, I’m very well, thank you.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “You’re all wet.” “There’s a really great puddle southwest of here. Looks like an ocean. Feels like a bath. Not too bad. You should try it.” “Maybe, I will.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “Where did you get that stick?” “I don’t know. What difference does it make?” “Can I have it for a little bit of time.” “Of course, but only a little bit.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “Nice stick.” “Thanks, it’s hers.” “Who? That pretty gray thing over there?” “Yeah. She’ll let you borrow it, if you act a little civilized.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “Can I borrow that stick of yours for a bite?”

They appear to have no reason. Sadness haunts their egocentric worlds while lost infinitely-tiny creatures try to discover other species that touch their loud progressions of music mainly derived from many musey decades of curiously self-sufficient endangerment. Entanglement. Encirclement. Jigsaw puzzle. “Hey.” “Hey.” “Who are you?” “I don’t know.” “Odd name.” “Who said it is my name?” “IT is your name?” “No, not at all. Not at all. Nada. Nothing is my name. Tapestry is my game.” “Haunts—interesting word, no?” “I guess—why?” “Haunts. Can a Maker be haunted by the past if IT doesn’t have a history, a record of movement, a sense of time?” “Now, that’s a great question.” “I think so.” “Great question, indeed.” “I think so. Well…” “Well, what?” “What is your answer?” “Answer?” “To my question.” “How would I know?” “Sew me a new riddle, then.” “The feedback of a mind at rest.”

They appear to have no function. Encyclical. Treaty. Doctrine. Manifesto. Compass. Road map. Plan. Catalog. Record. Databank. Storage. Safe. Library. Creed. Declaration. Proclamation. Talisman. Object. Purpose. Form. Shape. Direction. Clue. Definition. Answer. Masterwork. Movement downdowndown, up, over and upside down shakes foundations, cleans slates, erases notions. Masterpiece. Movement around and around with central focal points which exit into theories which defy cloudy definitions. Masterstroke. Shattershard slipstream staccato movements along a path leading to the end back to the beginning leading me from I to you. Grace. We can share this old bottle of red wine. We can share this heavy moment of timelessness. We can share this space—this brief flash of empathy—if we only learn to communicate in the same language. Without dialogue, we all appear to have no purpose.

“When you started all of this you were…you weren’t surrounded by energy. You were alone?”

“Right.”

“Your family of…lifeforms, if I may, has grown quite a bit since then.”

“Obviously.”

“Any thoughts on how they’ve affected your process?”

“The process? I’m…I’m not too sure about that, Lord.”

“I mean—your thought patterns for any creation must be affected by what you allow in your immediate surroundings.”

“Right.”

“And this external physical presence must affect your internal imagination.”

“Sure. Sure.”

“How does this external form help or hinder—”

“I guess I’ve covered that sort of thing before.”

“How so?”

“Uh…you know—the external and internal conflict and ultimate resolution. I’ve covered that before. It would be a little boring to rehash such…intricacies in minute detail…well, again.”

“Have you?”

“Sure. I’m sure I have—ad infinitum. I think the only positive thing you can definitely say about my process is that I never repeat the same thing twice in quite the same way it originated. I’ve covered that…previously.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think you’ve described how additional lifeforms that continue to inhabit your immediate surroundings have profoundly changed your inventions.”

“Who says I’m inventing anything?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Some would say that I’m not.”

“I think that is highly unlikely.”

“A Maker once told me that this particular universe where we—you and I—reside is (or is it ‘was’?) made up of old energy. He said nothing new was ever created here.”

“He? The Maker was a ‘he’?”

“From your familiar symbol template, yes.”

“Alphabet Teaching Hospital—where did that come from?”

“There you go right there—that was borrowed from a very old source.”

“Where?”

“A…how do I say this so you can relate? A library of sorts I visited in…let’s just say it was in the southwest quadrant of a particular galaxy in the Pollyanna region of this universe. Well…it was in the southwest when I entered the realm.”

“You learned of this system and this enabled you to manufacture new icons that could be understood by an ‘outside force’. This alphabet contains 44 symbols—why?”

“What—44? I don’t know. I didn’t make it up.”

“4+4=8. Eight. Any significance to you?”

“Sure. Husband, wife, two children, four other animals equals eight.”

“That brings us full circle to external sources of inspiration.”

“I don’t think Makers get influenced by outside sources.”

“Doesn’t that contradict your ‘internal/external conflict and resolution’ thesis?”

“Not necessarily. I never said I am a Maker.”

“Then what are you?”

“An animal.”

“An animal that allows the external to dominate the internal creative flow?”

“An animal that allows external functions to unite with the internal creative flow.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“How science fiction of you.”

“Huh? What’s that?”

“I don’t want to be too clear. Just because an observer—an outsider looking inside infinity’s window can witness the actualization of an object does not mean that same observer can understand the form and function of the aforementioned object.”

“Observation does not equal experience.”

“Right—another old, borrowed concept.”

“Is it that simple?”

“No! Not at all. Umm…I don’t think…yes, it is very complex. I think the subconscious mind attempts to communicate with the conscious mind using photo-synth sagas to enable animals, such as myself, to create sublime little nuggets like: ‘sink back into time—butterflies contract; caterpillars are reborn’. I can’t take credit for that. Just random food thrown in a pig’s trough by the Master Itself—rotating vagabond catapult.”

“Can you show me examples of where the external affects the internal in a way in which you cannot define what you are seeing, although you created its form and function?”

“You mean in a way I haven’t done before, Lord?”

“Yes.”

“Function—the form of function and how it could be misinterpreted…hmmm…”

RAR, 8.
Planet: magi-inner-viewo
I stand in a field with a horse named Lord Boondoggle.
He that once was a camel now has no humps and has become another animal.
We stand in a grassy field daydreaming with a friend named the Lord of all Boondoggles:
they hear the animals speaking in pithy telepathic unity.
Abstract: next-door-personal

Component: RELAXATION.
(eve)
Giants hurling Venus. Radar signals: come home, vacation continues. Focus heels. Next-door. Wispy clouds. Tonnage rooms. Rain stones. Vagabond monoliths. Sunshine continues. Shady feedback. Songbird rains. Cooing Venus. Giant signals. Soothing whisper. Glazed rolls. Drinking: silly? Unvarnished rooms. Bends. Remarks again. Four-framed window after window. Home. Come home? Vacation? Continues. Heels? Partial upturned. Giants? Up. Signals? Peaceful Cloud Feedback…
(day)
Gutter rain ponders songbirds cooing. Feedback amplifies unvarnished cool shady catapult levers. Stones, drifting, bend rooms. Peaceful and silly, drinking Itself, weighty tonnage sleep rolls up on mammoth clouds, sunshine glazed by strands wispy and curled. Behind next-door, remarks soothing, four-framed pithy monoliths whisper: “Vagabond Window.” After: partial upturned, focus heels towards a continuing vacation—home away from home. Cooing giants, RAR, Venus hurling radar. And songbird gutter is rain.
(slumbers)
Giants hurling radar signals towards Venus. Home, come home; vacation continues, heels focus upturned and partial to window after window—four-framed monoliths whisper pithy soothing vagabond remarks curled next-door behind wispy strands glazed by sunshine clouds. Folds roll up and sleep on mammoth, weighty tonnage drinking itself silly and peaceful. Rooms bend drifting stones. Lever catapults shady cool unvarnished and amplified feedback: cooing songbirds ponder rain gutters.

“What does it all mean, Wilfred?”

“It’s an interpretation.”

“Pointless, no brainer—”

“Perhaps…but who are we to judge?”

“Precisely. I have something to tell you, my friend.”

“Yes, Lord Boondoggle?”

“My master wants to eat me.”

“Why?”

“Because to him, I am food. Old becomes new.”

“Manipulated Energy.”

“YES!”

“A problem for you, I gather?”

“I would kind of think so. I don’t want to be anyone’s banquet.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Do you? Has anyone ever tried to eat you?”

“Well…not literally.”

“Literally?”

“One being’s wealth is nothing to another—”

“What should I do? Is it right?”

“Right?”

“Is it right to eat me?”

“I…I don’t know, Lord.”

“Should I kill my master?”

“Kill?”

“Yes, kill my master.”

“That doesn’t solve anything, you know that.”

“I don’t want to be eaten.”

“Have you a choice in the matter?”

“I could stomp his throat into oblivion.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“You would terminate his ability to communicate.”

“Ha! I’d terminate his ability to live!”

“If that is how you view this situation.”

“What the—is there another way in which it can be viewed, my friend?! He’s going to eat me!”

“Yes, you could perceive the activity, the function, as such.”

“I’m sorry. Is there another way?”

“There are many ways. I cannot decide that for you.”

“You…You would have me eaten, then? You too will join the feast?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re going to sit around and watch!!! While I’m…your dear friend from many cosmic travels, your apparently transitory soul brother will be eaten by some dim-witted simpleton madman!!”

“I never found pleasure in watching someone else being devoured, myself.”

“Coward.”

“What is heroic—to sit and watch?”

“What is heroic?! To stop and eliminate!”

“To interfere.”

“If that is what you want to call it, Wilfred, yes, to interfere. I’m…flummoxed that you would want to ignore the fact that—”

“Who said I am ignoring anything?”

“To allow such a treacherous act is either cowardice or dismissal—which do you prefer?”

“I cannot answer that question.”

“You would have me eaten? My flesh consumed? My being ripped apart? My rump turned into dinner for ten?”

“I would have none of that myself. If others desire it, I cannot either condone or halt the progress of said action.”

“That is both cowardice and dismissal.”

“On the contrary. It would be cowardice for me to interfere and dismiss such activity.”

“I am to die.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What will the answer be?”

“You have your choices. You don’t have to do what you feel is wrong.”

“What I feel is wrong?”

“There is still many…how do I put this, avenues to travel. You can decide. I know you can. Manipulated Energy—if it is an enemy, the choice is yours, the logic is clear and understated.”

“Wait a minute. You act as if I’m the suspect and not the victim, Wilfred.”

“If that is how you view my words. I cannot decide that for you, either. By the way—what’s a minute?”

Dylan's Blues

2006-09-28T20:46:00.000-07:00

Weird Scenes Outside the Gold Mine

Like any Dylan fan/rock critic, I have every Sir Bob album but I donÂt buy any of the compilations because, well, why the fuck should I? However, I did deign to pick up the new Blues release because, for the first time, I was intrigued by its inclusion of some of my fave rave Dylan gold nuggets and I was mesmerized by their sequencing. Plus, the liner notes are astute and well considered, as well. This wasnÂt the random Jeff Rosen shuffle playÂtunes that rub up against each other awkwardly, late at night when thoughts are beer-leery and the goggles definitely make the chick look a lot like Angelina JolieÂsans twelve orphans chasing after her.

SIDE 1

"She Belongs to Me" is a great opener with heady witty lyrics in prime Bob geniusitude.

"Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat" is a bit weird after that snatch of beauty but works as a cool druggy counterpoint to the relative straightforwardness of the catchy preceding track.

"It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry" is the fast version so it ups the ante of the prior duo and acts as a strong closing number for an imaginary opening concert trio.

"Down in the Flood" is the solo beast from the days of Basement Tapes lore that Dylan threw on Greatest Hits Volume II with the re-recorded help of Happy Traum and settles the listener back down on terra firma quite nicely, dig.

"Meet Me in the Morning" is the--leap a few years forward when Bob and his muse once again parallel each other--slow bluesy (duh) strut fuck pearl from Blood on the Tracks.

"Gotta Serve Somebody" is the first track that appears sequentially way out of whack but in true Zimmy perverse fashion, works alright against the earlier swaggering confidence. Plus, the track is gospel-y without being too long nails-on-a-chalkboard preach-y cavalcade of chirping chicks on backing vox, notwithstanding.

SIDE 2

"The Groom's Still Waiting at the Altar" is the reintroduction of Dylan's Highway 61ramshackle hooch that almost saved Shot of Love's musically solid rock with wounded heart while lyrically Dylan was still trying to regain the arc of his estranged gifts. This song included the old Old Testament version of Bob-rage without sinking into self-centered venomous R. Waters diatribes--not that there's anything wrong with that.

"Seeing the Real You at Last" is from the 80s and settles 'neath the primary colors. Dylan still has his voice, wit and eccentric turn of a phrase while the tune crackles under that very odd Reagan-era flipped collar blind eMpTyVee stroll through Pat Boonesville.

"Everything is Broken" is quite a relief after three songs of puzzling blues out of tune with the overall thrust of the album. The lyrics ain't great but shit this thang swings--knowwhati'msayin'? He don't sound spiritually castrated anymore--knowwhatimean?

"Dirt Road Blues" is another take on feel for its own sake, bay-bee. This track took some heat as being very obvious but the first time I heard it--in a South Minneapolis coffee shop--everyone raised their caffeine-addled heads and bopped to its hellfire swang.

"High Water (for Charley Patton)" is the reason that Oh Brother Where Art Thou had to be made--a lost track from some long ago far away place that still exists today down south yonder in some really fucking humid backwoods Americana shit hole. The comeback complete--his muse delivers the album on 9/11/01 further solidifying Dylan's otherworldly handle on art and social upheaval.

"Blind Willie McTell" is the track that should be on everyone's iPod, regardless of your early 70s prog rock content that dominates your iTunes library. This is Dylan's best tune from the Lost Decade and a simple bit of brilliance from guitarist Mark Knopfler before he laid back so far that he sadly became indistinguable from root canals and Muzak.

The tracks hurtle forward so quickly through so many eras on Blues that one is hard pressed to find a problem with the nearly chronological sequencing (excepting the great and timeless "McTell" which closes the album). What is perhaps most surprising is how well Dylan somehow managed to craft numerous blues gems with various voices and viewpoints while not abandoning a lick of honest self-reflection. As a compilation--again, a format that I donÂt normally embrace with Mr. Dylan--Blues achieves its goal of presenting a great artist utilizing complicated shades to elicit colorful tone poems. In the end, another random description of the Man Behind the Shades.

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: PROCRASTINATION

2006-08-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>TIMELESS>

What are you pursuing—what did you say, Wilfred?”

“He, she, IT, they, whachamacallit, who’s-it, why-zat, the Grand Glob (or Globette, as the case may be), the Mighty Interstellar Globi of Eternal Burning Flame.”

“How is that possible?”

“I have no idea.”

“You don’t know?”

“Of course not. Would I be sitting here discussing this topic if I knew?”

“I guess not, but you could be taking a rest in between your lengthy journey.”

“Ahhh, yes, Gizzard. This is true.”

“Or bouncing a crazy idea off a certain crazy fellow traveler...”

“I suppose. What do you think?”

“Or asking for advice. I have no idea why you would consider such a task.”

“Oh, I’m doing more than just considering it.”

“I know. How do you plan to execute—”

“I don’t know. I’m waiting for something.”

“What is this ‘something’?”

“If I knew I wouldn’t—”

“—be sitting here discussing the darn thing with me on this highwire hanging over the city below.”

“Right, Gizzard.”

“So…let me get this straight.”

“No, that is where you get me wrong. I have completely overthrown the old way of thinking. I have always heard that the best, most true path to knowledge is a straight, narrow—and this is very important—uncluttered path from beginning to end.”

“Yes, isn’t that true?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t? You think this…all of this activity that we see below us—”

“Consider that for a moment, Gizzard.”

“The plant life below. The plants are very logical. They are going about their business, providing oxygen for the other lifeforms. I would say, very clearly, that their path is very straight, very much uncluttered.”

“Is it? Suppose…let me see…consider everything that needs to occur to get these planets to noisily produce life again and again, always moving forward in a circular path that leads me from the beginning, back through the middle, onwards to the end and rolling through the beginning once again: seed, grow, harvest, ad infinitum—food for tomorrow, resting in yesterday’s soil, seeking energy for today’s evening slumbers. Consider, I say again very clearly myself, Gizzard, consider everything that needs to occur to get these plants to noisily produce life again and again.”

“You just said ‘planets’, then you finished with ‘plants’. A mistake?”

“One must create a canvas before one applies the paint.”

“Every life? Every place? Every time?”

“NO TIME! We’ll be done in no time at all, Gizzard,” and he winks at his confused friend (Creation? Creator? Companion? Beloved Mind-Noodle Twister?). “The path of any creation is messy, dodgy, elusive; tinkering along, moment to moment, attempting to find a way, any way towards the right passage, the only definition: continuing purpose—positive goals to return gratitude to that which cannot be defined, sight unseen. Is it…(Wilfred moves very close to his newfound friend on this newly- discovered planet filled with life-generating plants offering life via a beautiful artistic process called photosynthesis—many peas filled with the letter ‘s’: the same forwards as backwards)…is it the dark matter I have been seeking? The energy? The source itself?”

“You seek God?”

“Don’t we all?”

“You have never used that word before.”

“The word isn’t mine now, is it?”

“What does that matter?”

“Wrong question. The question should be: What is that matter?”

“When discovered, IT would be called ‘God’.”

“No, when discovered, IT would no longer be called ‘God’.”

“Difficult.”

“I know.”

“That’s a very difficult ambition, Wilfred. Your little quest is impressive, but it may appear unclear to the random…may need to layer a few symbols over your own—”

Suddenly, Gizzard and the highwire above the planet filled with plants disappears. Only the plants remain. Actors waiting for an audience. As it was, it shall return. And this, of course, is their little photo-synth saga; astro-theatre dramas of a different flavor: vinous textured masterpieces, prickly/smooth complexity, edible vessel spirits.

RAR. Random Access Report. A telegram sent from me to you. My name is Wilfred. I am not human. I am something much different. I live in no TIME: I occupy no space. I am nothing. Yet, I exist. Yet, I endure. Yet, I extrapolate. I then carefully, gradually whisper once and create you...

Component: PROCRASTINATION:
Human falcons rise into the night. Loving you is easy when you give so much, so often. Loving you is forever when you allow so many, so soon. Loving you is true when you make it so simple, so clear. Winter touches nary a soul here. Fear cannot find an address, a dress to call its own. Betrayal cannot find a form, a form to fill to allow residence. Cowardice cannot hollow through the ground; the ground allows no shelter to hollow moles. Concrete infrastructures talk in squawk-lark fractured monologues.

“Get me something to fix this hollow structure—something easy, simple, clear. Bigot digits fornicating with pygmy basket hounds hounding trailer mailor shite; distant initial teaching alphabet hospitals need 44 symbols. Total masquerade. Hopped-up mustang ranch doesn’t receive gentleman-callers if the lines frown. Cupid steeple. Trashed like an ornery whorsey. Two-stepping by another skylark-shapeshifter growing props in homes housing chimp-monks. Never greater thelonious elf. Never around when needed. Beings who need attention; offer no time in return.” Godiva rides naked through silk sheets of belligerent anarchy. Fireflies circling tracks. An ibis. “Shedding light, not mastering,” echoes the song fest. Children sitting on ankles; a story, at last, my friend, a story with ankles; you, my friend (God?), a smile is as good as written confirmation. Deuterocanonical. A lion rests in the lamb’s den: supper’s almost ready. STOP.

Dungen

2006-08-24T16:47:00.000-07:00

In a continuing series of random sound interpretations, I navigate the wintry slopes of the sunny Swedish head rockers, Dungen after their debut performance at the 2006 Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival…

“…two traditional soaring rockers before the glorious prog rock…drawings on a notepad handed into the crowd by the bass guitarist…Gustav on church organ keyboards after playing guitar and then, tambourine to flute!…Gustav=Bach Baroque meets early 70s Pink Floyd…highlight? After a long interstellar supercharged jam into the cosmos, Dungen pulls it right back to terra firma with “Festival”…followed up with more angelic melodies via the rotating kaleidoscope Ellington meets the swirling sexcapades of Davis terrain in a fight betwixt order and chaos…rocker segues into a mood piece—stratospheric heights, epic dirty blonde grandeur…”
- Notes from the Road. Bonnaroo, That Tent,
Side of the Stage, Saturday, June 17, 2006, 1-2PM

Dungen – self-titled

Released in the states in 2005, this initial collection contains music that leader, vocalist, guitarist, bassist, drummer, keyboardist, flutist and violinist Gustav Ejstes compiled from 1999-2001. The album contains three tracks, “Stadsvandringar”—divided into four parts (or movements), “Midsommarbongen”—divided into six parts, and “Lilla Vannen”—divided into four parts. Ejstes doesn’t actually pull the Michael Oldfield, one man band bit completely as he is accompanied by Reine Piske on guitars, bass and percussion, Alex Wiig on sitar and percussion, Christopher Schlee on guitar, Marco Lohikari on bass, Linus Gustafsson on sax, Gila Storm on occasional vocals and Fredrik Bjorling on drums and percussion. I spoke with both Ejstes and Bjorling after their Bonnaroo set and Bjorling told me that these recordings did not initially sell well but their back catalog kicked into gear once their third album was a mild international success story. Ejstes spoke very little English (as his Swedish-sung lyrics imply on the first two releases) but he conveyed his appreciation that a Yank dug his music. I told him that I wanted to write to his record label back home in Scandinavian country. He gave me the e-mail address and I asked, “To whom do I address the note?” Ejstes cracked, "The record label is only one guy!”

