Jackson, Wyoming June 2014

Amid the Teton Mountains

where pines climb steep ridges

until disappearing into

sheer rock faces topped

with snow that often

blends with clouds

that linger

before slowly

moving to distant peaks

causing onlookers to peer

upward

finding a blue sky

melding flawlessly into the

terrestrial landscape.

A Record Player and a Little Reminiscence

My daughter, Emma, turned 17 last week.  My wife, Laura, bought her a turntable, one of those Crosley models.  So maybe I was a little more excited about the gift, but I’m the one with Rubbermaids full of old albums, the fruit of my lawn mowing jobs starting sometime in junior high. 

Record albums.  Large. Bulky.  Space-hogging.  The collection of songs on my albums could fit into the memory of an iPod which slips easily into a pocket or clips to a sleeve.  But let’s forget about convenience for a moment, and talk about aesthetics.

I look at the front and back sides of an album cover, and sometimes the inside, if it opens up, and think of them as canvases for a display of the musician’s or band’s individuality.  Photography, paintings, illustrations, and even literature.  The display area of a compact disc is, by necessity, minimized.  And except for the display area of your mp3 player, nonexistent. 

I ceremonially chose a Bruce Springsteen album, Nebraska, to christen the player with, an album so acoustically stark, that it begs to be heard through a needle pressing down upon its grooves.

I found my Buffett albums, going directly for his 70’s Key West sounds.  I started with A White Sport Coat and A Pink Crustacean, and placed it on the record player, before studying the beauty that is album cover art, and, in this case, the literature that follows.

The entire front cover is a photograph of Buffett taken by one of his old Key West cronies, Guy de la Valden.  In blue jeans and barefoot, his head adorned with a cowboy hat, and wearing a white sport coat with extra-large lapels, he sits on lobster traps in front of a wooden fishing boat at the docks, a blue Florida sky in the background.

The back cover is simple, the lyrics to every song of the album displayed in order of appearance on the record.    But what struck me was the ode to the musician and album by Tom McGuane, who reached his literary fame after writing 92 Degrees in the Shade in the 70’s.

The folk orientation in recent music has always been selective and a little arbitrary. We are the beset by the quack minstrels of a non-existent America, bayed at by the children of retired orthodontists about "hard times" and just generally depleted by all the clown biographies and ersatz subject matter of the drugs-and-country insurgence that is replacing an earlier song mafia. In fact, maybe your stereo has already shorted out with slobber anyway.

Nevertheless, it does not seem too late for Jimmy Buffett to arrive. He is dedicated as ever to certain indecencies and shall we say reversible brain damage; his duties toward the shadowy Club Mandible of Key West have yet to be explained. And of course he was among the first of the Sucking Chest Wound Singers to sleep on the yellow line. And as a souvenir of some not so terrible times, this throwback altar boy of Mobile, Alabama brings spacey up-country tunes strewn with forgotten crab traps, Confederate memories, chemical daydreams, Ipana vulgarity, ukulele madness and, yes Larry, a certain sweetness, But there is a good deal to admire in Buffett's inspired evocations from this queerly amalgamated past most Americans now share. What Jimmy Buffett knows is that our personal musical history lies at the curious hinterland where Hank Williams and Xavier Cugat meet with somewhat less animosity than the theoreticians would have us believe.

And just like they don’t dance like Carmen no more, music isn’t packaged as prettily as it was once upon a time.

 

 

Avett Brothers White River Park June 14, 2014

Scott Avett was asked once by somebody listening to their NPR Tiny Desk concert if he had swallowed an amplifier, a reference to the projection of his rich, if at times, gravelly, voice. I grinned while thinking of that figurative description as I listened to that voice in fine form, working in union with his brother, Seth, whose smooth tenor contrasts just enough to make every song an adventure in style and tempo.

The concert, set against a burning westward sky, took place on a cool June evening atypical of the humid, Midwestern summer.  It started strongly with Live and Die from The Carpenter, and proceeded full-tilt boogie with Down With the Shine, which, for a song that could be considered a waltz, radiates undeniable energy in a live setting.  Laundry Room followed suit with its otherworldly I am a breathing time machine lyrics, and erupting in its hoedown climax in which you see upright bass player Bob Crawford and cello player Joe Kwon jumping up and down while picking and strumming their respective instruments in frenetic rhythm.  The energy continued with a frantic rendition of I Killed Sally’s Lover before slowing down a bit with George Jone’s The Race is On and a pretty rendition of the traditional Be Kind to Man While He’s Down, which I’m quite certain I’ve heard Old Crow Medicine Show perform live, as well.

The climax, from my perspective, was Pretty Girl From Chile, ebbing and flowing and culminating in Seth’s Latin guitar solo that would likely have any individual with a little soul in his heart jumping to its beat.  The encore ended with I, and Love, and You, which is fine, if expected.

A last note on showmanship goes to the almost indescribable knee jerks of Seth on his guitar and Scott on his banjo in the throes of rhythm and song.  Like Mick Jagger’s stage strut and Dave Matthew’s instrumental dance silliness, I would emulate their performance presence if I had the talent to be up there in front of thousands.

