Well, once again I've nailed a nice title. Let's see if I can walk the talk. The Ramblers played the Deer Head last night, that quintessential jazz club we've been sneaking into on account of the previous owner decided that we really play crackerjazz.
Of course it's all true.
When the father of us all invented the music, he took the idea of breaks, not from rock and roll so much as from jazz, where the player has more latitude in his improvisations. Think about it. When someone is playing air guitar and pretending that he is Jimi Hendrix playing "Purple Haze", does he ever vary the notes he makes with those annoying "Nar nar nar nar, nar nar nar nar~!" sounds?
Of course not.
Incidentally, despite the fact that women are genetically superior to males in dancing, face-making and interior design, you will never see one playing air guitar with their lips curled in a feral snarl and slinging their hips around like Elvis with a bad itch.
Guys---maybe you better ought to stop. And of course you will never ever ever see a bluegrass player do that stuff either.*
It's not because we're girls. Although some of us are, I guess. No, it's just that we have too much dignity for that. Oh, sure, some yupped up middle aged chicks with their slinky black dresses and that too-red lipstick that brands them as being "urban" chic might gag on their crudettes when they hear that, the idea that a bunch of crackers like us have gravitas. But we got that in spades, that gravitas stuff. Hell, people have been known to start orbiting around James King, he's got so much of it!
Tonight was a perfect example of why the rest of the world needs to tune into some bluegrass once in awhile. I was at a lovely dinner where my son and namesake was performing with a troupe of singers and actors that put on cheery plays like "Les Mis" and "Into the Woods" and other real artsy works like that were everybody dies in the end.
Now, you'd think I'd be all up for that--it sounds just like a good bluegrass song, right? Things start off bad and then you gotta plug your wife because she runned oft with some Rambling man. But, well, they didn't all look like they were having real fun. First of all, they were all decked out in dresses so tight I bet if they ate an olive they'd pop a gussett someplace. I mean, at least the women were. The guys had on tuxes, and I have to admit they do make you look good even if your body parts don't quit match up. You can always tell when you are looking at real perfoming artistes. They don't know that you're supposed to spackle or paint or something constructive while you wait to become famous, and so consequently they tend to walk around looking a bit pale and wan because they don't eat right.
And they are inordinately fond of rich folks, because the rich folks become their patrons, which is a nice way of saying that they're doing what some women have been doing since Mary Magdeline was plying her trade.
Man, those rich folks spend money like drunken sailors on stuff a bluegrasser could slap together in an afternoon. I saw a table they called a "star" table because the top was shaped like a star, and it went for 300 bucks. Hell, the thing wasn't even big enough to eat a TV dinner off of, and it had cut legs and not turned ones, so I bet I could pop that puppy out in a day or two, and my table would actually twinkle or something cool, or maybe transform into a small bed for kids, dogs or small bluegrass drunks.
Anyway, these folks got up there and they sang a bunch of Italian songs, like Faniculi and Oh solo mio and stuff like that, and that was fun. My kid and all his friends had us peeing our pants, they were so funny and they sang so well.
Makes a dad proud, I can tell you, when your kid doesn't grow up to be just exactly like you hehe. Anyhow, after they got done and all the rich folks were bidding silently on baskets and pottery and other stuff they were prolly just buying to spite the other guy, the serious professional actors came out and they started singing opera, of all things.
Man, and here I was trying to digest a second helping of meatballs and they were hitting notes that made that little piece of cartiladge in my nose start to rattle around in there, they was so high up. It reminded me of what Twain said about Wagner.
"It's better than it sounds," is what he said.
Now that Sam Clemens was one smart feller, all right. I was laughing to myself because I was wondering what would have happened if last night's Ramblers had busted in there and started playing the way we played last night. That snooty chick that managed to work into the conversation in the first thirty seconds that her outfit was straight from Kenya where she spent the last three years would have been looking aghast or askance or maybe akimbo at us, being so authentic and all, and us singing in English, of all things.
Don't get me wrong. Culture is great, and I've been meaning to get me some, soon as I can determine that I can afford it. In the meantime, we had a great time watching all these folks posing. I felt like Diane Fossa with those grillers in the mist. And there were some really beautiful harmonies in a few of the pieces (that would be "aireahs" to you, thank you very much!) that would have even made the bluegrass cut.