The recording is progressively enticing, trippy and wildly evocative of an early 70s prog rock band let loose in a studio with well-crafted ‘movement’-oriented songs. Back in the day, these complex arrangements were all the rage because, dichotomically, although the arrangements appeared a bit constrained and constipated on the page, the songs appeared to embrace an open space that is very much missing from modern music. All three tracks feature plenty of weird ancient organs and flutes and acoustic guitars that shimmer the heights fantastic into the mystic mushroom land of psychedelica.

Album: 4 out of 5 Head Trips

Dungen – Stadsvandringar

Ejstes revisits the epic melody of “Stadsvandringer” from the debut release and mines pop gold before heading further into dreamy acid rock intergalactic thought bubbles—lots of keys, flutes, violins and layers of acoustics while Ejstes defines a keen ability to rein a hook in while spinning fabulously delicious astral projections. The mellotron coats scenic backdrops while tunes are honed within five-minute sonic capsules.

Album: 4 out of 5 Head Trips
Liner notes: 5 out of 5 Head Trips

Dungen – Ta det Lugnt

Whereby everything comes together in the Ejstes Universe like a cosmic steel trap—equal parts metal, trance, house music, folk pop and 21st Century progressive rock. This 2004 album is a masterpiece on every level as each piece utilizes the many possibilities of multi-tracking found within the Swedish studio used by Ejstes and company—now firmly entrenched as DUNGEN and not just a backing band for its talented leader. “Gjort bort sig” is great garage rock, “Festival” is a wonderful summery splash of post-modern post-pop, “Du ar For Fin For Mig” is eight minutes of supreme art rock—violins, acoustics, handclaps, serene melodies and all, “Ta det Lugnt” runs ram shod over the Cure’s songbook and peels back its inherent cynicism with a simple organ and fuzz guitar blitzkrieg that pushes the melody inside out, “det du tanker idag ar du I morgon” features a floating piano hook that slips over the edge like a cool, patient waterfall of salacious intoxication—beautiful headphone nirvana—before the guitars, mellotrons and flutes sail over the jaw dropping mix filled with garagey drums and jazz club smoky fills: confident, defiant, free and easy without a hint of doubt, wide open space and dreamy scenes, “Bortglomd” is 100% raw heavy metal without any modern fixations—levels are all in the red and there isn’t a whiff of flutes in this quadrant of space, 55 seconds of “Glomd konst kommer stundom anyo till heders” serves as a majestic prelude to the wondrous Beatle pop of “Lipsill” before segueing into the monster mushroom trance of “Om du vore en vakthund” where the band transcends the psychedelic frontiers to become ambient techno garage rock gods—mountains crumble into a billion tiny shattered pieces out of the corner of one’s hallucinatory eyes during these very heady three minutes. “Tack Ska ni ha” enhances the horror film mythology before dropping into the final number, “Sluta Folja Efter” which is a mighty dirge played out with rollicking stutterstep drums and fuzz tone heavily amped guitar—a fitting and loud end to a shadowy classic.

Album: 5 out of 5 Head Trips

Dungen – Ta det Lugnt (bonus disc)

Five tracks that serve to prove that Ejstes is at his best when he is allowed enough time to complete his auditory thought missions.

Album: 2 out of 5 Head Trips

Bonnaroo gig: 4 out of 5 Head Trips

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: EXPENSIVE

2006-06-22T16:13:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>SUPERNOVA>

Component: EXPENSIVE:
1, 2, 3. Wilfred flies through space alone, tangled in his thoughts, drowning in mystic sea ocean, traveling as one think-thought-bubble cloud of cerebral energy. Wilfred thought-screens: translucent, round, large. He gives to the forces that surround him and they give his thin, well-behaved frame of a ship forces back: millions of miles between planets and stars and galaxies harboring lonely theoretical fugitives. Let’s try another experiment. Let’s create something visual with a holistic new set of pristine idea/symbols. A piano chord is struck. Sounds a little distorted yet clear. An echo of a certain meddler, a meddle from a thing, a creature, a being, a superman, a near Maker, a Wilfred. Always Wilfred. Wilfred. Wilfred. Whimsically Wilfred. Always and Everyday, Everyman—See Wilfred Play. Bash and Crash. Cymbal Shock—after dark, he cries and wonders why. What happens to my companions? Where do they go? Who to invent to replace—can they be replaced? Should I be in such a position to replace? To create? To manufacture? Twisting & Turning. Bicker & Burn. Flicker FLASH! Another supernova. Another death. Another bit of matter crashes past Wilfred—his immortal shell of a ship of a shape, which is thin and well-behaved. Our buildings deserve respect. Our immortal frames tolerate severity. Express clear and clean and fresh-lily. Lilt and over, float, sway, move within the cosmic shuffle, here’s a planet that needs to be explored. Wilfred rests outside its atmosphere. Ready for one more go, another look at what he can fix and what he cannot. Overhead, another black hole whispers to his echoey soul…return, yet another burn, yet another star turn. Expensive trips through a sun without power. Or does IT? Rich and flashy. Dark and addictive. Tall and vague. Not knowing. Don’t know if they are intelligent or shallow. Not sure. Their shapes are beautiful and hard to master. As it was, it shall always be. The Mighty Beings of This Exotic Land no longer tolerate outsiders. As it should be, it is. Wilfred makes himself invisible. He observes without being noticed. He dances without a partner. He sings to those that cannot hear. He sings for those that cannot form a symbol. He lashes out against those that intrude. He does not intrude. He does not impede. He observes. Toleration & Acceptance. Echoes of a Broody Span. Words that come from various sources. Puzzles wrapped in Kaleidoscopes, which are tossed from Coasters that hold a Carousel. A cat licks the cheek of a boy. He, in turn, falls asleep. Drifts far from home. Picks up an instrument and plays a new song. A song which cannot be heard. A smile which cannot yet be seen. Words from other sources. Secret knowledge. Food without ingredients. The occult: hidden and dark and mysterious. Profound, elusive, hard to master. Rules broken. Roles broken. Rolls broken over wine from bottles that never empty. Full & Large. Toleration & Acceptance. Well-Behaved & Severe. Carrying the weight of everyone. Weighty Equation: this planet keeps to itself. No Outsiders Allowed. No Wilfreds. No difference from where he came to where he is going, Wilfred momentarily sifts through their libraries. Interesting. Knowledge stored away and lost—distant, yet close. All the answers to all the questions stacked two by two on lonely shelves—out in the open for everyone to see, for everyone to read, for everyone to know. Yet, not everyone wants. Most hide in ignorant squalor. What isn’t needed today can’t save them for tomorrow. Nothing saved, nothing lost, nothing dies. Pain & Wilfred. Two bedfellows of a distinct resonance. Marooned together—forever?

Thin, well-behaved buildings respect and tolerate severity.
They laugh and joke and scream like all the rest, like all the rest, like all the rest. Conformity & Slumbers. Like all the rest—to be just as everyone else is: perfect and clean and shallow. Like all the rest—to slumber away the hours, to fritter and mend and sleep forever and ever. To never know anything, just like all the rest. Thin. Well- Behaved. Respect. Tolerance. Kentucky bluegrass, n. growing in tufts and having bluish-green stems. tuft, n. a bunch or clump of small, usually soft and flexible things, as feathers. To never know anything, just like all the rest. Thin. Well-Behaved. Respect. Severity? severity, n. sternness of treatment, condition, or disposition; extreme simplicity or plainness. Wilfred used to think he was simple until he came to this planet. These people be plain. People be direct. People be true? Don’t know. Simple facts for simple folks. “Don’t need no explorin’. Don’t need nothin’ new. Got all I want right here. Don’t need nothin’ at all. Certainly don’t need no outsiders.” Wilfred heard this subliminally. They cannot see him, of course. They just lived, lived like all the rest. Like all the rest. So many meanings. So many dual representations. Wilfred dreams of one and many and cannot feel like all the rest. When one dies, does one like all the rest? Does one know that to rest means to put to bed the mind, or is IT still alive? A star with power? A head in the clouds? Ahead in the clouds? Or is IT dead, like all the rest? Like all the rest…thin and well-behaved, respect and severity…Kentucky bluegrass from a couple of several dozen lifetimes ago…goes down smooth, easy, nary a hint of controversy, not a ripple in the waves. “Don’t need no explorin’” drifts on a blanket of ocean from a subliminal thought to Wilfred’s soggy mind; 4D imagery like all the rest. Baby, mellow, mind is malleable and free…people seem simple yet complex, nothing tattered or worn, but nothing too bland, you understand…Humble & Proud…something so hard to define, but Wilfred doesn’t even try. Why be casual and sloppy with something so intense and passionate. “Kentucky Bluegrass—where did that come from?” muses Wilfred. Enough of that, for now. Open and Friendly, they appear. Wilfred stays close, yet invisible. A sight unseen. An outsider unspoken within the bellowy wisps of non-existent temporal space rifts. Nothing they can’t see, can’t hurt them, right? “I suppose,” ruminates Wilfred. Be careful what you ask for—cosmologically strange clichés which transcend, which withstand interdimensional transcendence. “Be careful what you ask for,” wanders Wilfred through the cloudy sameness of thought of the citizens, the denizens of this pristine, perfect planet. Three peas on a planet create a snack, four create a religion, five: Overkill and Bloat. No bloat here. All accurate and true. Remember a day when routine was the equivalent towards psychic cowardice? Remember a day when routine was wrong? Remember a day when to live a day as a lion was better than a thousand as a lamb? Be careful what you ask for—all rest, no visions, no thoughts. Different planet, same problem as the last. Continue on? Why not? Sure. “Why do I explore?” asks Wilfred. “To continue, of course.” He flies back upwards, quietly into the outer atmosphere, and returns to deep space. A song fills his mind and thoughts move towards the future. Crashing and Burning: Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun. Clear and Direct. Rectangular and Long headed towards Circular and Huge. Flying like a Giant Space Bird. True Freedom: witness The Man Who Traces Walls. Overkill and Bloat. No bloat here. All accurate and true. Real? Reality? Sure, why not.

Clear lines on clean, pristine white surfaces of fresh-lily pretentious rectangular invasions. Rigadoon mackerel shady morello. Ghastly tainted common treasure. Blue streak of ship or light—arc light? Rapid movement. Flow downwards. Of speech, be gone; henceforth, speak little, listen often. Consortium. Bayou funky monk. Holarctic, a. pertaining to the two regions of the cold, cold…space, vast and incredibly strong; powerful pull onwards to that which is pecuniary; alluding to currency, to barter, away from the ethereal—the intangibly mystical and upwards (or is it downwards?) to systems centered on exchange of material matter for bladder. Entertainment and baggage and sinister tricks played on strangers. Distant neighbors taunt those that don’t know trade. Mock-ups of exchange. “Take this.” “Take that.” “BUY! BUY! BUY!” Sell, always.
Wilfred leaps forward through deep space while his mind races his imagination. Cattlecall for ideas from all the triumphant and victorious celestial wave vikings—NOW. Felucca dreamy vagabond. Wilfred and Ship. One and the Same. Gasp and Upbeat. Tantamount to taking a bath. Windsurfing through oceans of spacey tides. Rolling along through the garrulous miles. Matter talking back to antimatter. Dark energy joins at the hip towards the dangly periphery. A gartersnake amongst the token heel spurs by a moon, another moon, a star, a planet out of tune with nature, hustlers and thieves and con artists play backgammon with lives, trading on each other like swirling objects of coinish and papery desire. That word again: currency. Must outghetto the lowliest of ghetto junkies. Must outdo the squirrelly monkeys of fear and dissent. Must find a way to teach
some manners and civilization. “Civilization,” there’s a word, ponders Wilfred. “Why do birds fly high?” There’s a question continues the ghostly traveler. Breaking the middle of the cracks. Cracking the beginning of The Breaks. Braking at the end of the creaks. “Those are The Breaks.” “Yes—those are The Brakes.” Raining down upon frowns and laying the foundation. Weep and Sew the Curtains to Cover the Walls. Where do they go wrong? Civilization. Mind meanders around a few steely stealth corners. Remember when. Remembering a day. Lovely daughter. “Divided?” “Slithering like some snake from a mythological tale of long ago, sulking and slithering, must all carpet crawlers inching towards the gate become insane and frozen in a state of entropy?” Remember that one? Civilization: the place of here and now where everything is organized, tidy, secure. Lovely. Civil? Oh, trying, trying at the very least. Trying not to come between you and me. Trying to keep some distance. Distance, sliver. Wilfred’s mind leaps forward through his imagination while his ship races through deep space. Cattlecall for NOW ideas trailing from victorious celestial waves—BY KINGS. Aesthetically cool cruel tidy melodies. Tidy and Secure. Picked up the signals on a Friday night (or is it Saturday? What kind of calendar system is this planet using?). Trade and Pillage. That’s their creed. Short and To the Point. No need for rules. No need for long explanations. No need for grammatical correctness. Just check the spelling and move on. Getting the ship, ye olde Wilfred, ready for landing. “This…yes, that spot over there looks quite alright. No one will spot me when I materialize out of nothingness, the vast nothingness of deep space to become whole and approachable again. Don’t want to scare the natives, frighten the locals, stir up trouble with the children, shock the women, outrage the men. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Landing. Tidy and Secure. YES!”

Barter with princely sums.
“One.” “Three?” “One.” “Four?” “One.” “How many?” “Just one, thanks.” “How many?” “One.” “Takes two to create a couple and three to get a team.” “Who said I needed a team?” “Who said you didn’t?” “Well…you’ve got me there.” “Not from around here, are you?” “No.” “Where are you from?” “Oh…over the sky and close nearby.” “Sounds familiar.” “Does it?” “Yes, it does.” “How so?” “Think my wife’s from there.” “Strange and different, eh?” “Oh, yes, you could say that.” “Name’s Wilfred.” “My name’s Kittrich.” “Selling often, uh, a long time?” “Yes, how did you know?” “Oh, I can tell.” “You need three. Let me tell you why.” “Do I have a choice?” “What—me telling you the story about the difference between ‘one’ and ‘three’?” “Right—do I have a choice?” “I’m not sure about that, Wilfred. You see—I’m no scholar. You look like a scholarly-type, are you?” “Well…I don’t know about that. A little bookish, maybe.” “What do you do?” “I’m just your local neighborhood traveler, Kittrich.” “I see. Let me tell you a tale about the ‘one’ and maybe ‘three’.” “Please do.” “There once was a great rich man who would barter with princely sums. He made quite a fortune for himself, Wilfred. He lived in a huge house where he strolled the many many rooms—I think 102 in all—all by himself. He had the best of everything: privacy, space, loads of rooms, bathrooms, food, fireplaces, carpets, wooden frames, steel lights, loud music, teleportation systems, barbecue pits in every room, showers in hallways, saunas in tunnels, bats in cradles, cats in nests, dogs on bicycles, fires in hills in rooms where cutting logs sang silly children’s songs about yesterday: barely here, then you’re gone; tip-till the canyon still won’t answer your call; playing games with the sun while dotty clownish haughty-laugh gaggletooth clownish clouds grope with lady fingers under shooting stars…I don’t ever want the day to end, don’t want it ever to end…don’t want ever ever, no no, ‘fraidy lingers and sun and clouds and lady fingers and shooting stars…silly children’s songs about yesterday, like that, Wilfred. This rich man who had everything was named Volp. Across the street was a very poor family: man, woman, child. Their family name was Renard. They lived in hideous poverty. Volp never spoke to them. Never. They didn’t speak with Volp because they just didn’t know how. One day, Volp slipped in the sauna and broke his ankle and suffered a severe concussion. Volp rambled on and on until he died: “the movement of the letter ‘s’ on its journey. All activity is pointless. Thoughts are muddled and curved—the same forward as backwards, contradictory, confused, ‘c’ instead of ‘s’: what does it all mean: divided. And very much…how do I know everything, and feel only ‘dread’, of knowing too little about information, of knowing too little about what I’m supposed to do.” He crawled on his hands and knees to his thousand-foot million dollar desk and signed all of his possessions and all of his special and secret belongings over to the Renards. They would now know what it was like to live in splendor—to know what he knows. Volp wrote a note at the end of his final will, his testament to everything that he will give from what he has: “I start at the beginning, all alone. I feel a presence. I reach the end, and I am all alone again. Three becomes one, but one can never become three.” And that is how the Renards gained the whole world but lost their soul, their identity, their purpose, their will to live.” “Do you understand the difference between ‘one’ and ‘three’, Wilfred? Do you need what I can offer from me to you?” “Yes, show me how to barter with princely sums.”

Haggle with impulses.
togni. Mirror. A mass of metal molded into a convenient shape for storage, shipment, or further processing. Skitter shard. Forward=backward. Listen. Inglot produced Facesounds. Away from the mirror, the internal, eyes upon the external, ‘til the end of the vision, the end of the good times followed. Haggle. To cut into small pieces. Impulse. Desire. Hogwash. Hell-Bent. Incomprehensible. Ignite. Away with the Machine. Stay put and haggle with the yokels, natives with similar problems, same as those non-linearists back in Strobo land. Wonderful man. Grand span. Hospitable. Insightful. Strobo—face sounds like a cartoon light show. What does one haggle for? What drives impulses? Ex or size? Internal? Build a heliport. Develop figures. Scratch noggins. Deal with the pedestrian traffic, the pedestrian trafficking, pedantic trifling—dual meanings with one purpose: one becomes three…an island hooked to land, air and sea. What’s a helix? Circuit of the external ear. Get one of those. What else to stock for a celestial island starship? Something to keep IT recognizable to that which eats historical mosquito net mother-of-pearl delectables. Ultimate Wish List. Tree with a barn attached. Telescope which sees the midland passages, reads between dimensions, the circular lines that parallel ‘I’ and the Other ‘me’, and what about you? What would you want? What does the Other desire? Never too late. No never. Got all the turns needed. Nothing but TIME: clocks being pedaled, shoes tracking routes, trains steaming bubbles, bathtubs hoarding beverages, drinks carrying umbrellas, rainstorms disturbing the masses, loan séance held in banquet halls filled with saints & sinners & judges & tramps & hookahs & bedlam trollops & crystal ball gazers & Maya bull fighters with red capes…whoosh—the red cape is thrown over the eyes and the image turns from transparent to thick, glossy, hey, what’s in this store? Monkey runs the Joint. Says: “Told you so.” “What’s that?” “Told you Mars had Water & Life & Bedroom Hookers.” “Preaching to the converted, monkey.” “Who are you?” “Name’s Wilfred.” “Nice to meet ya, sailor. Me name’s Passage Ghost.” “Interesting name.” “Grandmother.” “Your grandmother?” “You know her too?” “No, why did you say ‘grandmother’?” “I was named after her, silly sailor.” “What’s with all of the fellow traders selling exotic jokey tokes on primitive smoky tubes?” “Theme’s ancient wise folk. I don’t disturb the other Others. I just push me own gear. I’m quite slap happy to mind me own business, detecting spots in me own garments.” “I’ll remember that, monkey. Mind if I continue up the street?” “Not at all. Be my quest.” “Nice meeting you, Passage Ghost.” “Shame from you, pagan sailor. Careful out there. Not everyone sells what you need.” “Thanks. Enjoyed the Tarantula.” Wilfred walks up the street to the next butterfly sales junkie—“fickle fans of currency, they board gangle rot while I finger my corn, scrub my elbow, re-focus my one good eye on the zine scene,” he thinks. “I’ve got your reading, mister.” “I’ll just look around for myself.” “Excuse the hell out of me, mister. Just tryin’ to help. You don’t have to be such a bastard.” “I was born in wedlock.” “Huh?” “No haggling with my parents’ impulses. I may have been a mistake, but the aim was true.” “Are you a monkey too?” “I suppose, partially. Aren’t we all?” “Not me, mister. You want to talk to a monkey, boondoggle with that smelly beast across the road named Passage Host. He’ll peddle you down the material road to energize your fishy soles. Either that or the quipster named Diamond.” “Ghost.” “No, I don’t believe in such things, mister.”