 

 

A Note on Music to Mom and Dad

I was driving Emma to her friend’s house tonight to practice for her ensemble performance.  I told her she could play music through the car radio from her i-Phone.  I didn’t know the music or band, and wasn’t sure if I liked it, but asked her who it was and how she learned about it.  For some reason, it made me think about music and both of you.

Music has always been very important to me.  At least from a fairly young age.  Could never really play a lick of it, but sure as hell enjoyed listening to it.  Still do.  Music has always brought out emotions, and evokes memories.  I can measure stages of life with the music I was listening to.  There is a song that used to come on the radio, particularly when my clock radio alarm would go off in the mornings when I was in 7^th grade.  It was the month or so prior to spring break, and we were going to Anna Maria.  It seems that each time I heard that song, it was a day closer going to a place I loved.  It was that much easier to get out of bed.  When You See a Chance, Take It by Stevie Winwood, in case you are curious.

It started with sitting in the rocker in the living room in Milford, where the stereo was.  I listened to my first album, The Monkees’ Greatest Hits, over and over.  I knew it was the best music ever.  As I sang along, I wondered how it couldn’t be. 

I realized that musical tastes are often cultivated in the car.  There’s the radio of course, but in my formative years, it was the cassette player.  Dad-You had a tape that I think about to this day.  It was a year’s worth of top hits from the top country artists.  I remember listening to the lyrics of Skip a Rope, by Henson Cargill (Had to look that up on the Internet) and D-I-V-O-R-C-E by Tammy Wynette.  I learned that songs told stories.  I didn’t realize I was learning about social issues, as well.  And talk about stories.  I’m quite certain that cassette tape contained Jimmy Dean’s Big Bad John.  I realize now how parents influence their own children in various ways.  I might not have admitted that I liked that music then, but I sure do appreciate it now.  I understand and love the fact that traditional music, Americana, builds on the blues of the south and string instruments of Appalachia.  With XM radio, Outlaw Country stays close to the roots.

Mom-You took me to my first concert.  Neil Diamond.  I wish I knew where we saw him.  Riverfront Coliseum?  I’m just not sure.  I remember my Neil Diamond phase.  My favorite song is still Shilo.  About the boy who had the imaginary friend.  I remember feeling comfortable enough to play my music in the car with you.  The Buick Regal.  I’d play my Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, and music I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate.  But you were always ok with it.  That was important to me.  I felt like I could experiment with music.  Test it out to see if it was worthwhile.

One thing I will always remember is that neither of you ever censored my music.  In Milford, I finally got my own turntable for my bedroom, and I bought and listened to KISS.  Davy Hemminger wasn’t allowed to listen to that band, so he’d have to come over and listen to it at our house.  I remember my first job, cutting Mr. Pauly’s lawn each week.  He paid me $35 each time.  I spent a significant amount of my earnings on records.

One of the most exciting things you ever bought me was my first stereo system.  Dad brought me to Swallens, and we picked out a tuner, cassette player, and turntable.  We added a cd player my freshman year at DePauw.  I still have most of those components, though they’re not functioning any longer.  I hang old records on the wall of my classroom.  They’re kind of like antiques to the students.

It makes me smile to think of such things, as music goes.  I’m happy that my children appreciate music, and can actually play it.   I love that I understand the influences in my life.  Music isn’t a cure-all.  But it sure can make you feel good.  And if you want, it can provide a soundtrack to life.

The Old Guy’s Still Got It

I’m going to start my piece, which happens to be about a Jimmy Buffett concert, with 3 questions.

1.     My sister:  “How many Jimmy Buffett concerts have you been to?”

Me:  “The first time I went was 1987.  I almost got into a fight with a group of men and women who felt I was encroaching on their lawn space.  I was young and stupid, still in college, so I had an excuse.  I’ve gone just about every year since to at least one show between River Bend in Cincinnati and Deer Creek in Noblesville.  So somewhere between 25 to 30 shows.”

 

2.    My wife, Laura:  “Are you going to continue going to Jimmy Buffett concerts?”

Me:  “Yes.  Jimmy Buffett is young at heart, but getting up there chronologically.  I still enjoy seeing him perform in a setting that is accurately described as Parrot Head phenomenon.*  I will go see him as long as he continues to perform, which he does not need to do, and as long as I am able.”

3.     My buddy, Mark, with whom I have attended many Jimmy Buffet concerts, including this one:  “Are you going to disappear tonight?”

Me:  “A fair question, as I have done so in the past, moving stealthily from the lawn with my friends to the pavilion as  a rogue fan, intent on seeing the band perform in a closer and more personal setting.  But, no, since our tickets are actually both in the pavilion, centrally located, on the end of our row.”

 

 

 

July 16, 2013

I still love seeing Jimmy Buffett perform.  I missed him in Indiana this summer, but scored tickets in Cincy, and asked the afore mentioned friend, Mark, to go.  It’s somewhat of a tradition for us, as guys go, and there’s no doubt that he will appreciate the show any less than me.  And what can you say about a concert that starts with the strange, low moan of a conch shell horn?