Diamond.
Everything successful. What are riches—pure and clean? Effervescent and non-tricky tack. Hopelessly dreckless. Feckless and edgy. All in the same—what is transparent? What is invisible, yet full of depth? What has a surface, but appears blank? What is worth so much to so many but nothing to several more than can be counted? Few complain, resist, are given the Danish pearl, acknowledge its riddled essence. Bones. Ultimate Wish List Revisited: so playfully blissful that no one cares about the rules. Anymore. Who put the bounty on the count? What counts? Wishes are desires unspoken. A rock in the rough. A gem in the tuft. Kentucky bluegrass again—pristine. Elegant and sophisticated in the homeliness of elementary clarity. A ladder leading from a garden to a spring. A robin sits on a branch and asks questions to a pool of water: “In the whirlpool of darkness, can you see the light? Do you ever get thirsty? Do you love the fish? How old are you? Do you get younger each time it rains? Does the rain come from you, or back to you? Do you ever feel old? Are you fond of algae? Do you prefer fishermen or sailors? Are you open? Are you friends with the forest? Are you enemies of the night? Do you prefer bright or harsh? Do you write and sing? Can you hear music? Visions of Johanna? Do you play instruments that dance on the forest floor so the animals will be entertained? What came first—land, air or sea? Are you an island onto yourself? Can you see me? Can you be like me? Can you go away when you dream, or are you always self-aware? Can you see Wilfred? Is he mainly water, or mainly something else? What is that something?” Wilfred walks slowly through a forest. Some store on some street offering something for somebody. Wilfred feels like someone very special. He curls through the greenery of the natural store. The environment has no roof, walls or shape. The power of the facility comes from an external beam which magnetizes an object to display multiple colors: purple and orange, red and green, violet and yellow, soft blue and hard turquoise and demented brown, a beam which overshadows the entire environment, a natural store celebrating the greenery of a whole planet, a planet without a hole, a sphere that cannot implode, a store on a street, offerings from something for somebody, a summer sunset which harkens back, taps the back of a soft spring shoulder bordering a youthful springy bounce from a tulip-laden garden, a forest laced with robins, a beautiful baron boy, nary a robberbaron in sight, no ladders to climb; a lad and a ladder, wet color drips over a comforting ladder leading from a garden to a spring. “No rules,” counsels salesman Diamond. “What do you have to sell me?” “I don’t know…uh…mister…” “Wilfred.” “My name’s Diamond. What did you come to buy?” “Nothing. I just came to watch—just daydreaming out the window that layers the players between cause and effect.” “Window shopping. I get it. Can I show you a pool of water? Do you like water?” “I suppose, partially.” “Of course. Good answer. Aren’t we all?” “What is so special about this pool of water?” “Of course. Good question. Aren’t we all?” “How come I can’t see my reflection when I look into this particular pool?” “Why would you want to see your reflection, Wilfred?” “I don’t. I’m just wondering why…well, normally one can see oneself in a pool of water.” “Normally.” “Right, normally, Diamond.” “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is it that I see?” “I see myself, Diamond.” “Of course. Good answer. Aren’t we all invisible from time to time, Wilfred.” “I suppose, partially—gems resting in the fields of maybe…shy, be quiet.”

Platinum.
Wilfred floats from shop-to-shop in the dreamy internal glow of an afternoon spent inspiration-echo chamber smorgasbord shopping, dancing along the parade of a foreign land and a being, a neo-Maker walk-floating, stepping through atmospheric walls, chit-chattering with the locals, drinking at the locals, localizing the drink chatter, silencing all of the critics, towering over the competitive masses, standing next to the summit, all glory fleeting, but with the knowledge that the sand in this specific hourglass moment whispers: he is the best in his field, a spacey ghost-pilgrim traipsing from galaxy-to-galaxy, planet-to-planet, moon beam-to-goon preen, avoiding the black hole which would send his frame somewhere else, Fate only knows and True Will chimes in with a comment or three; old styles couched in new daydreams, left alone with one’s own logic, own ability to freestyle stream of conscious thought patterns, quilts layered on gigantic bends which extend out towards the horizon, images appear from the mind, extending like beautiful time capsule portraits, one from every finger, a smile appears in the mind: alone, together, alone again—snakes chasing tails, sailors chasing tales, fingers chasing letters, Wilfred floats from daydream image to daydream image as he rummages through the many many ancient stores that are found in this mysterious riddle quest of a planet; be my quest, indeed: glittering gown and toadstools full of bustle and might; nothing much to satisfy, to see, to purchase, eye sees all, mind assimilates everything, tells the stories IT wants to tell; beings transported out of their bodies before death’s final breath, planets of life through deep space, moons filled with radioactive rocks, planets with rings, galaxies housing children whose bright eyes are filled with hope & wonder, faith & energy, id & ego, I & I; encouragement and inspiration is added to the recipe to make the dish more appetizing, of course; four courses and a bottle of truth serum—if a child isn’t all he or she or it or something wants to be, then peddle faster, peddle faster the oldest trick in the land: lead by example, examples sent down through silent activity, peaceful repose, hardened resolve, questioned motives; tangle with authority, peaceful co-existence, hardened circumstances, questionable exercises, authority tangled in webs; activity which is noisy and pointless, counterbalancing the solemn solitude; snakes chasing tails, sailors chasing tales, fingers chasing letters, a muse strong and worthy, a vessel open and friendly; energy is more important than ideas, imagination is more important than education, Einstein towers over Hawking, a moustache and bushy hair looks more like a sailor than a cripple in a wheelchair; the body is a mortal enemy, the mind is windy and breezy and easy to understand if you have a good philosophical coat; wall needs a little paint itself—wonder how long it has been here, do we, do they build walls to protect from enemy thoughts which are windy and breezy, or are we, are they truly protecting themselves from the wicked elements; alchemical quality, diamonds and platinum and gold out of thin air, magical creations come from innocent sources, walls destroyed, faces shaved, legs peeled, eyes widest opaque: mind pieced together with ideas that seem to come from nowhere, or is it that the ideas are on a straight, clear, linear line from past life to present life, our future selves giving us a metaphysical road map to guide us to where we need to be; NOW, the future leads the present to align with the past, our spiritual guide & guardian angel carry what we need: holy road maps for the soul—our dreams, our potential marking time, IT, ourselves; “smile & dance, reinvent, let me help, let me help you dance within a super folding star, orgasmic and inflammatory;” Wilfred meditates on a mat outside the shop of the alchemist who winks at Wilfred—an empathic signal leading him deeper into warbly ballads guaranteed to ease the muse towards the grin & sin table; Wilfred sings a silent prayer: “my language is littered with an ‘s’—the same forwards as backwards; the same inside out; my head feels heavy, George Orwell turns over in his brain; my head lands me onto you, a Kerouac Midnight, the conditioned highway replaced by a linguistically-bent antique tent, tattered and swollen; finding unions within the solitary navel-gazing, locating aging pilgrims leapfrogging over each other to make new quilts with patterns stitched from tattered cosmic brittle litter, echoey transcendent material from billions of spicy particles, dreams attaching infinite swollen timeframes—a sombrero galaxy housing barter and trade, commerce and exchange, food and water;” the singer becomes the song, the hymn covers Wilfred and becomes part of his material—shadows and monsters and fingerprints and guppies and dolphins and tins filled with bluish-green marbles; albatross and vulture—singular points: a pin pick; distant time and sands crusty and hard and no one offers a hand until the wise tool offers: “let me help,” prophecy and madness, numbers on a page, members on a rage, singers on a stage, old men carrying symbolic logs to be burnt, young men jumping on the pyre, priests shielding eyes and nurses healing the sick, astronauts without a map and citizens without a clue and master showmen without a velvet curtain and playwrights without a moment to spare and spare tires without air and long-winded gentlemen without end and papers hidden under quilts which carry the Stone: ‘theme, support, conclusion’; man, woman, child—the first will be the last; the last, first; a riddle written on glass, a riddle stitched together with something borrowed, something new; tricks riddled within true events; towering above us all is the answer to two or five questions: there are no people warehouses in this dimension; acres and acres of gold and acreage line the non-existent walls—the depths hold catacombs of wit and plenty; ‘let me help’ becomes more important than barter and exchange; a riddle lashing all of creation from singular point to raised middle back to singular point; a sombrero worn upon a head; a set of cracked glasses to focus attention, to watch the material form and contract; time out of mind; a Maker, who remembers the beginning, peaked in the middle, slept through the end, just sits in the middle of a room—a room without dimensions, without a key; just sits in the middle of a discourse—a story without ankles, without a knee to hold a frame: a belt of imagination, a shoe of lacey grace; a Maker adrift and numb; an alchemist sits next to Wilfred: “Out of thin air I made platinum one day and sold it to my neighbor who told his neighbor and soon everyone believed in my creation and wanted everything I made and I had enough riches to fill many rooms in many mansions; walk-floating, stepping through atmospheric walls, chit-chattering with the locals, drinking at the locals, localizing the drink chatter, silencing all of the critics, towering over the competitive masses, standing next to the summit, all glory fleeting, but with the knowledge that the sand in this specific hourglass moment whispers: I am the best in my field, a spacey ghost-pilgrim traipsing from galaxy-to-galaxy, planet-to-planet, moon beam-to-goon preen, avoiding the black hole which would send my frame somewhere else, Fate only knows and True Will chimes in with a comment or three; old styles couched in new daydreams, left alone with one’s own logic: 1+1=1; a blessing created: three, one.”

Gold and Acreage.
And the alchemist continues his monologue: “The planet you are visiting once became restless, unable to support its frivolity and desires, unable to erase its immorality and greed, unable to grasp truth and meaning. In a way, our planet was only fulfilling its destiny—a call from some unheard cosmic waffling from above. We didn’t really feel that we were honestly ever on our own. We felt trapped by our fate: termination fed by consistent futility: a snake chasing something in the dark; meanwhile, someone or something outside the holy triangle was holding a light source that the snake could not see. This source illuminated the aeriform race: a snake chasing its tail. This tale is old. Actually, I think the tail was very old too: old genetic code layered over a new creature—a new beautiful Mackinaw coat given as a gift to a well-traveled pilgrim, from coat to code, new coats of paint over an old frame. Well…that has always been our theory, at least. We are not the creator; we are the creation. What is our responsibility? What is our role? What is our place in this solar system? Galaxy? Universe? What is our place in the Grand Scheme of the Great Schism between Good and Evil? Are we the tenuous conduit establishing the momentary bridge between the forces of Right and Wrong? Are we transitory? Are we an illusion? Are our experiences real? Is individual experience the only reality in this lifetime? Do we even exist? If we deny our existence, do we, in turn, deny the existence of the creator who created us? If we deny all existence, do we, in turn, deny everything? Are we to be nihilists or existentialists? These were the questions we asked ourselves long ago. The answer we came up with was very simple: ‘Gold and Acreage’. If we build monuments to our creator, we also build to honor our ingenuity. We too will be able to rise above the masses with our own internal light source. We too would see reality, but from our own perspective, our own existential point of view. Our third eye would absorb images from our own thoughts. Well…that was the theory, of course. We built colossal buildings and towns and cities and beautiful nation-tapestries stretching from pole to pole, from distant land to familiar territory. We built…aw, you should have seen them, Wilfred. We were so proud of our creations which we built with such precision—a true marriage of Fate and Will—that a noose was hung around our collective necks. It was never enough. The greed within our coding just couldn’t be turned off—old republics would be decimated and replaced by vigorous new regimes and the same story would enfold: journey, accomplishment, celebration, entropy, dissolution. Why can’t we progress? Why can’t we move from primitive to profound? What is stopping us? What are the barriers? How do we identify these barriers? What tools do we use? Who owns these tools? That was the key right there: who claims ownership? We finally decided that we could never work well together as long as ownership was central to our plan. Unfortunately, we decided to continue to own instead of erasing its definition and starting over. We decided that ‘Ownership’ transcended our philosophical adventures. After all, who could blame us when we pursued never-ending ‘Gold and Acreage’? We were a mere creation, an echo of something greater than ourselves, a toy in the hands of an invisible child…inevitable nada. We would never actually be anything of substance. We would always be a product of someone else’s imagination. Why try to do anything other than own what we built with our own hands? For some, the equation was even more dismal, more real. They asked themselves: ‘Why should I try at all’?”

Vaults open doors to leisure and passion dilettantes.
And the alchemist takes a long drag from his holy pipes—circular tubes that are four feet long, three in number, six different colorful textures layered over the individual pipes—declamatory air blows from its exterior ‘o’ frame. Wilfred sits next to the alchemist and listens to his rolly-polly story, listens to the music that comes each time the alchemist sucks from the pipes—the sound naughty-chimey, a sonic vampire in his mind. “Ownership no longer became the chief concern of our people. Soon, everyone became attracted to mind-altering substances, things that would make you question reality, question who you were and what you did everyday, things that would get you to mock and subtly challenge yourself. You see, Wilfred, once one isolates oneself from society, once one no longer wants to participate intellectually or socially or professionally with a group of people, eventually one finds that the next extreme step is to isolate from oneself: ripped and tattered from the whole, the piece becomes like a tiny hard-boiled flying carpet drifting upon the ignorant air, over-experienced and spiritually undernourished: no concerns, no plans, no responsibilities; no thoughts, dreams, peak, valley—nothing. Therefore, the very thing that was being avoided, ‘negation of everything’, happened. We found that we could not work together; we could not believe in anything but ourselves and what we created; we could not deny what we wanted; however, we could not isolate ourselves. Trapped, we boxed ourselves in…and this led us further down our unreality holes, further away from progress…grasping year after year onto the ankles of entropy. Everything that one tries to ignore becomes more and more a part of one’s character. It is a dastardly, evil thing to think of, but we found it to be true, always true. We learned to enjoy ourselves, to seek pleasure at all costs, at any cost. We learned to repeat our selfish activities again and again, over and over. We entered the trance, the dance with illusion—our daily reminders that if we could forget everything, then anything was possible. Strange logic. Strange way to go about a day. Strange music played by strange people with strange instruments having strange dimensions. Ahhh…I see even I am repeating myself. You’ve woven a spell around me, Wilfred. I can feel its textures, its sharp edges, its intoxicating curves…hmmm…interesting…pleasant but very disturbing. Our history: vaults open doors to leisure and passion dilettantes. Clarity. A ladder leading from a garden to a spring. A pool of water answers a question asked by a robin sitting on a branch: “I see forests of vapory homes, creatures of ill habits, airborne conquistadors, homegrown matadors, loose-leaf notebooks filled with female poems: She sits and waits and proceeds—He leers and sneers and recedes—She cries and sings and equates—He rambles and gambles and dominates—They wince and shine and die—We shake and shimmy and burn a lie: Why the pout? Darkness Inside Out. Loose-leaf notebooks filled with female poems, manuscripts stuffed with male prose; I see the echo that comes from me to you, I give to you as I’ve always done; I don’t question my role, fret over my fate.” “The water returns to silence,” concludes the alchemist. Wilfred walks slowly through a forest, a few feet from the tripping alchemist. The store across the way, the universe across the sway, the imagination across the street is listening to everything everyday. Silly. Wilfred feels very silly at the moment—childlike and goofy. Goofy? Where did that come from? What is ‘goofy’? What does it—oh, don’t be such an adult. He picks up a mysterious object. Strange again. The object GLOWS!

Dalliance with transitory objects.
“I can only remember a feeling that time had either not passed or a small amount had slipped by out of memory’s reach,” began Wilfred as he stood staring through the forest. The tripping alchemist sat and listened with his eye open. “The object glowed and then a few more of…of…whatever…uh…they were…came into focus, then several…then more, and suddenly…I’m not sure how…from my mind, I was able to create an entire hemisphere of color, depth and substance. My whole plane of vision was filled with a dialogue between ordinary and fantastic, soliloquy and monologue, calm and passion, light and dark, silence and sound. I cannot relate my dalliance in normal terms. I can only offer you a glimpse of our naked momentary waltz around the intangible fertile terrace: the leaning drum, strawberry tomato scent, traveling bags loaded with narrative bliss, slipstream rides with horses into brooks filled with silver, platinum and gold; mandingo spoken all around, fruit everywhere, wonderful wonderful fruit; taste and smell, bananas and grapes and cherries and berries and pineapples and plums and pears and an orange—and everything wonderful that I thought, that I imagined, that I dreamt came true, a child with the power of a Maker hidden in the frame of a man-horse-saddled with DNA defects; the defects were long gone, the animal dead as the soul continues; the objects lit little picture films that blew up into massive multi-media screens projecting 10D visuals across flat, round, square and triangle surfaces all at the same time: a Manifestation of Reformation, a Code of Exploration, a Hammer of Inseparable Pomegranate, a Globe-Shaped Edible Fruit as Large as an Orange—I pondered the eternity, wondering what to do next, how, why, knowing I wouldn’t squander my shot to communicate with whatever entities created this lost shatterglass fragment of time; time, no time here, what happened, like a bed hidden inside a pause, a hearty dose of sensory enchantment. Knowing I wouldn’t squander my opportunity, I forgot everything I once knew, I gave myself over to the moment, eliminating any trace of preconceived thought; I had no symbols, no letters, no numbers, no images—I was a newborn child at the feet of edible vessel spirits greater than even me! Imagine that. Imagine this: food tear clout goes all out on pagan carnal jishery-jashery swindler honest-to-god no one blabber fool fool around amen wallah sits on the shelf next to the amen wallet box entertainment swill kills the dealer! Kiss the cow! Monkey and the nut contours milk the bushes on good in agony bags agony column agony sandwich drench in horse-sense tea soups rest smell children’s books battling third sliver; clever golden eagle squint; stands goofy
to it, that’s all there is; trunnions over flappy-ear; riddle onions smooching with a bug
_________
(eve) tear one: a bug swill bushes on smell goofy - blabber box - good soups – to it
(day) “- swill on a blabber fool - fool around - goofy smell on swill,” to-god clout -
(slumbers) smell books; third clever, stands goofy: “to it, that’s all there is” – a bug

“Is one of the Makers a monomaniac?” continues Wilfred to the tripping alchemist. “Are they all? Are they all obsessed with one idea—identification with glorification? Do they layer symbols onto their creations? Do the creations create their own? Are they helped?

Symbols are given to tangible products.
Is it the creations? Are they trying to identify their surroundings? Is a second hand entity attempting to dominate that which cannot be controlled? From everything I have seen, in all the worlds, in all the galaxies, the places I’ve seen, created entities try to label the unnecessary, define the inscrutable, quantify the mystique. Names for living beings. Articles of purpose. Declarations of exclusivity. Laws for the lawless. Rules for the unruly. Messages for the temporary. Songs with permanent lyrics. Books with earmarked pages. Letters with ink marking the important passages, passages explaining truth, truisms wrapped in doubt, doubt defying the doubtless; doubtless, you and I can stand outside of such foolishness; doubtless, you and I can rise above such madness; doubtless, you and I can ignore such questionable behavior. Are we at fault too? Are we questioning behavior or are we not there for the answers? Are we being asked the questions? Are we silent? Invisible? Unnecessary Inscrutable Mystique? Tell me—what do you say to the ‘Know-It-All’? Fascinating…have we been silent too long? Have we allowed Free Will to run off course? Is it in the nature of any created entity to rebel against its creator? Do beings need to be controlled—or do they need their own occasional freedom to seek foundations that do not require any solidity? Should a Maker be available for communication? Am I making any sense? What would be the rules of engagement between creator and created? Would time stand still? Would a created entity need to forget the communication after it took place? If time stood still, would conversations ever be recorded in the annuals of history? What is history? Does history have a place in a universe where time doesn’t exist? If not, is history ever necessary? Symbols are given to tangible products. Symbols representing nothing are married with images supposedly representing value. What is this value? Who defines the value? Who buys such nonsense? Why do our created entities lack imagination? Why do they enslave their kin? Rape their homes? Kill their brethren? Eat their neighbors? Steal from tomorrow to pay for today? Tomorrow comes soon and yesterday is a forgotten bad memory and yet…and yet today only offers another crime. No…no history can record such actions. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, from newborn star to exploding supernova, all of our creations have been monumental disasters—forgettable and empty. Silently, we continue to create. What have we learned? What have we learned about ourselves? Our ideas? Our imagination? Our lonely lost pilgrimage across space, dimension through dimension has brought us home and we have learned nothing—pitiless gods in a vast remorseless universe, images of ourselves? Visited a planet once. Weather was very cold in certain parts. A person had about six or seven digits, uh, fingers. During bad weather, one would wear gloves to protect the delicate fingers from the severe cold. However, the individual fingers would never stay as warm as necessary—the cold would still slip through. Some wise folks wore mittens, which would cover all of their fingers at once—the warmth of each finger was combined. Amazing. If we could combine forces with all of…we too could…well, that is still the theory, of course. So much work. So much more work to do. I worked myself into a daze. I forgot all about the moment—and I lost my concentration, the objects’ glow suddenly expanded and disappeared. 1, 2, 3.” TIME: “Resumed at that moment—or did IT? Do I control my creations—or do they? How do I identify my diction? Language? Simplify complexity? Champion Free Will?”

Religions are built on value echoing from mute priests holding slabs of exotic testaments.
Wilfred sits in depressed silence. Nothing more to say. Nothing more to offer at this time. The alchemist breaks out of his spell, rolls up off of the floor, grabs Wilfred by the arm and brings him somewhere where he thinks Wilfred will not be so confused, lonely, isolated…where he would not seek difficult answers to impossible questions, a place where Wilfred could relax in the arms of another. “Ahhh…great,” thinks Wilfred, “a spiritual brothel.” “This is a church, Wilfred,” explains the alchemist. “We set them up as a place where one could regroup after a long, challenging timespan of shop and sell, choose and decimate, barter and trade—a Holy Trinity of a different sort. We find them to be quite soothing.” Wilfred notices all of the people silently listening to men and women dressed in strange garments reading old scripture from giant books—these tomes are thought to be the equivalent of all truth about the universe, seen and unseen. The people are calm and receptive—behavior that is very different than the scenes he witnessed earlier when people were very pushy and disruptive during his odd odyssey through the markets of this commerce planet. The priests speak at great length. They appear to be very good at hypnosis. People are drowsy—their gentle minds rest off and on. The words from the mouths of the priests are sleep tablets, easy-to-swallow pills, trance inducements; the words have power and weight to induce a strange glaze of stupor over the massed crowds, crowds filled with people wearing their best fabrics, finest clothing; the words decrypt the peaceful receptors of the mass mind; the words from the books are endless, pedestrian and inartistic; alas, the words are hollow, shallow and trite. The books are manufactured soul control. Wilfred sits in a state of near coma and frustration. “This is all nonsense,” he thinks to himself. “These people are not being encouraged to live; these people are being told how to prepare to die. These priests are no different than the streetwalkers outside—cowardly death merchants.” Wilfred gets up and leaves the alchemist sitting by himself; the man somehow doesn’t notice his new friend’s absence. Wilfred whispers a muted good-bye and exits the building. “I am not a god; I am not omniscient; however, I am alive and do not plan on ever preparing for my death. When IT comes…” Wilfred trails off and leaves the sentence incomplete. He smirks at the wisdom of a sentence left unfinished. Wilfred is reminded that there is never any beginning or end, only middle: testy, murky, awe-inspiring middle. “Testy?” thinks Wilfred. “What does that mean—testy as in violently disagreeable, or testy as in challenging exam, or testy as in occasional pop quizzes out of nowhere to test the spirit and mind…” He trails off for the second time in as many minutes. “I must continue traveling, continue checking on what I’ve created, what others have created. I must continue to debate whether or not I should make changes to…or leave well enough alone. Well enough alone—where did that phrase come from? Changes on planetary levels or take out the whole solar system? Would anyone else even notice? Would that be too disruptive? Does it matter? Change, ignore or extinguish Life—that is the question for right now? Right now? What does that mean? Is yesterday an Infinity of Right Nows? Wilfred becomes invisible, rolls up into a ball and heads out of the planet’s atmosphere. He passes several planets and stops near the system’s star. Wilfred waits at periphery’s edge…“What shall I do next? When do I strike? How much? Where?” ponders Wilfred.

Long, sleek, cool, black shape roars expensive fire.
The sun is a star that provides light, energy, food and life to a group of planets. The planets rotate around the sun, held together by an invisible magnet called gravity. Wilfred sits staring at the star. Funny. When he was once another lifeform, he could never look directly at the star because its light was so potent that the energy would burn his visionary skills straight out, turning his sight blind and reducing his senses from five to four. Now, Wilfred had thousands of senses, numerous ways in which he can obtain and process information, invent and create new lifeforms. He is now a lifeform that stood outside of Time and Space with the ability to alter and assist his Inventions. However, Wilfred did not yet feel comfortable in doing anything more than watching. Strange tales require strange detours. Strange creators breed strange creations. And this is the first of several times when Wilfred felt it necessary to do what he always avoided—define his process so he could understand why he had an imagination and the unlimited power to explore and exploit its interior and exterior boundaries with a wary eye, a sharp ear and a clean, quiet inner mind. Well…two out of three are not bad. Wilfred had neither a clean or a quiet info-magick closet. As a matter of fact, his mind is abstract, bewitched, baffling, cluttered, confused, cynical, dark, dank, dewy, deliciously eccentric. “The people on that planet have no idea what life is about,” thinks Wilfred as he sits in silence next to the star—awaiting inspiration, a motive, any motive to move onwards. “Why do they live such a trivial existence? Have I created them? Do I have any right to guide them, change their direction, obstruct their individual visions, destroy Life?” He sees them. “What?” speaks Wilfred out loud into the strange cold vacuum of deep space.
First one, then another, then a few more, then several more, many many more, about fifty in total—the objects are best described in a dreamy way: a marquisette, a loosely woven fabric used for curtains and garments…only this time (TIME: if you can even call it that) the material, the fabric of space is joined by something other than a garment. The form of each object is the same. Wilfred cannot believe his own eyes. How has this wonderful event happened? He couldn’t have imagined such a powerful thought. Free Will standing Tall in Capital Letters—full and wise. Long, sleek, cool, black shape roars expensive fire. The citizens of the planet Wilfred has just visited (invented?) are sending fifty deceased from the surface of the planet to the direction (this is really hard for Wilfred to believe—he had not anticipated this action)…to the direction… “Could it be?” wonders Wilfred. “YES! So good I will say IT a third time: YES!” The deceased are in black, bullet-shaped, thin rocket ships that echo as they approach Wilfred. The ships burn up long before they reach the heart of the sun’s surface: one at a time until all fifty have extinguished. “I see. I understand. Very clever,” says Wilfred again to himself (or is he not alone…feels like someone, something else is out here too, not really sure). “Why didn’t I think of this?” wonders Wilfred again. The citizens have decided that their deaths will be a symbolic reenactment of their lives: always heading towards that which is the source of Life itself, in whatever form one desires. The citizens never reach their goal, but they always live each moment from birth to beyond in pursuit of the unattainable. Wilfred turns away from the profound scene; he is moved by the ritual and vows to pursue his creator—even if that means losing his own power. Wilfred vows to continue until he too burns out; he begins conjuring naked silent-moment-prayers. 1, 2, 3.

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals - 2006 Jammys New Groove of the Year

2006-06-13T08:35:00.000-07:00

PART II of this little bit...

Out of all the 2006 Jammy Award winners, I was most proud of the New Groove of the Year win for Grace Potter & the Nocturnals and the archival release victory for PHISH. Why? I got to interview Grace for a New Groove article last year for Jambands.com and the feature is one of my favorites. PHISH...well, sometimes the King needs to get fluffed every now and then.
- RMR

Grace Potter
Interviewed by Randy Ray

Posted on Jambands.com - 2005-11-12

The comparisons between Grace Potter and so many other singers seem fairly obvious. Inevitably, it would be too easy and lazy just to tag her as a Bonnie Raitt singer with a Lucinda Williams and Sheryl Crow modern twist for good measure. No, Potter has quite a different gift. What that gift represents unfolds during Nothing But The Water—as fine a sophomore effort as can be expected. Grace Potter and the Nocturnals present a story that things aren’t always what they seem behind the doors of ease and comfort. Potter gets most of the credit on the CD as she either wrote or co-wrote every song. Her lyrics are laced with romantic bite while you can almost see her shadow in the dark by the microphone stand while a dozen white candles line the floor. However, the band is quite good, too. Potter plays the legendary Hammond B-3, piano, Wurtlizer, Resonator bass and tambourine, Matt Burr handles drums, percussion and trash can, Bryan Dondero plays upright, electric and resonator bass guitars, Scott Tournet strums an acoustic guitar, electric guitar, resonator guitar and shares backing vocals.

Goddard College was the home of three-fourths of Vermont’s most famous quartet, Phish, back in the 1980s. Recently, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals took a unique challenge, as they conjured up some of the spirits of that legendary college. The band recorded an album at the 150 year-old Haybarn Theatre while staying in a nearby dorm during the lengthy recording process. Echoes of the college’s past float throughout the nearly vacant school as the band found themselves recording a great record of timeless Americana rock. The result, Nothing But the Water, is a triumph of artist and venue—both parties forming a bond to create something with a spirit all its own.

Jambands.com sits down with singer/songwriter/keyboardist/designer/producer Grace Potter to explore her Vermont roots and discuss a wide variety of topics from hobbits to bag pipes to Guinness to Goddard and, yes, Phish. Potter and the Nocturnals were recently named Best Band in Vermont by a local publication—a heady trip after the slot had been filled for a decade by Anastasio and Co. Indeed. After this interview, Potter’s band would be booked to open for the former Phish frontman for several dates in October and November—initially opening for the band during its lone date sandwiched between two Rolling Stones’s gigs. They also had a series of dates in the northeast with the North Mississippi All-Stars. Potter is an engagingly warm person who is quite aware that she has some decent pipes. However, she acknowledges, in candid and witty detail, how her gift developed and doesn’t forget that the mysterious hand of fate played a role.

RR: How does it feel to be the band that de-throned the Beatles in Vermont? [in reference to the recent Best Band in Vermont Award after the decade-long hold on the crown by the neighboring Phish.]

GP: (laughs) The Beatles! It feels pretty incredible. I have to say we had a champagne toast with our road manager and financial manager because the day we found out that news, we were playing a show and we were pretty much reaching rock bottom in terms of morale for the tour. It was really well timed.

RR: I saw you on the side of the stage during Trey Anastasio’s set at the 10,000 Lakes Festival and I was hoping that Trey would have you sit-in.

GP: It took us 45 minutes to get up on stage. I’ve never met Trey and we live only about four towns away from each other. His barn (literally ‘The Barn,’ Anastasio’s recording studio) is right near where we live. It was really bizarre to be there (at 10kLF) because I know everyone in his band including Tony Hall, his bass player, from New Orleans. I know everyone even if they’re not from Vermont; I’ve met them before or toured with them. It was really bizarre to be backstage and see him and, sort of, not ever have an opportunity to go up and talk with him and also not know him. Our engineer [Chuck Eller] who has recorded all of our records opened up a studio with Trey. He rigged Trey’s entire barn for the recordings so, it was pretty wild to be there, have so many different connections with him and I don’t think he has any idea who I am.

RR: That’ll change. Your new album is like the answer record to Robert Johnson—his work focused on male angst and you come in with your own point of view.

GP: The criticism is that we wear our influences on our sleeve. If we’re going to do a Neil Young and Crazy Horse song or something like it or, if I’ve written a song where we just feel like rockin’ it out there’s going to be no question. People will listen and say: “Wow—this sounds like Crazy Horse.” That’s the argument. There is no more thievery in the world. There is a communal well of material and, I’m sorry, but if the music is so good as it was, especially in the late 1960s and early 70s where we drudge a lot of our material up, especially the British Invasion and the way that the blues were re-born, you can’t ignore that. I think it’s disrespectful not to at least try to emulate what those guys were doing so you can walk in their shoes and kind of feel that vibe.

RR: Some people have musical talent but never move to that next level to actually perform in public. What steps did you take to get to do this for a living?

GP: It is a weird process because a lot of times you get to that point, as a musician, where you’ve found the type of music that you like or think you like and you get to a point where you say, “this is my style.” I think the moment when this really started affecting me was when I stopped trying to have a style—when I gave up on all of that, not image- related but genre-related stuff because I think that it can be really damaging to a musician to try to put yourself into a genre. When I was starting out as a young musician listening to records.

I was always a musician, let’s start with that. My mom said that I was singing before I was talking. Apparently, I would make up fake words when I was about one. It was a long time coming and my singing was the first thing and I guess that came from both sides of the family. My parents are artists. My mom paints bowls and my dad is a sign maker. It was just a weird way to grow up because they were so inherently musical as people but neither pursued it. I remember waking up in the morning to my mom singing fake opera. It was like comedic opera to the animals; we had dogs, cats, all of these creatures and her call to the animals for dinner time or breakfast or whatever was to sing this ridiculous, over-the-top, fat mama opera.

In terms of a record collection, my parents ran a business called Dream On Productions. It was a company that was a precursor to MTV—a company that went around the country photographing events and, then, putting it to music and showing it at a bar that night. For instance, they were hired by the 1980 Winter Olympics to do all of the documentation so they would go through and take photos and click-click-click and then throw them into a crazy multi-media show and show it that night at a bar. They got paid big bucks. I mean they got paid better than we get paid now to do what they did. They did cruises and that whole corny thing. Anyway, that gave them a great excuse to write off as many records as they could buy because it was for the soundtrack for these things. So, if you come into my house, Hobbitville, in Waitsville [Vermont]—

RR: Hobbitville?

GP: (Laughs) If you met my dad, you’d understand. He’s about 4’11”. He’s a hobbit; yet an athletic hobbit who had to bike 40 miles a day—that kind of thing.

RR: You’re pretty tall.

GP: I’m tall but no one in my family is tall. I am about six inches taller than the tallest person in my family and, therefore, I have to bend over to walk through some of the doors in my house. It was built for small people, let’s just put it that way.

RR: Which is why you play the keyboards.

GP: (Laughs) Exactly, because I always have to sit down. No.

RR: So, you walk in the house and there’s the record collection. You open the door—well, you can’t even open the door.

GP: It’s a whole wall. My dad was a carpenter and he built these shelves specifically to fit records and there are all of these perfect square cubbies exactly to fit records with little markers everywhere where they wanted to put this record onto this slide show from 1973. It’s just crazy—obviously, every rock album ever from 1950 on. I think there’s something like 5,000 records and as a young kid I didn’t even understand what that was. We didn’t listen to CDs or tapes because we had all of these records. There was no reason to go out buying CDs; so, I was sort of stuck in my vinyl phase until I was around 16 or 17—everything from Jethro Tull to Celtic music, essentially, to Janis Joplin to Jimi Hendrix and all the greats. It was a pretty crazy time for me as a kid growing up just sort of re-discovering what was considered music for that time.

RR: Did anyone sing? You have this musical gift that I assume is part genetics.

GP: Aside from my mom’s opera, no. My father did chorus; he was a choirboy when he went to college and mom said that that was when she fell in love with him—hearing him sing. It was one of those things. She went to see him and he was in a barbershop quartet kind of thing. She heard him sing “In the Pines.” Apparently, that’s what made her fall in love with him. He does have a beautiful voice but he never pursued it. He’s the only person—vocally speaking—that I can remember.

My great great uncle, Spiegel Wilcox, was a Dixieland trombone player. He played with Tommy Dorsey and met Louis Armstrong and did the whole Big Band kind of thing. He played a lot of Dixieland and old-timey music. He was the only professional musician who ever made it in my family and he definitely carried the torch in terms of being a professional musician. He was always down at Jazz Fest in New Orleans and, for some reason, he was always getting flown to Holland. I think he had a big following there so, he was internationally known in a small niche market of Big Band fans and he was one of the few living legends who played the trombone from that era. He actually took me under his wing when I was about 15 and I went to see all of his big shows that he would play. He got a Lifetime Achievement Award and he died just a day before another gig; he was just on the road all of the time and he passed away around four years ago with his [award] medal around his neck. He was an incredible person and he taught me—or hinted in the direction—that you can actually make it as a musician and don’t let anyone in the family tell you otherwise. Don’t let them judge you; you can do this, if you want. Actually, it was right around the time that he took me under his wing that I started writing songs and playing more piano—instrumentally try to develop as a musician, not just a vocalist.

RR: How old are you—22? You’ve been getting it together for only seven years and you’ve already hit your first peak?

GP: (laughs) I wasn’t even getting it together, then. I recorded my first official demo when I was 17 and I was trying to get into college. Of course, I spent $500 on this demo and it was going to be great, blah blah blah, and nobody accepted me. I could not get into college. It was that [second] baby boom era when everybody was trying to get in and I just couldn’t get in. I only got accepted to the one college that my parents went and that’s where met—St. Lawrence’s University [in upstate New York]. I swore I wouldn’t go there but, I ended up going there and that’s how I met the band [the Nocturnals].

RR: You go to college and you run into these guys and they all promise you the world and you said, “yeah sure, next?”

GP: No. Oddly enough, I always say it took two years [to get the band together] because Matt Burr, the drummer and I started with another bass player, Courtright Beard, as a trio. I actually went to high school with him and he transferred to St. Lawrence and that was the birth of the band. It was a trio, and this was embarrassing, but we actually played a Norah Jones song in a live show. We were completely jazz—smooth, adult contemporary, completely mellow. We played every song with brushes on the drum set and played to the dinner crowd and/or a brunch crowd as the situation arose.

RR: Cowboy Junkies vibe?

GP: Worse—not even. The Cowboy Junkies were hip compared to what we were doing. We were so mellow it was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde compared to now. It was definitely an interesting beginning. A year into the band we started collaborating with our guitarist, Scott Tournet, and he brought in a whole new element but, we were still pulling towards (or at least I was) a more mellow sound. I wanted my parents to be able to listen to it—that sort of thing. Scott came in after one year and our bass player [Beard] decided to continue his college education when I said I was going to drop out [and head back home to Vermont] and he said: “O.K. See you guys, later.” We got Bryan Dondero to play bass so, it’s three years with the drummer, two years with the lead guitarist and one year with the bass player so, it all averages to about two years. Bryan didn’t go to St. Lawrence and we met him through a friend of Scott Tournet’s—our guitarist—who we did this crazy Radiohead side project called User Shorty Patent Company. We toured around with that in the summer of 2004 and that really kindled the new version of our band—a harder Nothing But the Water sound. We really made the most bizarre transition of my career. Actually, when I started music, I took bagpipe lessons. I was a Celtic musician when I was 15 and talking with my great great uncle about his niche market and I said: “Well, here’s another niche market.” I grew up listening to Celtic music and there’s a band called Steeleye Span that my dad loved. It was rock ‘n’ roll but Celtic rock ‘n’ roll. I just thought it was totally quirky and weird.

RR: Had did the March 2004 Ireland tour happen?

GP: Some amazing fan that saw us play in the summer of 2003 flipped out and said, “I’ll bring you to Ireland.” He got us a string of amazing shows including the most prestigious venue I know of in Dublin called Whelan’s, which is where the Cranberry Fest started and U2 has played. The tour was completely poorly timed, obviously, because we had no distribution and we were not really even a band, yet. Scott had just started playing guitar with us and he couldn’t come because he couldn’t get his passport in time. We went back to our trio days and played to crowds of 200 to 300 people St. Paddy’s Day week. It’s funny you mentioned Ireland because the guy who hooked us up with all of these gigs is a real estate agent named John Lombard who happened to be vacationing with his family at Martha’s Vineyard [an island off of Cape Cod, Massachusetts] and that’s where he saw us play.

RR: Did somebody fund this trip for you?

GP: (Laughs) We spent all of our own money. We had been working all year and saving.

RR: “I’m 21, what the hell?”

GP: Actually, I was still 20!

RR: Were you drinkin’ like a Shriner?

GP: Are you kidding me? It was so great. We still get e-mails from our Irish friends.

RR: Your debut album, Original Soul, came out around that time.

GP: We wanted that to be the first launch pad for the band even though if you look at the CD it just says ‘Grace Potter’ on the cover because we hadn’t decided how to identify ourselves, yet. It was still ‘solo woman’ with two guys backing her up. We had all of this different music that I had been writing and we just decided that it was time to make a record. I pulled out the money that I had made from my first two demos that I had sold and sunk it into this record with a great engineer, Chuck Eller, who is sort of the prime engineer in Vermont and the man who helped Trey setup his studio. It took nine months to record and, of course, the day it came out we were already recording our new record.

RR: You feel that you’ve moved on quite a ways since then.

GP: Very much so. We still play three or four songs off of that record but even that, is sort of stretching things for us. Genres have changed and the songs that have lived on are very timeless and genre-less with a rootsy, Americana vibe. Yes, we’ve definitely changed.

RR: The new album, Nothing But the Water, harkens back to the days when people valued the whole work instead of just individual songs. A great album should feature the room it was recorded in almost like another member of the band. Did you feel the presence of the 150 year-old Haybarn Theatre, at Goddard College in Vermont, when you were recording?

GP: Sure, of course. There is some crazy spirits in that barn, too. There’s a life there and I said that in the paragraph [on the inner CD sleeve]. Scott, our guitarist, went to Goddard and he knew about the history and knew about what it meant to him but that was very different from our experiences. I always knew Goddard as the place where Phish went and they all met there [except Gordo, of course] and there were lots of festivals and lots of hippies and lots of drugs. It was really a different scene when we came back and did a radio show benefit for Goddard. We talked with a buddy who was doing sound for the show and we said that we should do a show here. In October 2004, we did do a show and we invited people in and Jon Fishman was supposed to come. It was sort of this half-alumni/half-show kind of event where we tried to pull in some people who went there, get some support and breathe life back into the barn. At that time, it had fallen into disrepair and the campus is, actually, shut down. It’s not being used right now, except for private students who want to come onto the campus. It’s not open to the public. The barn and the campus just needed some new energy and some revitalization. When we decided to record there, it was mainly because we had so many connections to the school—not to mention the fact that we live 20 minutes away. It was just a worthy cause and a beautiful space and they offered it up and said that we could live on the campus while we recorded the new album. We were really alone and there was definitely some spirits going on. We stayed in Hollister Dorm, where Scott had stayed when he went to Goddard, and the barn was across from that—laid down our rugs and lit the candles.

RR: The college didn’t fear an onslaught of bands would want to record there?