 

I was happy with the introduction, Kinja, from Jimmy’s and Herman Wouk’s collaboration on the off Broadway production of Don’t Stop the Carnival.  As a matter of fact, he followed that with a late 70’s gem about sailing, Landfall, and an early 80’s song celebrating the nightlife along the northern Gulf of Mexico, Stars on the Water.

 

 

I mention this because I’ve gotten to a point that that I can take or leave the majority of Jimmy’s Songs You Know By Heart.  I’m interested in the songs he places between the greatest hits on his set list.  That being said, I still love the lyrics of Changes in Latitude… and I have my arms up in the shape of a shark’s dorsal with the best of them during the inevitable version of Fins.

 

I appreciated Cultural Infidel and Knees of My Heart, and actually enjoyed the Coral Reefer Band’s rendition of Lionel Ritchie’s All Night Long.  A song that I was not familiar with, but took a fancy to, was one called Back Where I Come From, which was penned by, unsurprisingly, Mac McAnally. 

 

When it comes right down to it, the part of the show that most touches my heart, is the last song of the encore.  For a long time, it’s been just Jimmy and an acoustic guitar, like his pre-Key West days, busking on the streets of New Orleans.  On this particular evening, he serenaded us with his love song to Cayo Hueso, I Have Found Me a Home.  And like this island, among many others, upon this stage, he has.

The days drift by
They don't have names
And none of the streets here look the dame
And there are so many quiet places
And smilin' eyes match the smilin' faces.

[Chorus:]
And I have found me a home
Yes, I have found me a home
And you can have the rest of everything I own
'Cause I have found me a home.

My old red bike
Gets me around
To the bars and the beaches of my town
And there aren't many reasons I would leave
Yes, I have found me some peace.

And the ladies aren't demanding there
They never ask too much
And when you're coming off a cold love
That's sure a nice warm touch.

[Chorus]

The days drift by
They don't have names
And none of the streets here look the same
And there aren't many reasons I would leave
Yes, I have found me some peace
Yes, I have found me a home.

Written by Jimmy Buffett from the album:

 

 

A Family's Loss, A Neighborhood's Grief

If there is anything I try to adhere to while writing for this blog, it’s a sense of light-heartedness and joy in the topics I choose.  But in a world that defies explanation, there are topics I find necessary to broach that tug at ones heart and hang there heavily, waiting for explanation that generally does not come. 

In late spring of 1998, my family moved to Fishers, Indiana.  The neighborhood is called Sawgrass, and we have been here ever since.  The family that first greeted us in our neighborhood has the name of Riekhof.  They lived across the street.  Mike and Mitzi had two young daughters and a son came later.  They moved to another neighborhood eventually and another son was born to make a family of six. 

We’d see the Riekhofs from time to time, and I even had the pleasure of working with their oldest son on math and reading one summer.  Those details aren’t really relevant. 

Just last week, one of their daughters went missing.  It was out of her character not to contact somebody at home, and a network of communication was put into place immediately.  Yesterday, I asked if I could be of use, and was instructed to search a stretch of road with two neighbors.  Our goal was to locate a cell phone or any personal artifact or clue to her disappearance.  With a number of members of our community, and some outside of it, there was a search and a hope that an 18 year old daughter and member of our community would be located and safely returned to her family in a reunion as joyful as that as a certain prodigal son.

But as I said, our world often leaves us wondering, and late in the afternoon, a beautiful girl was located, not of this world any longer.  There is a family, one that has touched our hearts, who is hurting in a way that I pray will never affect the ones that I love.  There is nothing I can say, write, or feel in my being that will ever offer peace to that family who lost a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, and a niece.

One aspect of this site is to recognize people who, in my heart, represent a sense of light.  These thoughts derive from feelings of neighborhood.  A truth, and what I feel to be a burning sense of spirit, is a group of people who have been there from the first lonely realization that a family member wasn’t home.  David and Susan Delafield have been with the family every day.  David has headed a tactical search station for the community each and every day she was missing.  Dave and Sandra Sutton have been available to the family before, during, and now in this phase of the situation.  I take strength in the actions of these individuals, whom I am proud to call my neighbors.  I only hope the Riekhof family can find some strength through those who care so very much.

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, June 2013

 

 

 

 

 

Live oaks, draped with Spanish Moss, make me look Heavenward and appreciate what lies in my line of vision.

And thus, my appreciation  for the South Carolina low country can be summed up in fairly few words.  I have been blessed, as my parents have owned a home on Hilton Head Island for the last 15 years.  We've visited during the less crowded winters  and prime summer months during that span.

Always, I have been aware of the water surrounding me.  The Atlantic Ocean rolls toward the island at the beckoning of our moon, and winds lift salt into the air, invigorating one's nostrils so that little doubt is left as to your location.  A latitude and longitude that gives way to sunsets silhouetting cabbage palmettos on the horizon.

In personal terms, the words fresh seafood are legitimate, and the majority of shopping can be done at a grocery called Piggly Wiggly.

And while driving, or pedaling a bike on that island, I will look up, and see the outlines  of Spanish Moss hanging against a sea blue sky reflecting light on a low country island and the surrounding ocean.