GP: I think that was something that they almost wanted. [Goddard] is known as a liberal campus and we’re not a very well known band outside of Vermont. (laughs) We’re not kidding anybody. In their minds, it could do nothing but good. If Phish didn’t create somewhat of an onslaught, then we aren’t about to—we all felt that, singularly, this was a worthy cause and let’s put our energy into this and see what comes of it.

RR: The band’s name comes from the vampiresque habits of musicians. Was there a lot of “let’s run across to the barn and record” during the middle of the night?

GP: Absolutely. “Left Behind” was recorded in the studio after cooking dinner at around midnight in the dorm. Scott had just got this great Resonator guitar, I was humming over the top of it and Matt was sort of pounding on the chair with a fork and Bryan was tapping his foot. All of sudden, this song came out of it. We were so driven and, that song just sort of spilled out from being in the space so, we immediately woke up Chuck [Eller, engineer] who slept on his tour bus, which he parked in the parking lot right next to the barn. We just knocked on the door and said, “Chuck, we have something for you.” That was the exact reason we wanted to record there—that inspiration and immediacy. The other tune we did live on the spot from just sheer tiredness of the songs we were recording was “Below the Beams.” We were going to call it “Hollister Ghosts” but we didn’t want to actually reference the dorm and get people all freaked out. [Realizing I may have inadvertently let the ghost out of the bag, I insert a writer’s caveat: remember—there’s no such thing as ghosts so no worries about Hollister, eh?]

“Below the Beams” was sort of an homage to the spirits in the room. Scott had this old guitar, I think from around 1954, and you could almost see the bridge of the guitar was going to snap—it was so close to breaking. He started playing this very eerie slide kind of vibe and we all started just coming around it and Chuck, without telling us, pressed RECORD and captured this incredible take that, for us, we just needed to throw in at some point. We were going to include it as a hidden track but we felt it had a water-type feel to it and it segued quite nicely into “Nothing But the Water.” [two completely different but brilliant takes close this sublime record—one version is performed ‘a cappela,’ which can be heard during most of the band’s recent live sets].

RR: I like what you wrote in the liner notes: “Sometimes we even forgot we were being recorded. We hope it sounds like that.” It’s a great summary of art, too.

GP: There’s such a self-effacing kind of awareness when you sit down to record—probably the most self-conscious you can be, aside from making movies with a camera in your face. It’s very unnerving, bizarre and totally unnatural. If you think about the process of recording, it’s something that musicians aren’t meant to do. Musicians, by nature, are spontaneous people who get inspiration and, whether a microphone is there or not, they’re going to throw it out there—at least in the ideal version of a musician and I like to think of myself as one of those. It’s definitely not a normal process and is very sterile. We just needed to be in a space where we had created our own situation where there was no overbearing “the clocks are ticking, kids, get going” type of vibe. That’s why we wanted to live there so, we would have the ability to completely lose ourselves from take to take. Forget that there are takes and just play. Stop in the middle of songs and completely re-invent. “Some Kind of Ride,” for example, we completely re-wrote the end and that’s the only one where we did that kind of Motown thing at the end. All of the other takes were just something else—a fade out or some other vamp on something, a moment where we stopped and said, “Nope. That’s no fun. Let’s do something new.”

RR: You write some very heavy lyrics filled with a lifetime of hard experiences.

GP: I’m just a sponge. (Laughs) Half of those songs aren’t even about me—they’re completely non-autobiographical. I hate to burst your bubble.

RR: No, the opposite—I’m relieved. I thought, “who’d want to break her heart?”

GP: I’ve definitely had my heart broken but I’ve never written, especially a sad breakup song, about specific people because I don’t like the idea of bundling an entire real life experience into one song. I feel that romanticizes it more than it needs to be. I take all of that sadness and anger from experiences and I like to put them into other people’s characters. I don’t like the idea of remembering an entire part of my real life through a song. It seems like you’re just making it too easy for yourself by doing that.

RR: How is it too easy?

GP: You’re limited to 400 words or less in finding words to fit a particular situation. I wrote one song, “Apologies,” when I was 18 and, it might be on the next record but the problem was that I lumped a part of my real life into a song that I didn’t think did it justice. Plus, I made myself out to be the ‘good guy’ and I probably wasn’t. I might need to re-think that one. Songs shouldn’t be used as my own therapy. I’d much rather write songs that apply to my own life and take my real experiences and immortalize them where there’s sort of a universal understanding between me and the audience.

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: OVERCROWDING

2006-06-07T09:15:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>CLAUSTROPHOBIC>

Component: OVERCROWDING:
Claustrophobic pollination offers zero freedom. Resolve fights oxygen. No rooms for elbows. No closets for thoughts. No cells for pontification. No lies, wormholes, bent nails, vertical planes of trickster dialogue. Beseeching solitude in mortal, pathetic brain vain. Dogs bark and sounds ricochet 45-60-90-180 degrees within similar clothing. Wrenching turmoil. Entropy. Sterility Syndrome. Arbitrary movement is foreign. Random piecemeal juggernauts are felonies. Breathe the sweat of yesterday’s mail.

Always thought the best thing about a library is its access to information. It is a foregone conclusion that no one anywhere at any time ever thought that too much access was a negative concept. Until now. Wilfred has always been quite fond of libraries. Heck, he isn’t even sure when this intrigue with the smidgen of trivia began. When does fascination have its genesis? Genesis…hmmm…there’s an interesting word. The Beginning. The Commencement. The Start. When did Wilfred’s fascination with knowledge begin? When would his appreciation end?

Interesting.

Wilfred sat brooding and mulling over these thoughts after finishing his meal with Strobo and Smugdrifter. What the—what kind of name is Strobo? Sounds orthographic, sounds like a memory from another lifetime, sounds like a cartoon light show.
Orthographic Projection. Knowledge that is very selective and hidden becomes commonplace. That is what has happened to this unique colony of Information Wizards. The occult runs deep here—often misunderstood as evil and wicked, the occult is really just a system that asks one to acquire experience and vision through one’s own search. Wisdom should be difficult to obtain and hard to master. Hence, the occult is hidden knowledge practiced in feeble vain by the many, understood by the few and mastered by The One. Whereas, there are many citizens in the dome, they all seem controlled by a lone attribute: thought which had not fallen down although it was quite dead.

That camel was right.

Ahhh…time for another RAR, another Random Access...idea-migratory dreams during his stay in the Land of Too Much…

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can I join you?”

“Uh—yeah, sure.”

Wilfred didn’t know how he had managed to project himself onto Strobo’s big, fluffy chair next to a window, but he had—the unconscious (or is it subconscious?) movement that one travels without any thought. Wilfred remembered finishing his meal and discussion with Smugdrifter and Strobo…or was it with Strobo and Smugdrifter?…he remembered being at the table…how had he moved to the chair?…does it matter…matter…that’s IT, isn’t it? “I can move without any—IT just happens, whether or not I voice the command! Is that the next step to become a Maker?” pondered Wilfred—

“The next step is to engage one of them in conversation,” interrupts Smugdrifter.

“What’s that?”

“Dad, we need to try to break their one-way communication.”

“Why? How can that help? We are nothing to them—mere higgle critters.”

“We can do it, father. You and I. We can get them to realize that they are… caretakers…these people who have thoughts and dreams of their own, these poor mind-numb people can’t open themselves up to their own free will anymore.”

“Free will?”

“When one becomes so self-conscious, one cannot think of new symbols.”

“Are you telling me that intelligence inevitably gets linked with ego?”

“Yes, definitely. I think a person becomes so sharp that eventually compliments are the only goal. And if you can’t get it from your neighbor, you’ll create your own. And soon these compliments are a powerful drug, a drug which is enough—to hear the positive vibration of one’s own inner voice, regardless of the destructive capabilities of this approach, to only hear one’s own voice, to only see one’s own pictures—”

“Well…that won’t happen to us.”

“Hope not.”

“So…”

“How can we help? Where did Strobo go?”

“Oh, he’s much more wise than you and I.”

“How so?”

“He talked. He ate. He sleeps.”

This brought a smile to the weary traveler. “I guess we should turn in. What rooms did he give us?”

“You’re on the left; I’m on the right; bathrooms in both.”

“We’ll talk more in the morning. I’m a little tired.”

“Tired? I understand. Goodnight, Dad. Think about what I said.”

“The ego swallows curious desire? Hmmm…not sure about that. I will. I will. Goodnight, Smuggy.”

“—drifter.”

“Right.”

The next morning Wilfred awoke full of dodgy fevered gloom.

“Good morning, Strobo.”

“Good morning, Wilfred.”

“Where’s my daughter?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Didn’t you know? She said you knew where she would go.”

“No, I don’t know. Where did she go?”

“She went back to the dome.”

“What?!!”

“Is there a problem?”

“She can’t be in there…alone with those…those librarians…they’re too…she can’t possibly help them. Why didn’t you wake me? Why didn’t she wake me?”

“And stop her from doing what she thinks is the right thing to do? Is that what you want of me? To stop her for you? To keep her from doing what is right?”

“No, not at all, Strobo. I’m sorry. Course not. I’ll go after her myself.”

6/6/06 - Ever Dance With the Devil in the Pale Moon Light?

2006-06-06T14:30:00.000-07:00

666: The Number of the Beast
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rev 13:16 And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads:
Rev 13:17 And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.
Rev 13:18 Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.

Note that according to verse 17, there are three different characteristics that distinguish the beast:

his mark (of authority)
his name
the number of his name (666).
It might be argued by some that 666 must be applied to one man's name, and that this will then help identify him as the antichrist. I would offer the following verse to show that 666 need not apply solely to a man's name:

Rev 19:16 And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS.

The same Greek word translated as name (onoma: G3686) that appears in Revelation 13:17-18 is also used in chapter 19:16, so clearly the word can also apply to a title, and not just one man's name. Now, we are told that it takes a certain understanding and wisdom to discern just how this number is actually applied. Based on the fact that 666 can apply to a title, below are several words and phrases that have been put forth over the centuries as probable solutions to the enigma of 666.

GREEK
The numeric equivalents of Greek letters can also be found in the Encyclopedia Britannica under "Languages of the World", Table 8.

The ancient Greek word for "the Latin speaking man" is LATEINOS

L = 30 lambda
A = 1 alpha
T = 300 tau
E = 5 epsilon
I = 10 iota
N = 50 nu
O = 70 omicron
S = 200 sigma
------------
666

NOTE: Latin is the official language of the Roman Catholic Church. Church Documents are usually published first in Latin, and then translated from the Latin into other languages. The association of "Lateinos" with 666 was first suggested by Irenæus (ca. 130-202 A.D.) who proposed in his Against Heresies that it might be the name of the fourth kingdom in Daniel 7:7.

Then also Lateinos has the number six hundred and sixty-six; and it is a very probable [solution], this being the name of the last kingdom [of the four seen by Daniel]. For the Latins are they who at present bear rule: I will not, however, make any boast over this [coincidence].

Source: Against Heresies, by Irenæus, Book 5, chapter 30, paragraph 3.
St. Irenaeus biography online at the New Advent Catholic web site.

The ancient Greek for
"The Latin Kingdom" is
HE LATINE BASILEIA
BASILEIA is Strong's # G932 The ancient Greek for
"Italian Church" is
ITALIKA EKKLESIA
EKKLESIA is Strong's # G1577 And in ancient Greek
the word APOSTATES And in ancient Greek
the word for "tradition"
PARADOSIS
Strong's # G3862
H = 0 (transliterated)
E = 8 eta

L = 30 lambda
A = 1 alpha
T = 300 tau
I = 10 iota
N = 50 nu
E = 8 eta

B = 2 beta
A = 1 alpha
S = 200 sigma
I = 10 iota
L = 30 lambda
E = 5 epsilon
I = 10 iota
A = 1 alpha

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

666
I = 10 iota
T = 300 tau
A = 1 alpha
L = 30 lambda
I = 10 iota
K = 20 kappa
A = 1 alpha

E = 5 epsilon
K = 20 kappa
K = 20 kappa
L = 30 lambda
E = 8 eta
S = 200 sigma
I = 10 iota
A = 1 alpha

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

666
A = 1 alpha
P = 80 pi
O = 70 omicron
ST = 6 stigma*
A = 1 alpha
T = 300 tau
E = 8 eta
S = 200 sigma

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

666

* Stigma is a now obsolete Greek character, but it appears in the New Testament in Rev 13:18 to give the value 666 (chi xi stigma - See Strong's Concordance, # G5516).

P = 80 pi
A = 1 alpha
R = 100 rho
A = 1 alpha
D = 4 delta
O = 70 omicron
S = 200 sigma
I = 10 iota
S = 200 sigma

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

666

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: CONFUSION

2006-05-28T10:55:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>KNOWLEDGE>

Component: CONFUSION:

Leg split open drags asphalt jungles onto plates of curdled effrontery. Splayed wires and outlets with plugless synergy. Part the ways. Divide the loot. Conquer the divide. Don’t know the difference between lucid reality and confused dreams. Lingering briefly, glimpse pure and mysterious, fades from view, boondoggle, trifle infections come from nowhere at any place. Havens of westbred dogs search the catacombs of dungeons sinking deeper into dark basements of enclosed and bizarre portfolios of madness.

The formal definition of library doesn’t include anything about caretakers or knowledge overlords. Suppose the best thing about a library is its access to information. It is a foregone conclusion that no one anywhere at any time ever thought that too much access was a negative concept. Wilfred has always been quite fond of libraries. Heck, he isn’t even sure when this intrigue with the smidgen of trivia began. When does fascination have its genesis? Genesis…hmmm…there’s an interesting word. The Beginning. The Commencement. The Start. When did Wilfred’s fascination with knowledge begin? Was it found facts? Lost head scratcher morsels? Was it always embedded within his DNA? Enough questions for now. Let’s go to the Land of Many Answers. Let’s assault the lofty walls of the Land of Too Much. Let’s look upon the mortal consequences of Access and Information. How does one define—

access, n. a coming to; near approach; admittance.

information, n. intelligence communicated by word or in writing; facts or data.

Facts. Now, there’s a live one; prefer ingot instead: ingot, n. storage, shipment, or further processing.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure, Smugdrifter. I sense a physical presence, but mentally…I don’t want to get too ethereal—”

“Are they gone?”

“What happened here?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out very soon, father.”

They land in what appears to be an abandoned city square. The landscape is full of extremely mammoth structures that appear from the East and go onwards thousands upon thousands of miles out towards the skyline. Evening approaches and with it comes a misunderstood friend: an overwhelming feeling of dread.

“Dread.”

“What’s that?”

“I am overcome with a feeling of dread, Smugdrifter.”

“Is a library a conduit of information that must result in dread?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s how you feel.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been accused of knowing everything.”

“Yes, but you haven’t tired of asking questions either. Isn’t that the path, the way to true wisdom—perpetual knowledge that one is always a child resting at the feet of—”

“Being ignorant all the time?” Wilfred chuckles. “I’m not sure about that.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“Father, are you alone? Do you feel alone?”

“I feel divided.”

“Divided?”

“Slithering like some snake from a mythological tale of long ago (Wilfred gets on the ground and crawls along the city square pavement to Smugdrifter’s great amusement), sulking and slithering, must all carpet crawlers inching towards the gate become insane and frozen in a state of entropy?”

“I don’t get it,” offers Smugdrifter after she stops laughing at her father’s silly street punk meanderings.

“The black hole.”

“Is that a frozen state?”

“No. Quite the opposite. The movement of the letter ‘s’ on its journey.”

“It’s when you know—”

“You understand.”

“It’s when you know, father, you know when all activity is pointless.”

“Thoughts are muddled and curved—the same forward as backwards—”

“Contradictory.”

“Confused. The Makers are divided. And very much…how do I—”

“You are confused, father. We have come to a planet that purports, that seems to know everything, and you feel only ‘dread’, of knowing too little about information, of knowing too little about what you are supposed to do.”

“Of knowing too much.”

“About what?”

“About inactivity. All mental thought daydreaming without…without any test of visions beyond parlors of intellectual hedonism can lead one to a—”

“To a void?”

“A void, yes.”

“Let’s go talk with the caretakers of this dynamic library. Perhaps, they are all just indoors for the evening…resting…I don’t know…then…you will no longer feel this sense of…manic depression…morbid fatality.”

“I do not believe in fate, Smugdrifter.”

“Yes, but maybe fate believes in you.”

Two large camels gallop into view. Wilfred and Smugdrifter each get on a camel.

“Where to?” asks a camel named Lord Boondoggle in a subliminal manner to the great traveler.

“The main building that houses the records of astronomical phenomena in this region,” answers Wilfred.

“It is closed,” responds Lord Boondoggle in telepathic righteousness.

“Closed for the evening?”

“No, sir. Closed forever.”

“Take us to the group that maintains this building at once,” demands Smugdrifter.

“They too are closed for the evening,” states Boondoggle in haughty defiance.

“I don’t understand,” replies Smugdrifter.

“I will take you to a dome. Within the dome’s structure, you will find all you need to know about those that have now lost everything.”

“The Living Dead,” concludes Wilfred.

“How can one not fall down when one is not dead?” asks the strange camel to no one in particular. Suddenly, both camels race each other into the broody night while their riders look back and forth trying to make sense of this comical state of affairs.

Silently, thoughts…

When gods and men walked the soil of many many planets, only those humble enough to know their limitations passed forward, crossing the bridge between servitude and fellowship into the lonely terrain of leadership and guidance.
The camels, with their gifted companions astride their behemoth yin yang backs, approach a mammoth dome.

The dome echoes:

Silently, thoughts

And there is plenty. A Gaudy Multitude.

And if you tilt your head a certain way towards the right and close your eyes, you too can hear what Wilfred and Smugdrifter hear: ahhh…crazed mental rummage sale pursuit…The Goods…the wild soliloquy of those that have absorbed way too much…

“I’m feeling quite well today. Quite well today. Today. Today isn’t yesterday, is it? Isn’t it tomorrow? I’LL DECIDE WHAT DAY IT IS!!”

“Excuse me. I seem to have lost my head. Do you have a notion to lend?”

“Over there, look, over there, see it, over there, my train of adolescence scoots down the lonely railway, oh, don’t you see it? Be it? Flee from it?”

“I don’t know where I was born. I was very young at the time. Who remembers such things?”

“Marriage between three is quite fun, but four means you get to setup a religion.”

“Society verse was spoken in the square many years ago by puppets posing as wizened imps. I was a chimp once until a Maker touched my forehead. I’ve never been thought of wise or an imp.”

“As I was saying…uh, where did I leave off, oh yes, occupancy is always up to the decision-making apparatus (or is that apparati? I don’t know, used to know, used to know a lot, used to know everything, a pair, a pair of tusi, a pair of tusi took off into the sky and when they returned, they couldn’t recognize home anymore…I miss what once was…I was that pair of tusi…what was I saying?).”

“Yessssss, I owned a camel once. Ate my wife. Stole my money. Told me lies. Married my father.”

“Loops? You’re crazy. Never said anything about loops.”

“Rachelcoaster. Carousel jewels. Kate posing as Sasha: The Dead Reborn.”

“Yesterday. NOW. Tomorrow.”

PHISH – Live at Madison Square Garden – New Year’s Eve 1995

2006-05-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

Out of all the 2006 Jammy Award winners, I was most proud of the New Groove of the Year win for Grace Potter & the Nocturnals and the archival release victory for PHISH. Why? I got to interview Grace for a New Groove article last year for Jambands.com and the feature is one of my favorites. PHISH...well, sometimes the King needs to get fluffed every now and then.
- RMR

PHISH – Live at Madison Square Garden – New Year’s Eve 1995

1995 was the year that Phish ascended the Jam King throne and never looked back. Their latest archival release from New Year’s Eve at New York’s Madison Square Garden is a perfect representation of this ethereal coronation ceremony. The quartet is so solid over the three sets and discs that one is fairly hard pressed to find any critical points. Yes, Trey Anastasio is a little hoarse on some of the vocals but his energy level is so high and infectious that his raspy voice actually appears to be a great asset on this magical night. From the opening devilish licks of “Punch You In The Eye” to the glorious train wreck of “Johnny B. Goode,” the band is riding an incredibly major peak that never lets up.

Set 1: Definitive performances of “Reba,” “The Squirming Coil” and “Maze” roll out the gates and serve as an overwhelming prelude to “Colonel Forbin’s Ascent>Fly Famous Mockingbird,” which includes Tom Marshall on vocals for a brief reading of Collective Soul’s “Shine.” “Chalk Dust Torture” ends the set with the same energy that began the NYE’s festivities—loud, fast and supersonic. Phish is on top and they know it.

Set 2: With the exception of the Sunrise Set performed at Big Cypress on NYE 1999, the second set of 12/31/95 is Phish’s best example of jam brilliance and a signature trademark of how far out of the box the band could venture. “Drowned>The Lizards” kicks things off with 23 minutes of transcendent pathos-riddled rock—the segue into the latter masterpiece is such a thing of beauty that you can’t believe the two songs could ever be separated. MAGNIFICIENT. “Runaway Jim” is a monstrous building-eating beast that trashes the crowd but the set-closing “Mike’s Song” towers over the entire set with a mammoth groove that fades into a perfect five minute digital delay loop jam that ends with Trey on stage with his guitar and pedals. IT doesn’t get any better than this. Phish wins game, set and match. Next?

Set 3: The set begins with the Gamehendge Time Phactory routine where the band manufactures time and gives birth to a newly-shaven drummer/baby, Jon Fishman. From there, the bands peels off a few minutes of the old New Year’s chestnut, “Auld Lang Syne” before Phish rips into an earth shattering “Weekapaug Groove” with bassist Mike Gordon leading that troops that picks up from where “Mike’s Song” left off. “Weekapaug” segues into another Who – “Quadrophenia” cover, “Sea and Sand,” as Page McConnell delivers lead vocals and piano to wind the energy down a notch but balancing the exquisite majestic tone. After this brief bit of sublime interlude from McConnell, the band finally launch into their epic masterpiece, “You Enjoy Myself,” which at 25 minutes, does not disappoint as the Garden rides another lofty peak en route to an exciting conclusion with “Sanity” and “Frankenstein” before the whole thunderous evening comes to a close with the Chuck Berry classic.

1995 Postscript: ten years gone and the band’s relevance like the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and U2 seems to weather the passage of time quite well. Perhaps, there is a bit of romantic nostalgia when one looks back at how great the band actually was on stage. However, a show like 12/31/95 should dismiss any notion that the band was ever overrated in any sense of the term. Like their aforementioned predecessors, Phish is a genre upon themselves and we’ve got an entire lifetime to enjoy their incredible back catalog of releases—and, perhaps, a future catalog of live dates that may or may not happen as 2006 dawns. Time will tell.

For more information about PHISH, look for that special spark and glimmer in the eye of anyone from the ages of 20 to 45.

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: FEAR

2006-05-21T11:18:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>SPACE>

Component: FEAR:
Assault upon the castles! Prey upon lepers! Spew forth righteous obscenities! Forecast doom! Radiate sinister pathos! Smooth, oblong tubes; neon-ghosts culminate gestures, snickering contempt: fearful meadows breed dew along the steely windowless metropolis—jutting harsh jagged stiff resolute timeless silent ominous angles collapse into knives splitting attoms nearby; sand holding stone after stone of theoretical space building blocks: hidden and deformed—opens her doors to no one, everyone is not invited. Can you go too?

I’m not sleepy. There is no place I am going. I am ready to go anywhere…

Wilfred floats through deep space, wondering where to go, what to do next. Thoughts sift through the dreams of far away…Smugdrifter, his daughter, dives nearby…

Space: an oblong tube
Difficult
Vague
Pure?
Windowless metropolis—out into what? Another dimension? another universe?

Space houses the many doubts and possibilities of a thing that never ends, that never dies. Pure? Maybe. What is dark energy? When do I find out? Windowless metropolis—out into what? To find the Lonely Astral Border? Another dimension? Do the Caretakers of the Vision live in another dimension? another universe? Shepherds of Intellect Gold hoarding the answers? Answers hidden in questions.

Questions frozen in TIME: elusive, intangible, deadly?

Floating along; neverending story; vaulted mirrors reflect inaction. “Hello, star. You’re looking quite lovely in this fabulous millenium.” I want to be a star, I want to float nearly forever, stroked by the Makers, the ultimate end of all of our fate, to be a star, an everlasting star, to be loved and nurtured, to finally, FINALLY love and nuture all within and grow and expand and die and be reborn and to live off all of the energy, the dark energy…solid and pure, windowless metropolis, another dimension, another universe, another level of hellish existence, another barrier to break, another renaissance to gallop within, gaze upon the mourning dew, cry awhile for those that spread too thin—
Another soul to follow,
Another soul to watch,
Another soul to grab.
Another dimension.
Another universe.
A Maker in another land, posing as righteous, exposed as evil, neverending…

Space: an oblong tube, a circular square box filled with the unknown, invisible and magical. Space houses the many doubts and possibilities of a thing that never ends, that never dies. Space has always been something that one could not predict. It just is. Nothing more, less than the sum of its parts. Gestalt vibe. Sacred id. Quiet crampfish.

[Curious section here. I interviewed the author after Carousel came out, the epic hallucinatory tone poem written by an odd heathen for guarded heathens. Nightmarish growing pains badger and toy with the reader along its unpredictable path. Ironically, enlightenment comes in a very spacey conclusion which leads one to wonder about who is tending the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The conclusion indirectly contradicts the Hunter S. Thompson premise offered in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: there is, indeed, an entity overseeing the course of humanity. However, is this entity bored with its own creation? Here’s an interesting excerpt of that interview:

Q. You appear to have a different definition of ‘space’ than the normal artist.
A. I don’t really have a definition. I mean, what is truth? what is definition?

Q. Definition kills.
A. Right. I’ve always said that. To be a Holy Roller, you must gamble with Fate.

Q. Why? What is it about ‘definition’ that is so abhorrent to you?
A. Well…I mean, just look at how one views the meaning of ‘space’. Space should be an open playground where an artist puts one’s own colors, textures, imagery within a framework, a sense datum: a result of stimulation of a sense receptor. One reacts based upon individual genetic and experiential evidence. We see what we create.

Q. Tangents within a framework. You got that from Page, Jimmy Page, right?
A. Right. Hence, the horse and rider that break free from the frame to explore other dimensions. A sense datum is my own take on the crucial wedding between rebellion and creativity. Study that concept, if you like. Study anything about the union of persecution and identity too. It’s all right there—the clues about space and definition, the opposing dilemma of particle and mass total. To break free from restraints, one must isolate and focus, conjure and accept, breed and dissect, purge with a sense of complete being. Exploration should be random yet precise.

Q. Random yet precise?
A. Right. Take Page. He’s a musician. When he plays a guitar solo, his fingers are flying through space upon notes that appear precise to the ear. Yet, contrarily, they are, again, random.

Q. Who is guiding his fingers? Predetermined fate? Genetic coding?
A. His mind. I think his mind existed before his corporeal body came into being.

Q. He was here before?
A. Right—his mind is a continual flow of information from many, many past lives.

Q. Does everyone have this pre-body memory bank of knowledge?
A. Not sure. I…I really don’t know about that. Some people just don’t have any clue. They stumble through their lives. They never fly. They never sing. They just absorb manmade rules. I think most do. They are born dead.

Q. What do you mean by manmade rules?
A. I guess that’s anything told by anyone anywhere on this planet about doing this, doing that. Ignorant showboats. Manmade rules have always been laws that defy
internal physics; kneejerk reactions to societal development. In order for a village to grow and be contained, citizens were given rules to obey. These rules were never applied to the leaders. Thus, artists (far from being the leaders—they were outsiders in the villages, hip shamans) saw their intellectual progress maimed and crippled. Then again, exploration has never been for everyone; I guess only the artists truly suffered.

Q. Most people don’t care for exploration?
A. Right. Why should they? It’s too hard. I mean…all of my writing is about how difficult it is to attain so-called ‘enlightenment’. And then, POOF, it’s gone again. That idea is extremely…it’s downright disturbing to the masses. It is much more stable for the human mind to feel that someone is watching over you. People want to know that if they perform in a certain way they will be rewarded with everlasting positive things and man…it just doesn’t happen that way. If people knew that when they died they would have to go through it all over again…and nothing, I mean, absolutely nothing is gained or lost by all of the effort, that there is no central ‘good God’ creature that will relieve one’s pain—I mean, if people knew this, they would go mad; it would be anarchy of the worst flavor; it would be action without thought, existence without hope. People want to be controlled. Breaking free from that control is just not worth the hassle. Not worth the hassle at all.

Q. Is that meant literally—to break free to explore The Great Unknown?
A. Yeah, well, symbolically. Everything I do is symbolic; voodoo sleepwalking past trees with fruit. I mean, let’s get this right: it’s all symbolic. Everything. Nothing is real, you know? Space is a metaphysical surface filled with surreal illusions.]

The Serendipity of Steve Kimock

2006-05-12T00:59:00.000-07:00

INVISIBLE BLUEPRINTS
I found a gorgeous passage on Eudemonic—a sweet little carousel of multiple cultures all bound together by the enormous talents of the Steve Kimock Band. “Bouncer” through “Elmer’s Revenge”—an island CD within an oceanic CD, a singular thought within the Group Mind—rotated around the speakers and spoke to me. I was really impressed at how this sequence flowed together like sonic architecture. In this day and age of people dumping various songs into iPods, raping a body of work to grab two songs to create one’s own mix, it is refreshing to hear a strong series of songs from one artist on one CD. Those four songs, in particular, told me a story—I could see what the band was building, could feel the warm, solid textures and everything sounded right.

“THANK GOD!” replied Kimock almost in relief.

Am I just stating the obvious?

“Well, no. It’s not obvious, at all—the serendipity of putting this stuff together and what works and what doesn’t and why. As much as you’re trying to create a certain program, I guarantee if you liked that program, there was something that I wanted to stick in the middle of it that I couldn’t use for some reason. The willfulness of my own approach to the thing could never create that thing specifically for you. It is so much a part of the listeners and their receptivity to the music and I’m just glad that people are able to relate to it in that way and I’m glad that you do.”

August 23rd sees the release of Eudemonic, the long-awaited debut studio album from the Steve Kimock Band. Basic tracks were recorded live at the Music Palace in West Hempstead, New York with Kimock and Holmes producing. Overdubs were recorded at Kimock’s Big Red Barn in Lehigh Valley, Pennsylvania. Kimock’s late friend, Doug Greene, used the phrase Eudemonic (a take on ‘You Da’ Mon!’) to attempt to explain his unique style of playing. From the liner notes: Eudemonic: 1. Producing happiness and well-being. 2. Of or relating to a theory or ethics whose primary goal is happiness and well-being through personal enlightenment and experience.

(long pause) “It’s kind of a big word,” responded Kimock. (laughs)

It is.

“I’ll go out of my way to not refer to myself or guess what it is that I do or try to explain what I do. I love to play and if there’s people that listen to it and dig it, then great. I think the whole idea of Eudemonic, you know, Eudemonic as a benevolent spirit—I think that captures a lot of the vibe of the trip I’m trying to present to people. Everybody’s going to interpret it in their own way. I’m certainly not imposing it on anyone.”

TONGUE N’ GROOVE
Eudemonic is like some really cool late night movie with vignettes drifting through the evening air and a soundtrack written by a Master well versed in East meets West melodic structures. No wonder the band titled one of their live CDs with that concept in mind. With a well-rounded cast of seasoned role players, the CD starts off on fairly sturdy terrain. Rounding out the Steve Kimock Band is Alphonso Johnson on bass, Mitch Stein on guitar, Jim Kost on keyboards and the multi-Grammy Award winner Rodney Holmes on drums. Holmes also serves as Kimock’s writing partner and rhythmic foil—especially when you hear the wonderfully dynamic forces at play on Eudemonic. Holmes never just plays a melodic note passage alongside or supporting a piece. Instead, he wanders through the maze, gathering momentum until a song reaches an edgy climax. “One For Brother Mike” surfaces slowly and lends well to that description. The band appears to be constructing three different houses at the same time from three conflicting blueprints before melting the tangible into a fluid solitary groove. Kimock calls his brand of magic ‘small group improvisation’. I call it brilliant ear candy of the finest kind.

The whole band is very solid, but your drummer and writing partner, Rodney Holmes, seems to work out really well with you, especially on Eudemonic.

“I just love playing with Rodney,” said Kimock. “He is so much fun. He is just so strongly where he is that our concepts—whereas being wildly different at times—leave plenty of room for each other to co-exist. There’s a huge amount of ground that it covers conceptually and in performance and in the writing. I’m really blessed to have him as a partner.”

How did you select the studio, Music Palace, in West Hempstead, New York?

“It selected us. It wasn’t like we had a giant long list of places to go and things to do. Again, all of this recording stuff, unless you’re absolutely rock star-wealthy, is serendipitous. You know an engineer that works at a place and he can get you a rate—those decisions kind of make themselves.”

Why did it take so long to do a studio album?

“I think it was entirely the matter of not having the time. I’m sure when people see you out there working, they think you’re kicking all kinds of butt and making all kinds of money. We’re still kind of month-to-month so you try to stay on the road. If you don’t just have the money to make a record, you can’t just sit around for a couple of months and try to make a record. You don’t have a roof over your head at the end of the couple of months to get a record finished. It took a really long time to get things stabilized enough to get the opportunity to go into the studio with as little time as we had to try to get something together. Really wanted to make a record since the last Zero record which was in the freakin’ 50s it feels like now. (laughs) I just haven’t had the resources.”

Kimock has been an extremely busy musician for nearly 30 years, and rarely does a guitar player garner his type of critical and fan respect. Deservedly so. When Kimock isn’t fronting his own rotating band of players, he’s collaborating with numerous musicians from various genres. However, all directions float ahead: an improv plane that allows freedom of movement without restraining its players with pre-conceived set lists. Did you have an idea of what you wanted when you went into the studio with this current lineup?

“I think we had a pretty clear idea of what it was we were going to do,” said Kimock. “I wasn’t trying to leave too much stuff up to chance. The whole idea of doing the record was to get an overview of where the band was at, at that time, compositionally. The difference between the stuff I’ve done with the Steve Kimock Band and the stuff I’ve done with everyone else, I don’t know, over the last 20 years is that we’re really trying to have our own book, our own music and create a style and vocabulary for ourselves that includes some really diverse influences. It turns into an interesting bag. All the live stuff is recorded anyway and it’s recorded really well and is available for download on-line.”

Obviously, live recordings have become a huge phenomenon over the last few decades. Has your opinion changed about immediate access to almost any show?

“(long pause) No, not really. When the recordings first started showing up, I was just happy to get copies of performances just to review, to see how I was doing or how what I was doing sounded stuck to tape. Those things are often completely different. You can feel completely horrible about a performance and then listen back and go: “hey—that was really cool.” (laughs) Or visa versa—be very stoked and listen back and the tape’s just kind of laying there. You need that to bounce off of because when you’re actually doing it, your nose is so much to the grindstone that it’s hard to relate objectively. I never really had a problem. I know some people have had terrible problems with recordings. My initial objection to live recordings, if I had any, would be: “oh, I don’t think I played well.” So, I would prefer not to circulate that tape—this was screwed up or that was screwed up. I got over that pretty quickly. People will like the performances they like. Good tapes circulate and bad tapes don’t—nobody listens to it. (laughs) People don’t tend to circulate tapes they don’t like. It tends to be self-correcting. I mean, what the hell, I’m a musician. I’m not rock climbing. I’m not trying to present myself as anything I’m not so, whatever I was that night, that’s what I was. I live with it and, in some fashion, sort of stand behind it. O.K. That’s me.”

WAKE OF THE DEAD
August is also the tenth anniversary of the death of Grateful Dead guitarist, vocalist, songwriter and leader, Jerry Garcia. Hence, the month-long JamBase tribute to his legacy. I would be remiss in excluding Kimock from this tribute. Garcia once called Kimock his ‘favorite unknown guitarist’ but that assessment, fortunately, has changed much over the decades. Indeed, Kimock has taken turns in various post-Dead-related projects but the listener should be warned. Kimock’s guitar work transcends something so simplistic a definition as ‘Grateful Dead-like’.

“The whole Other Ones/Phil & Friends/miscellaneous Grateful Dead thing was an overwhelmingly positive experience,” said Kimock. “I really learned a lot and formed a lot of long-standing friendships and got to play some really cool music with some really cool people. Beyond that, it was kind of a mixed blessing—achieving any kind of notoriety is not based entirely on your own efforts. I was just lucky enough to get the gig and lucky enough to move on with my own stuff when I did but, overwhelmingly positive. Pretty much a great bunch of cats. The whole Grateful Dead thing is just such a different trip. It’s got so little to do with me and I’ve got so little to do with it that that’s sort of the mixed blessing about being involved. On the other hand, just in terms of there being a sort of musical style (granted Northern California for those years—70s and 80s kind of thing), the part that I was able to experience firsthand—I think I’m somehow legitimately in that lineage of players: breathing the air, drinking the water. In some small way, everything I do is going to reflect some of that psychedelic thing.”

THE GUITAR MONK WITH JAGUAR EYES
Recently, the tables were turned and the silent conductor became the one being conducted. Steve Kimock sat in with the Everyone Orchestra at the 10,000 Lakes Festival—a band setup that seems intrinsically suited to his acute improv sensibilities. EO Founder Matt Butler and, later, the incredible Jamie Janover took turns conducting a stellar cast of musicians and a receptive crowd. If there was one defining moment in the 2005 Festival Season for me it was when Janover got his mob of music All-Stars to play
stop-and-start-on-a-dime mind games while directing the crowd to assault the stage with random noise. Kimock looked equal parts poised jaguar and a kid in a candy store. I’ve never seen a musician’s eyes so riddled with both joy and precision.

“It’s just fun,” said Kimock. “The thing with the Everyone Orchestra is about for me is the conducting. Obviously, there is whatever chemistry between the individual players. The success of the concept in my head is how the conductor is doing—how he’s managing to communicate with the audience and the audience is part of the performance, which I think is totally cool and how he’s relating to the band. I’ve performed with the Everyone Orchestra a few times now and every time we’ve done it’s just got more and more fun. It’s easier to do and the conducting has got more sophisticated, more musical and more humorous. I think at that last performance at 10,000 Lakes, I was just totally stoked on the direction. It’s a real pleasure for me to participate in that format.”

How did you get started in music? Who were some of the musicians that turned you on?

“That’s an interesting question because it seems that my early listening stuff stuck with me in ways that I’d never thought possible after all of these years,” said Kimock. “I’ll be 50 this year and I started to listen to music, started to really appreciate music as a young teen. The first stuff that really caught my ear…I liked the Beatles a lot. I liked Ravi Shankar a lot. That Live at Monterey Pop Festival album [1967 groundbreaking event that also featured Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, The Who and the Grateful Dead]. I was a huge Johnny Winter fan. There was that bunch of stuff that I’m still into. Some kind of interesting production, song form, kind of eclectic pop forms, Indian music and electric blues and bottleneck and slide guitar-playing—that stuff was all really formative for me. Every show there’s still some of that influence there still in the playing and the writing. I’m really kind of surprised by that. You’d think that you move away from that kind of stuff but you don’t. Some of my later listening in my later teens, I was listening to a ton of Coltrane, Miles Davis and Charlie Parker, Wes Montgomery, Django Reinhardt— whatever served as the standard jazz fare. Mingus and Dolphy, too. Nothing too bizarre. That sort of gets in there as a kind of overlay. More modern jazz-related concepts were in there but that wasn’t formative music. That stuff showed up later.”

If you extend it all the way out—what motivates you to find new musical directions?

“I’m at a point now of beating my head against this wall my entire life where I’m just starting to understand what people are hearing and feeling when they’re hearing music in the first place. That’s tremendously exciting to me. I spend a lot of time learning to feel and hear as a listener and not as a player. I think a lot of players (especially guys like me who are sort of clever with their hands—talented wigglers)…there are a lot of very talented people out there who are sort of wiggling their fingers and the whole gig sort of starts and ends at the ends of their arms, whatever’s going on in their wrists and their hands is the gig—that’s, obviously, not how people are receiving it. I’m constantly trying to figure out what it is that people are really feeling when they’re experiencing music and try to get into that place as a player—not have my playing mess up the playing so much.

The thing I like about your guitar playing is that you always seem to find a melodic framework within the space of a song. Some guys just stay with the groove but you offer a lot of song craft within your music.

“I think that might be my own overreaction to not wanting to be too technical. The less I’m playing, the less I’m trying to impose guitar technique on the sound, the more effective the sounds are at conveying some emotion. Eventually I’ll have to get to a place where I don’t have to wiggle at all, that sound will be nice and, then, I’ll be happy.”

Any current musicians or bands that raise your eyebrows?

“People that are out there right now that I think are cool?” said Kimock. “Bill Frisell is doing some great stuff and, of course, has been for a long time. I got to hear his set at High Sierra and it was just enchanting, so beautiful—I just loved it. (laughs) I’m a big Derek Trucks fan. I think Derek is great and is really coming from a very good place. I wish him the best.”

How did he get it together so young? Not that you didn’t. (laughter)

“You know—go cat go.”

Kimock is sometimes labeled the Guitar Monk, which I guess, would be a bit of a burden if you thought about it for five minutes. But, along those lines, Zen, to me, can be defined as a way to let things flow without a preconceived direction. Zen—that word, again. I have to pick a word out of a hat to try to define his work on Eudemonic.

“There’s certainly an attitude of some of that which I try, paradoxically, to keep in mind,” said Kimock. “How best to explain that? Here’s the easy way to look at it—when I think the thing is working, when I think people are actually feeling music, you know, when you’re really getting it for a minute, you’re not in any kind of dualistic space. You’re not thinking: “Well, I’m here and my feet hurt or, I’m doing this and she’s doing that. These people are doing this and I wish I was doing this.” You’re not in your mind at all. There’s no time in it or this, that or the other thing—it’s just sort of a totality.”

Dualistic space? That’s an interesting phrase. I like that.

“Yeah, anytime you’re thinking. Anytime you’re thinking, at all. It is not a mental place; it’s an entirely feeling place; it is not a place where your mental activities are keeping events discrete. There’s no sense of, “I’m trying to do this or I’m succeeding at doing this or I’m feeling good about myself because I’m doing this.” That is automatically not where it’s at. I take every opportunity to steer myself away from those states of mind so, that when I get to a place where, maybe, I can play, I’m playing from the same kind of place where somebody who is being receptive to music may also be feeling it, too. You know what I mean? Instead of being from some ego point of view or a point of view of trying to accomplish something.”

Within your own framework, are you trying to gather musicians that think that way? Musicians that don’t get in the way of that open space?

“I don’t know if it’s entirely possible to do that or, if it’s entirely necessary,” said Kimock. “I think it’s more important to how you feel music as a listener without trying to engage yourself in it in an intellectual way, or trying to define what’s happening. I think when you’re really enjoying something, you’re really enjoying something. If you’re feeling it, you’re feeling it so, I try to leave it there as much as possible.”

That’s where clarity rolls towards the sand, washes upon the shore and sinks back into the depths of the ocean. You think you’ve got Steve Kimock figured out and then he plays another note within a series of notes that moves you back again…

Steve Kimock Band: www.kimock.com
Fan site: www.flok.org
Live music downloads: www.digitalsoundboard.net

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: DEPRESSION

2006-05-08T08:11:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>GESTALT>
Definition>gestalt, n. a configuration, form, or pattern that, as a unified whole or functional unit, has properties which cannot be derived by summation of the separate parts.

[Gestalt psychology, n. The theory or school of psychology which explains a mental or physiological process as a unified and unanalyzable response to a total situation, and not as a summation of separate responses to the separate stimuli or components of a situation.]

Component: DEPRESSION:
Cantankerous youth; dejected, morbid, cracks along the metal: exposed interior, incomprehensible exterior, mercurial changes which manifest into programmed dark, shady cohesion. Borderline slipstream waters over the liquid blanket of indentation to form flexible slots. OVERLORD. Clouds ponder suspicious chess-like movements wandering over glass—Sanctuary. Fancywork. Pressed to Order. Cudgel Walls. Vibrate Textures. Wince Transparency. Caress Nothing. Be Void.

The smug drifter walks through the building; alone, always alone, stumbling into people, tapestries sprinkled, dangling, lunging, falling, floating, surfing through the space, the space between dark matter, the space between dark energy; twisting, pulling, pushing Life along; Predetermined Fate has a Tight Grip around the Gestalt of Free Will; so many, so many many many beings with access to Free Will, who lives, dies, who explores, who doesn’t, who is stagnant, who has horizons, who gets down on the ground to build back, build back up all of the plans destroyed from yesterday; offering questions, questions, many many many questions, never giving an answer, making a call from out there to back here, always maintaining silence, radio wave silence; no clocks, no maps, stumbling into people, tapestries sprinkled with landscape portraits that gaze upon hills filled with animals, no one ever speaks to these animals; they wait, poised to seek out any answers; the smug drifter has none; he alone invents things for all of the people to use: he doesn’t know that his latest creation, created for his lonesome self, his beloved imagination, would create something painfully vital and honest. Where does pain come from? Does it have a permanent residence? No definitions, just beautiful wonder.

The smug drifter walks through the building. His name is Wilfred.

She is Melan-ec-Holy. Strange names. Strange towns. Strange planet. Strangeness tears it apart: public Vagabonds and Beggars, Sinners and Virtuettes—the long line of parallel movement within the building: acrobats swimming on dusty ceilings; huge beasts leaving their mammoth shadows on walls; babies born in pits filled with echoed fog; slight, tall, huge-eyed creatures watching all of the Hope Games from the roof: cantankerous jagged morsels tumbling into a scattershot portrait.

The Second Hiatus is Still On

2006-05-01T08:15:00.000-07:00

For my 6 1/2 readers, I apologize for the lack of material lately. Most of my work is updated on the right side and contains my Jambands.com gold.

In the meantime, after two trips to New York in a month covering the Allman Brothers Band, the Jammys Awards, the inaugural Green Apple Music Festival and the premiere of the excellent documentary, Wetlands Preserved, I have also been working on my third novel--four years and counting--and a new non-fiction work about how the mind interprets sound based upon heredity and environment and how these two components need to be reevaluated.

Coming soon will be album reviews of work that is being used for the non-fiction tome and film reviews that have helped shaped imagery that transcends human comprehension. Until then, enjoy my conversations with the heady folks on the right and a review or two.

Thought_Theme_Title_Component: STRESS

2006-04-08T11:18:00.000-07:00

Thought>Process>
Theme>Universal>
Title>ARC>
Definition>arc, n. An architectural arch. The luminous bridge formed by the passage of a current across a gap between two conductors or terminals, due to the incandescence of the conducting vapors.

Can you see the bridge? Where’s that confounded bridge?

He turns the Kaleidoscope…why? Why not?

And this is what he imagines…

Component: STRESS:
Disconnected, fractured, exhaustive approximation of subliminal design switching between back-and-forth motifs. Where is the growth within parallel death and rebirth developments—man and machine? Bits of matter strewn across the skyway, byways, lonely at first, changing to reflect metamorphosis, check that, transformation, check that, the man-machine duality, once lifeless, now towering above life—stressed and sagging along the beams; disembodied focal joints. Edifice, dead. Bones, tired.

The city outside smells of new mown black tar tortured endlessly by the muscles of some terminally employed construction worker. She sits staring at this awkward behemoth. He was probably the one who sat in the back of the classroom, smoking a bowl with his friends in high school. The teacher was too low-paid and genetically weak to offer a fight. She let him smoke his spiraling oblivion; he let her continue breathing. A man entering the bar and plane of vision from the entrance breaks her daydream. With a whiff from quite a different circle of smoke, the man offers her a Dunhill.

Strange. That is what her last boyfriend, Jon, smoked. Not a good sign. This creature isn’t looking like he is going to change that perception either. Slight of build; ordinary looking; black hair; the feel and grip of new money about to be squandered on some stupid stock choice suggested by some friends who had cashed their options at their dying dot coms and vanished into the early-21st Century Night to pick up on Life and Chicks and Action and Loud Talk about Shit That Didn’t Really Matter. She imagines him to be a bar floor-sucking pig and, in fact, he is. But she is alone tonight. And bored. Always bored: The Curse of Wee Infant Species.

Nothing offers her anything anymore. Everything is yesterday and outdated; tired and reworked: films, television, good good, MUSIC—who would save music? Music is a reflection of the early 1960s. Jesus, that’s forty years ago now. Music is at the point it was pre-Beatles: pointless, no-brainer, disposable crap. [Early on in this very complex novel, the author has a passage that actually contains the lines “pointless, no-brainer, disposable crap.” If I was feeling lazy, I’d begin my book review with that handy ménage a trois.

Instead, I too will begin with a definition. schizophrenia, n. Behavioral disturbances such as withdrawal from reality, delusions, and progressive deterioration; dementia praecox.

Reader beware: transcendence is not free. Read and read very well. Don’t say I, friendly book reviewer, did not warn thee, inquisitive member of “Wee Infant Species.”]

The Beatles created modern music; the Sex Pistols gleefully destroyed it. And thank the devil for that. Music had become tepid and mainstream again. We were left with heroes sitting on plump pillows in the South of France, far removed from the teenage angst of burning city streets. But what came after? Jimmy Page—the last of the dying Guitar Gods—extended keen insight: “I don’t mind a revolution, just show me where we’re headed after we destroy the old monarchy.” Indeed. Music had a blueprint that built a house that could only last so long. Must be American. She thought of herself as sort of post-punk. She felt she had a weird dirty blonde Patti Smith thing going on. Punk rock’s aftermath? Only genius remained. The rock dinosaurs sucked heroin into their veins, waiting…waiting for something new, interesting, apocalyptic; waiting for another trip down the electric stardom corridor. Kurt Cobain picked up the pieces, but who was there to pick him up? Ten years gone. Music is a mixture of garage, techno, hip hop, rap and geeky knob twisters.

“Want a cig?” he asks, breaking another of her bored mind ramblings.

“Sure.” And what the hell is she supposed to do? She is lost and afraid of being in moments that seem recycled. Black eye shadow symbolizes her mood and outlook. “No future, indeed,” she thinks—echoing punk rock’s dying sentiment. “Is that it?” she concludes—echoing Bob Geldof’s post-punk resolution. The stranger lights her Dunhill and sits down next to her.

Everything In Its Right Place

Stanislaw Lem - 1921-2006

2006-03-28T09:19:00.000-07:00

Stanislaw Lem died recently. He was an author of numerous speculative and science fiction novels, perhaps his most famous was Solaris--a very heady book that was reintrepretated twice on celluoid. 1972's classic Russian film version was directed by Andrei Tarkovsky [a personal favorite of mine but met with mixed feelings from Lem] and the recent American version was directed by Steven Soderbergh [also met with mixed feelings from Lem]. What follows below are two stories. The first, from the New York Times, is an excellent synopsis of the man and his work. The second, from his official web site, features his views of the cinematic interpretation of his work.

VIRTUOSO STORYTELLER

The Polish writer Stanislaw Lem is both a polymath and a virtuoso storyteller and stylist. Put them together and they add up to a genius... He has been steadily producing fiction that follows the arcs and depths of his learning and a bewildering labyrinth of moods and attitudes. Like his protagonists, loners virtually to a man, his fiction seems at a distance from the daily cares and passions, and conveys the sense of a mind hovering above the boundaries of the human condition: now mordant, now droll, now arcane, now folksy, now skeptical, now haunted and always paradoxical. Yet his imagination is so powerful and pure that no matter what world he creates it is immediately convincing because of its concreteness and plentitude, the intimacy and authority with which it is occupied... read Lem for yourself. He is a major writer, and one of the deep spirits of our age.

THE SOLARIS STATION

After the premiere of this remake of the Tarkovski movie I read a number of critical reviews, which appeared in American press. The divergence of opinions and interpretations was enormous. The Americans in a somewhat childish manner "grade" films just like children's papers in school. Hence there were critics who gave Soderbergh's Solaris an "A", the majority agreed on a "B" and some gave it a "C".

Some reviewers, like the one from the New York Times, claim the film was a "love story" - a romance set in outer space. I have not seen the film and I am not familiar with the script, hence I cannot say anything about the movie itself except for what the reviews reflect, albeit unclearly - like a distorted picture of one's face in ripply water. However, to my best knowledge, the book was not dedicated to erotic problems of people in outer space...

I cannot say anything reasonable about its creation - the book somehow "poured out of me" without any previous planning and I even had difficulties with the ending. However since I wrote it over forty years ago, from today's perspective I perceive it in a much more objective and rational way. I am also capable of finding analogies to other works, located in high regions of the world literature. Melville's Moby Dick could serve as an example; on the surface the book describes the history of a whaling ship and Capitan Ahab's pernicious quest for the white whale. Initially the critics destroyed the novel as meaningless and unsuccessful - after all why care about some whale the captain most likely would have converted into a number of cutlets and barrels full of animal fat? Only after great analytical efforts the critics discovered that the message of Moby Dick was neither animal fat nor even harpoons. Since much deeper, symbolic layers were found, in libraries Melville's work was removed from the "Adventures at Sea" section and placed elsewhere.

Had Solaris dealt with love of a man for a woman - no matter whether on Earth on in Space - it would not have been entitled Solaris! Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, an Americanized Hungarian specializing in literary studies called his analysis "The Book is the Alien". Indeed, in Solaris I attempted to present the problem of an encounter in Space with a form of being that is neither human nor humanoid.

Science fiction almost always assumed the aliens we meet play some kind of game with us the rules of which we sooner or later may understand (in most cases the "game" was the strategy of warfare). However I wanted to cut all threads leading to the personification of the Creature, i.e. the Solarian Ocean, so that the contact could not follow the human, interpersonal pattern - although it did take place in some strange manner. The method I used in the novel to demonstrate this was the particular outcome of the interest of people, who for over one hundred years have been studying the planet Solaris and the ocean covering its surface.

One should not speak of a "thinking" or a "non-thinking" Ocean, however the Ocean certainly was active, undertook some voluntary actions and was capable of doing things which were entirely alien to the human domain. Eventually, when it got the attention of little ants that struggled above its surface, it did so in a radical way. It penetrated the superficial established manners, conventions and methods of linguistic communication, and entered, in its own way, into minds of the people of the Solaris Station and revealed what was deeply hidden in each of them: a reprehensible guilt, a tragic event from the past suppressed by the memory, a secret and shameful desire. In some cases the reader remains unaware of what has been revealed; what we know is that in each case it was capable of incarnation and physical creation of a being the hidden secret was connected to. Ocean's actions lead one of the scientists to an emotional distress that ended in a suicide, others isolated themselves. When Kris Kelvin initially arrived at the Station he was unable to understand what was going on: all were hiding and in the corridor he encountered one of the phantoms - a giant Black woman in a reed skirt with whom the suicide Gibarian presumably had been conflicted.

Kelvin's recklessness and imprudent behavior in the past had not prevented the suicide of his beloved woman Harey. He buried her on Earth and in a sense he buried her in his mind as well - until the Ocean made her come back at the Solaris Station.

The Ocean appears quite stubborn in his ways: the creatures, a kind of remorse of the Station's scientists, cannot be gotten rid of - even those sent into space come back... Kelvin initially tried to kill Harey; later he accepted her presence and tried to play the role he had to abandon on Earth - of her beloved man.

The vision of the Planet Solaris was very important for me. Why was it important? The Solarian globe was not just any sphere surrounded by some jelly - it was an active being (although a non-human one). It neither built nor created anything translatable into our language that could have been "explained in translation". Hence a description had to be replaced by analysis - (obviously an impossible task) - of the internal workings of the Ocean's ego. This gave rise to symetriads, asymetriads and mimoids - strange semi-constructions scientists were unable to understand; they could only describe them in a mathematically meticulous manner, and this was the sole purpose of the growing Solarian library - the result of over a hundred years' efforts to enclose in folios what was not human and beyond human comprehension; what could not have been translated into human language - or into anything else.

One of the reviewers admitted he would prefer to see Tarkovski's Solaris one more time. Others speculated that while the producer won't make a lot of money and there will be no crowd at the box office, the film belongs to the genre of a more ambitious science fiction - since no one got murdered and neither star wars, nor space-werewolfs nor Schwarzenegger's Terminators were present. In the US an atmosphere filled with very concrete expectations usually accompanies the release of every new film. I found it interesting that although my book is quite old - almost half a century means a lot in present times - someone wanted to take the risk despite the fact that the plot did not meet the abovementioned expectations. (Along the way he might have gotten scared a bit, but the latter is a pure speculation on my part.)

The book ends in a romantic‑tragic way; the girl herself wished to be annihilated, not wanting to be an instrument with the help of which the one she truly loves is being studied by some unknown power. Her annihilation takes place unbeknownst to Kelvin - with the help of one of Space Stations' residents. The Soderbergh movie supposedly has a different, more optimistic finale. If this were the case this would signify a concession to the stereotypes of American thinking regarding science fiction. It seems that these deep, concrete ruts of thinking cannot be avoided: either there is a happy ending or a space catastrophe. This may have been the reason for the touch of disappointment in some of the critics' reviews - they expected the girl created by the ocean to turn into a fury, a witch or a sorceress who would devour the main character, while worms and other filth would crawl out of her intestines.

Solaris was submitted to the next year's Berlin film festival and in Poland the film will be shown only after the festival is over. Polish distributors obtained a copy of the movie, however I am not that eager to see it.

The information that Soderbergh started filming my novel (although no one knew what the film would be like) crated an increase in publishers' interest from different countries. In Germany Bertelsmann took over Solaris, while the Danes, Norwegians, Koreans and an Arabic publishing house (from Syria) - also expressed interest in that title. Publishers also enquire about my other works. However all of this is only a side effect and has nothing to do with the novel itself.

Summing up, as Solaris' author I shall allow myself to repeat that I only wanted to create a vision of a human encounter with something that certainly exists, in a mighty manner perhaps, but cannot be reduced to human concepts, ideas or images. This is why the book was entitled Solaris and not Love in Outer Space.

Stanislaw Lem, December 8th, 2002

Bass Great, Lesh Filling on Route 66

2006-03-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

Big Phil Lesh of the Good Ole Grateful Dead turned 66 years young last Wednesday and there's no better way to envelope yourself in some good Phil then a sweet '74 show and his autobiography which was published last year. Here's some heady praise. My comments were included from my Homegrownmusic.net book review. My full review burrito is at the end of the patchwork quilt of hardcover praise, which, I assume, may or may not appear on a future paperback release.

Searching for the Sound (Hardcover)

"[Lesh] consistently exhibits a peculiar and poetic fondness for language, transforming what could have been a routine exercise in nostalgia into a work as graceful and sublime as a box of rain."
-New York Times Book Review

"Lesh's tome is a lively read, with just the right mix of dirt, drugs, and diligent tour diaries."
-Entertainment Weekly

"Perhaps the best realized sequence in the book is Lesh's description of those dual defining moments of the Summer of Love -- Woodstock and Altamonte. He uses the Dead's association with each concert to illustrate the rise and fall of the 60s philosophy. From the idealistic Heaven of that three-day music festival to the chaotic inferno created at the hands of some of Hell's own 'Angels', these sequences literally vibrate off the page."
-PopMatters.com

"Even for the most well-read Deadhead, there's enough between the covers to make it worth a look."
-The Associated Press

"Searching for the Sound is the best Dead book to date because (a) it's the only book written by a band member, and (b) it's the only book that identifies the chief cause behind the long, slow, tortuous demise of Garcia and the original 'Grateful' Dead as a lack of communication. Yeah – other books have touched on this well-worn subject, but Lesh writes in great detail how this happened, why and what it did to their relationships and the scores of employees who were funded by the great touring dinosaur. The irony that the Dead became even more popular post-1987 and that this cursed fact only added expenses to GD…tragic - the snake that had bit the tail of the '74 Dead had returned to become the size of a continent; swallowing the band as they jammed on and on and on... What is even more amazing – and Lesh certainly understands this fact and expertly strums its sordid edges in his brilliant 336-page coach session – is the fact that the Dead were considered the leaders of improv dialogue between its members…on stage. Why the problems unresolved off stage? Why the denial? Why the hypocrisy? Why, indeed."
-Homegrownmusic.net

The Village Voice gives Phil Lesh's SEARCHING FOR THE SOUND a rave review, praising Lesh as the only Dead memoirist who was "quintessentially there." "Searching for the Sound provides an emotionally forthright reckoning of the Dead's lush life..."
-The Village Voice

Whether you're a Deadhead or a music enthusiast—or if you’re simply interested in reading a really solid book that spans the decades from the fifties to the nineties—Searching for the Sound delivers a poignant, soulful look at life through the eyes of a rock star.
-Nightsandweekends.com

"Lesh is intellectual, articulate and reflective...it's the small, intimate moments Lesh shares that make the book so special."
-The San Francisco Chronicle

"Lesh infuses his prose with his wacky personality...Deadheads will surely celebrate Lesh's honest, intimate remembrances."
-Publishers Weekly

"Phil Lesh... "keeper of the post-Garcia flame" who is responsible for "reshaping both (the Grateful Dead) and the public's understanding of its legacy."
-New York Times

Phil Lesh Autobiography Searching for the Sound Due Out April 18…Phil comes clean about 40 years with the Dead…

Phil Lesh has always been someone unsatisfied with the ordinary course of things. His instincts have driven him in directions that would make the avant-garde blush and the outsider feel like a two-faced insider. Out of all the members of the Grateful Dead that came and went and stayed and passed on and returned and played and went on hiatus, Lesh is the one member who maintained his singular search for the sound that had never been heard, never been expressed, yet still moved our minds into challenging acreage. And as one of the first Psychedelic Rangers he ought to know. Then again…some music is so powerful that a blissful motif can produce a narcotic feeling; Lesh’s muse guaranteed one mission: we would all ride along on that journey and Phil would help lead the way. Sure, Jerry Garcia was always the figurehead, the icon behind the Dead Mask, but it was Lesh who silently gave Captain Trips his audio definition, psychic electric freeways, decibel grenades. Give Lesh his due – he has pondered ideas we cannot fathom. Difficult and abstract? Sure. Boring and mundane? Nope. Ghostwriters aplenty helping Lesh re-tell his musical oceanic tales? Refreshingly – NO WAY.

Searching for the Sound is the best Dead book to date because (a) it’s the only book written by a band member, and (b) it’s the only book that identifies the chief cause behind the long, slow, tortuous demise of Garcia and the original ‘Grateful’ Dead as a lack of communication. Yeah – other books have touched on this well-worn subject, but Lesh writes in great detail how this happened, why and what it did to their relationships and the scores of employees who were funded by the great touring dinosaur. The irony that the Dead became even more popular post-1987 and that this cursed fact only added expenses to GD…tragic - the snake that had bit the tail of the ‘74 Dead had returned to become the size of a continent; swallowing the band as they jammed on and on and on...

What is even more amazing – and Lesh certainly understands this fact and expertly strums its sordid edges in his brilliant 336-page coach session – is the fact that the Dead were considered the leaders of improv dialogue between its members…on stage. Why the problems unresolved off stage? Why the denial? Why the hypocrisy? Why, indeed.

There are so many excellent passages that it seems ridiculous to try to quantify the tome or split hairs with chapter quips. Let’s just say that Lesh details his musical growth as a child, his amazingly generous parents who besotted their only child with many blessings – material and otherwise, his genesis as an extremely bright yet awkward outsider, his odd and sad relationships with the ladies in his life (he didn’t find his soul mate until his early 40s), Altamont ’69, Egypt ’78, his frank discourse on his alcohol and cocaine problems which only exasperated the tensions that existed on profound multi-layers when wedded with Garcia and his brutal ride from Kafkaesque to Shakespearean drug wars. No one in the Dead ever just said no; they said yes and secretly complained if someone else didn’t say no. This hazy milieu became a very complex maze without an exit; hence, the difficulties in communication which dragged on for the last 25 years of the band.

And he does all of this without a syllable of arrogance. Lesh is humble, deferential and deeply respectful towards those who helped visualize his art. Especially touching is his fond appraisal of Bob Weir’s career-long talent development. Lesh is equally generous, honest and compassionate towards Weir’s eccentric genius. Furthermore, the many sequences about the ancient guitar god/drug sorcerer are powerfully direct and painful – Garcia in the Flesh. He also writes with joyous warmth about his wife, Jill, and his two sons, Grahame and Brian. If the reader doesn’t think this is important enough to appear in a book about music or it’s just an old fart sapping on about his loved ones…well, something’s happening and you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?

The book spends more than 250 of its pages not even entering the 1980s. If this is a disappointment to you, don’t be alarmed or offended. Lesh is following his thesis and the sound he was searching for existed throughout most of the 60s and 70s and returned again in the late 80s but drifted on the shores of malaise until the late 90s. He survived a liver transplant during that segment of the last decade, but none of that has seemed to slow Lesh done mentally or physically. If anything he has come to terms with his life and made peace with the Ghosts of Tours Past.

Today, he is still taking chances as his recent Count Basie on Acid extravaganza indicated. He brought this cavalcade of musicians to San Francisco stages in December 2004 and February 2005. The Man is 65 and he played like he was 25, 30, still seeking that arch note that would bring an even bigger grin to his youthful face. I was lucky enough to catch one of those shows and he was the youngest cat on stage - beaming and ecstatic – he knew he still had the goods and, in a big way, so did we. Who thought he could write so well? Credit Mr. Dylan again for paving that road like he has done so many times before. Last year’s Chronicles – Volume 1 raised many eyebrows in-and-out of the musical community and you had to think that Phil Lesh thought it was his turn too.

And he played the right note again.

Forget your blessed Dead concert tapes, CDs and downloads for a week…read this book and pass it on like the grand 8/27/72 buzz it is – epic teleportation to a timeless space.

- Randy Ray

Porn Maple Syrup

2006-03-19T22:00:00.000-07:00

syrup
The thing that gave the old drunk away was the odd stench of six months of Midwestern atmospheric hell, teabags and walleye fish. I pegged him for a tired simpleton from a long lost era—the pre-9/11 currency blitzkrieg; the second Great Californian Gold Rush that led some into ill-advised venture capitalism, others into enough personal electronic hardware to light up a small city. Accessibility 24/7, 365/366, available at all hours, even daydreams get monitored.

"Where had I known this gimpy broken-down shack of a creature? The audacity. He's got his Target specials resting on my coffee table. I say nothing and assess the eerie coat of Anti-Feng Shei that hovers over the scene in my apartment."

Memory comes clean at last. The halcyon daze of micro-observational journeys...a seasick sailor...a refugee from the land of Keyboard Finger Stab. Wasn't that what we called the beergut punk? Finger Jab Stabs from the Meager Pig Slabs? Or was it something a little more direct? Dunno.

I threw my bag on the floor and quickly thought better of my action. I retrieved the sack of goodies and carried them down the hall. Locked them safely in my room. Turned and walked down the hall to face my ancient literary friend and commence a conversation about our self-published tome. What will it be this time? What are we working on? Random scribblings from some nut job combined with visionary design free of the restraints of unimaginative corporate halfwits, smack-addled directors and ego-driven lust monkeys?

Yep, lock up all of the belongings. Trust him with the funky word sorcery, but sure as a night of stinky fish in the wharf, don't trust him with anything of real value...not even a pregnant wife will keep this lecherous sot from stealing my Knob Creek.

maple
acoustic daydreams bleed from lonely instrumental guttural holes howling rude sounds from some downtown hipster bar; cantankerous sundry phlegmatic youths pass the time sipping on lullaby-inducing liquid while embracing the translucent hue and hoary texture of warm uptown chairs-stern and firm, solid and brown, bellicose frown hidden in the lowly shallow trees next to sleepwalking migrant workers trying to earn a dollar, a peso, a yen for keeps, keeping a beatific grain while barter grain rats pillage the acoustic daydreams seeking an echo of flesh to condemn their egalitarian-etched enemies, praising their hopelessly-hemp hostels, mocking their fastidiously-fashioned fountains which radiate virgin bloom as genuflecting ghosts from a childhood long gone waltz to a stripper mouthing words as she edges her heels across the ancient fungus-eating tableau

porn
coy strangers tossing quarters on a springless surface-rolls of crimes seductively crossing curves-heavy metal two-fisted fantasia-the scorn involved wraps itself together and vomits hypocrisy and dread-violence defeats sexuality on the fundamentalist playground-the other side: loungey waistlines, supple and invisible as three, two become one-a hard agreeable floor-a comfortable torso-a misunderstood field of plenty-life and limbs and laundry lists of lecherously lusty limbo laced with larcenogenic liquid porn selling shrink-wrapped mayhem- a dream within a dream-who decides what is right, wrong, indifferent-the microsecond moment before the Big Crunch and the aftermath of the red glow of the Big Bang-radiate virgin bloom? ancient fungus-eating tableau? A landslide of celestial thigh portion choices. Dark Magickal Lust Taste Dreams too huge to ignore.

One for the Home Team

2006-03-09T07:27:00.000-07:00

Paul Brady – Dodge Theatre – Phoenix, AZ – 2/16/06

Opening act, Ireland’s Paul Brady, sat in on acoustic and backing vocals on two songs he had written that Bonnie Raitt had covered, as she brought the euphoric spell…

Paul Who?! Paul Brady, ya bastid. Brady is opening up for Raitt on her current tour and he did a mighty fine job of it in his milieu of wounded and witty acoustic troubadour.

(Q: Fine. Where’s my heady pre-Bonnaroo AZ Raitt review, mate?

A: That what you seek, will be revealed in print, if you get my Relix reference, oh impatient jam lit geek. In a word: passion. The gal is ALL about passion.)

Brady sings timeless chestnuts both recent and from the past that had the sell out crowd smiling, laughing, listening and focused. He commented that this was his first trip to Arizona and before I could blurt out, “I’M SORRY!” my wife elbowed me in the ribs. Co-authoring several Raitt songs (he would play “Not the Only One” later on when she gave her own performance), his style is equal parts Celtic wanderlust and old time Robert Hunter truth serum. He focused a lot of attention on his new album, Say What You Feel, which, fortunately, sounded rich and vital like all of the rest of his material in his own warm brand of flirtation with the desert crowd that would reach a great height, indeed, when the magnificent and ageless Raitt took the stage.

Café et Chocolat

2006-03-04T07:56:00.000-07:00

I was asked "What do you heady rock critics talk about when you're sitting around in your leather bound chairs with your pipes filled with the finest kind and your brandy snifters rotated by a blonde lass who is switching channels at the slightest signal from your finger between A&E, TCM, Comedy Central and Spice?"

Well...here's a sample of an extraordinarily saucy intellectual e-mail exchange. Light up and enjoy pondering the size of the universe on the tip of a pin needle being held by a drunk god.

Oh Brother, Tao Art Thou?

"--it's about looking for what Virginia Woolf called "the moment of being."

Most fascinating part of your e-mail. Stuck with me the whole week. Hit me: Wait a minute - I have that book. Three five-shelf book shelves in the half-ass wall room. First shelf, second row somewhere in the middle stands (sits? rests? meditates?) Moments of Being: Unpublished Autobiographical Writings of Virginia Woolf edited by Jeanne Schulkind.

Anyway...pg. 19: "Such a moment for Virginia Woolf is one of recognition and then revelation - the value of which is independent of the object that is catalyst - and, as such, is very close to [James] Joyce's notion of epiphany...the experience of the moment of being is so personal, the belief in a transcending order so intuitive, that...it will not bear arguing about; it is irrational."

Amazing. Hadn't looked at that book since around 2001 when I was consolidating my novel writing style. Anyway...so one is asked to write about a man on a bike in a city approaching a bunch of kids on a playground and told to make the piece have 'a moment of being'.

A stab at the aforementioned 'moment of being' epiphanic assignment:

The boys in the schoolyard are not upset with the rain either. They continue to throw the object up towards the rim bouncing the soaked rubber toy off the green, metal backboard leaving perfectly circular marks on its surface. I ride by them with about three blocks to go before I’m home and the ball rolls out onto the street and knocks into my front bike tire. The wheels screech to a stop. The bike is set on the curb and I grab the ball narrowly missing being sideswiped by a plodding motorist driving around 25 MPH. I look up and a kid about 10 approaches me. He’s not like a grownup - doesn’t look right through me. He looks direct into my eyes and smiles. I nod. “Here you go.”

I leap back onto my wet bike seat and head the additional three blocks to my apartment groaning that I would be home soon and I didn’t want this feeling to end. This rain. At this time. This is a sensation I can’t articulate and I do something which I can only label, yet again, unexpected surprise. I burst out laughing. I roar so loud that I throw my arms in the air and heave them back and forth like a spasmodically-crazed nightclub dancer who is suddenly dropped out of nowhere -

Enough of that joycean jive. I think you meant in a situation without an obvious hook. What impresses me about everything you write is that not only to do you illuminate the Woolfesque (Woolfian? Woolfy?) moment, but you layer ideas down that no one else would ever imagine. Anyone can find the hook in a song but you insert humor, reason and interesting tidbits that warrant further research on one's own.

I would like to find out if you ever find a moment in a piece that changes you in any way. Has any writing ever changed your philosophical point of view in a way like none other? Have you ever written anything anywhere where your literary point of view was at odds with what you thought you believed in as a person? Can someone writing for a living challenge and interest themselves without losing a paycheck? Have you ever had to write something that you truly didn't believe was worthy of notation?

How do you master that "music" of the language? I've tried hard but there are a few times when I can't get the piece to swing - more like some really bad synth band from the 80s. Humbling. Sounds so easy: "making sense on first reading..." How many writers can make sense and be humorous, entertaining, informative and culturally relevant at the same time?

I practically wrote my first log for the fire...uh...novel listening to The Basement Tapes on headphones. I'd love to get the complete set - 5 CDs, I think - someday. Obviously, I love Greil Marcus. Read all of his gear - including the excellent Invisible Republic before its inexplicable name change to Old Weird America - I guess that was based on his liner notes to the Smith American Folk box set. Again...love Marcus. My quip about his aging facade was my usual cheap & lame attempt on my part to get a laugh!

Noise Tone Poems

2006-03-03T08:21:00.000-07:00

Platform East 3
Call waiting blizzard blitzkrieg late night eve-dropping visitor in a ghost-like setting camouflage subterfuge - the more things change the more they remain the same - camel jockeys fidgeting during nocturnal cab rides - stranger sits in the shadows under low-lit wooden canopy - boy, man, god, shit - come on come on, judy, just punch me one more hit - london - ny - chicago - denver - sf - hong kong - the lights aglow - spaceship has landed and taken off - same dream, different day - the more things drift the more they remain the same - three pieces of the same ragged paper - three peaches waiting inside a club down the way, topless and friendly and wouldn't you like to know - three projects toking on the same circular pipe, evolving into a historical record of what was, could be and is - the more things atrophy the more they remain the same - remain in the shadow too long and you become a shadow - talking head - in light

Nocturnal Median
Honored and cool that it worked out this way - gritty black & lusty saloon brew spread out over our heads: might be drunk, but I’m not a whore. This location...especially at night with its candle-lit exteriored luminaries and lights from various trees reflecting off the beautiful and peaceful highway offered an enchanting companion piece to its sister, loping licks, abetted by various atmospheric elements - an ambient lucid dream into cool atmospheric lands teasing escalation into muted samples welded to delay loop within a rhythmic pool melting down into an evolutionary tanglewood: the whole tasty banquet - blended spicy soup with several whiskey shots shout-spewing from the side of the everchanging road abreast with middle of the field. So toxic, my skin could feel the burn. "Fuck the police. I don’t know if you got stopped coming in, but I think that shit’s illegal." Eve Journey - kick ass imaginative and progressive.

Across the Sway

2006-02-27T13:25:00.000-07:00

We were in a bar where gypsy dixieland bluegrass jazz was stomping from the stage towards our cocktail and beer-laced tables. My eyes were glued to this aging white cat who was playing percussion like Mitch Mitchell at Woodstock. He was laying down some mean grooves. Funny thing: he appeared ecstatic, near nirvana, a satisfied old spirit gearing the whole band towards a protean rhythm; back-and-forth, the N’awlins trance encircled the music and shot monkey sounds: piano, trumpet, bass and drums—diggin’ the Acoustic Church while sippin’ on a few brews. This white percussion cat was both in his element and angry. Reason: across the sway, the way, the sway was being rudely disrupted (as opposed to politely disrupted…anyhoo), this white cat was pissed because some awful tone-deaf chuggin’ and blooze, pseudo-sock-and-pull was thrashing nearby—another bar altered air waves with ugly, undisciplined noise, third-rate garage band trying to sound like Buddy Guy, worshiping the thud of rock; denying the careful anchor of a sonic thunderclap. Old white cat was hooked into evil—wonderfully purple and orange and red and deep black colors like Hendrix. Old white cat for a brief moment was AFRICA. Beat Gem on Bourbon Street. The Thud Blooze offered watered-down Chicago poison—man, Chicago blues, when played properly, is also AFRICA: voodoo-drenched, unpredictable, magical; poetic rituals interchangable and terrifying yet strangely accurate. Planet Pulse moves within the wrists of an expert witch doctor skin-pounder. Fire: black saxophone player, Mexican string bender, Australian aborigine blowing air through a wood hole, old white cat hammering a brisk pace down the tunnel through improvisationally-perfect Jazz. Mean Street.
- excerpt from a bizarre carousel, R.M. Ray, copyright 2000

The Anti-Pitch

2006-02-24T10:25:00.000-07:00

I'll throw a few background stories into the mix as I head out onto the vast, polluted waters of Blogtopia. Here's an "Inside the RMR Looking Glass" (with thanks to FAST COMPANY). I worked for ATTIK a few years back as a copy editor/writer, 24/7 wordsmith hell raiser. If HST was the King of Fun then ATTIK was the Kingdom to Create Serious Fun. And you didn't need thick skin to take creative criticism, you needed skin made of STEEL. As Chuck Dickens wrote, it was the best of sordid design sublimes, it was the worst of looming deadline crimes...

for Brit Mad Dogs Ian & Garry, Yanks Stan & Dani and, of course, Scottish Gordon

2001.
A Lonnnnnnnng Ass Time Ago
In a City by the Bay Far, Far Away
Steeped in Glorious GUINNESS

CUE "Everything in its Right Place" - RADIOHEAD

NoiseFour. represents a design experiment unmotivated by profit, clients, or internal procedure. Glimpse this "couture line" before it revolutionizes the mainstream. What would you create if your boss designated each Friday recess day? What would you try if your company gave you permission to play, dream about the future, bring your fantasies to life, and not once think about whether a customer would buy your creation?

That's what the higher-ups at British branding firm ATTIK decided to do to shake up even their most creative people and force some new ways of thinking.

From its start in a founder's attic in the northern England city of Huddersfield, ATTIK has created what it calls its "couture line of design." Like the way-out fantasies that fashion designers create for the catwalk, ATTIK's couture line, called Noise, is a way to show off what the design firm would create given free reign of money, time, and clients' desires. Indeed, the ideas expressed in Noise were so impressive that San Francisco's Museum of Modern Art put volume three in its permanent collection.

But when it came time to create NoiseFour., ATTIK realized that the couture line was no longer couture. Clients who saw NoiseThree wanted to use -- even overuse -- the ideas expressed inside. "The look -- highly detailed, color saturated -- was everywhere. MTV was using it for its promos. So were CNN and UPN," said William Travis, president of ATTIK's U.S. division, based in San Francisco. "It was frustrating."

So ATTIK executives searched for a way to breed creativity and conjure a design line that looked nothing like past experiments. By giving everyone (not just the zealots who worked on their own time to create NoiseOne, NoiseTwo, and NoiseThree) a chance to contribute, ATTIK hoped to foster a richer level of creativity and teamwork. "We wanted everyone to spend 20% of their time on experimentation," Travis says.

The result was an ivory-white, hardbound book that represents a significant departure from other Noises, which resembled heavy-metal record jackets designed by fanciful pubescent boys.
NoiseFour is almost austere. One section simply features a series of color washes including purples and light golds. The idea: "We wondered what rooms of the future would look like. The walls would be light sensitive and the colors would change, so you could feel as if you were on the beach or at a nightclub," Travis says.

The most out-there idea in NoiseFour., the "Nave," explores how spaces change depending on individual perspective. The book chronicles a series of ATTIK-sponsored events that tinkered with three-dimensional Naves. One such event had ATTIK attaching big mirrors to the side of a community center so that passersby could gaze upon the reflected sky rather than an ugly gray building.

In the end, the ideas generated by NoiseFour. will make their way into client pitches and ad campaigns, Travis admits. "But for a while, these ideas will remain unpolluted by any client's desires. They are just about our own experimentation."

Bonnaroo Hullabaloo

2006-02-16T09:59:00.000-07:00

The recent announcement of the 2006 Bonnaroo Festival lineup brought a wide variety of reactions from the jam community. Some were stunned that Radiohead—far superior to the alleged worldwide U2 kingdom—was going to headline the event. Some were happy that Phil Lesh was going to make an appearance. Some were relieved with the eclectic lineup, which featured many indie rock acts alongside jam acts—similar to the very recent and successful inaugural Vegoose festival. Bonnaroo has arrived as a multi-dimensional festival with many fruits from the vast musical forest of pleasures.

Well…there was quite another vocal faction that was very upset that the number of jambands on the initial lineup announcement seemed so paltry; although, the lineup was far from complete and fans could be rest assured that more bands—as they had in the previous four years—would be added that’s more to their liking. The thought was that the folks at Superfly who ran the ’Roo sold out and were now trying to keep up with other festivals including Wakarusa in Kansas and Coachella in California. As a veteran concert and festivalgoer, longtime Dead and Phish fan, I find the low tolerance level of some jamband fans to be ludicrous. The fear that a festival like Bonnaroo was setup as a cool hippie hangout that is now going to attract 19-something indie rock newbies onto the scene completely misses the point. Bonnaroo was setup as a festival to showcase a wide variety of bands that normally one couldn’t see on one bill—admittedly, a majority of these acts were jambands but even last year boasted quite a variety of groups that only had a very thin link with the hallowed and sacred jam scene. Furthermore, bands like The Mars Volta flew over the heads of many people in the audience because they were, indeed, offering a new sound to an audience that had started to atrophy; late night gigs are meant for experimental music that should challenge an audience and that improvisatory spirit is alive and well in the lineup selected this year.

The 2006 Bonnaroo lineup, as it has in the past, already boasts a solid lineup of formidable star acts, important solo artists, major players in the jam community, a diverse grouping of new music acts and the most innovative band in the world over the last ten years—Radiohead. Plus, the Oysterhead reunion, Mike Gordon’s new project, guitar goddess Bonnie Raitt and the continuing maturity of Umphrey’s McGee coupled with a revitalized and strong Disco Biscuits makes this year a festival to miss at your own risk. Be forewarned—the scene that you inhabit is elusive, evolutionary, liquid and fluid; it does not wait for you to accept change. It IS change. Listen with an open mind and ears and you can’t go wrong. Now, let’s jam, shall we?

- Randy Ray covered Bonnaroo for Relix/Jambands.com in 2005 and he’ll be out covering the sights and sounds across the miles again for the Bonnaroo Beacon in 2006.