But. Four bucks for a glass of beer? Hell, if you get what you pay for I shoulda come home stumbling drunk. Instead I had to raid the wine cellar and break out a nice bottle of shiraz, 2001, and have some of that to calm me down from all that culture.
That stuff really got my dander up, I can tell you. Made me want to get one of them sparkly dresses and a hat with horns onto it and belt out a few show tunes hehe.
Anyway, bluejeans and a t-shirt, a bottle of rosemont and a cheap cigar go a long way to washing the stink of haut couture off a guy. And I can dream of smash-mouth bluegrass songs about plugging the bejabbers out of your girl and the guy that done you wrong and then dumping their bodies in the river, and singing that we will all meet in the great bye-and-bye, where hopefully there is some kind of quota system on that culture stuff.
It is sweet to have something to compare yourself to. *hehe*
* Unless he's been at some shine. Then he might be liable to do most anything, but whatever it is he decides to do it generally ends with one of several options: he burns down his trailer, he loses his car or he wrecks his truck. Come to think of it, you don't generally see too many girls juiced up on shine doing any of those things. THat would be another place they have it over us.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Happy Bluegrass Birthday
Absolutely the best benefit of being a bluegrass musician is the wonderful gift of playing with people who could crush rocks in their metaphoric musical hands.
Yeah. Tonight some friends came over during the debacle that destroyed the hope of Carolina, and we started running over some Irish tunes, it being only fifty-some days until St. Patrick's day. This was after last night where our flute and whistle expert Barbie commanded the day at a local pub and eatery and reduced even die-hard Italinas to do a little jig.
So here we were the next afternoon, almost all of us back together and feeling sweet---oh, maybe a little ragged---and we started with something mundane, like maybe it was Cooley's Reel. Kendell was on bass and I was playing mandolyn, Neil emoting and Miss Barbie on the whistle and flutes. Well, none of us was jumping up and down giddy with delight on that one, but it got the blood going, and I thought we had done a credible job of playing that tune, being the first and all. It felt pretty good, sounded sound: you know! All the things that make a music thing music were there.
So I was sitting there kinda blinking happy when my guitar buddy says to me, "All I can say about your mandolin playing is, you should play less."
Now I'm not some L&I guy that is trained in labor negotiations. Last week the sumbitch was complaining that I sounded like a bass player playing the mandolin. I was all ready to hang my head until I realized something.
I was a bass player playing mandolin. OR actually a guitar player that had been corrupted by playing bass who was trying to rectify by playing mando.
So I asked him what the hell he meant and he gave me that so-smart nod and he said: "You know." Well, one thing I thought of was that maybe bass players don't play so many notes, being bereft of strings, comparitively, so I had thought to throw a couple extra mando notes in there, to get us all out of that bass mind-set. And then there was too many notes all of a sudden.
Pah. Everybody is a critic! That's when Dean stepped up and diced it properly.
"Pete," he said."You gotta shop at the play-less store."
We laughed our asses off on that one. Well--Dean and I did. Neil was still being serious. But that's not surprising. He's one of those guys walking aroung ass-less these days, pants falling off of poor them. They laughed their asses off in days of yore and they have no more ass to keep up those trousers.
And in case you are wondering about the happy birthday thingie, it was my birthday weekend, although our friends in Hamilton Township have elevated the phrase to mean something more like "screw you". So these old guys would be out there BBQing a thousand halves of chicken (best damn chicken going--they use butter and lemon juice as the marinade btw) and smiling all nice and saying, "Hey Dave! Happy Birthday, my friend!" hehe.
Think about that the next time a bunch of tuneless folks croon that old favorite. IN the meantime I have to go play.
Less. *Snark!*
Yeah. Tonight some friends came over during the debacle that destroyed the hope of Carolina, and we started running over some Irish tunes, it being only fifty-some days until St. Patrick's day. This was after last night where our flute and whistle expert Barbie commanded the day at a local pub and eatery and reduced even die-hard Italinas to do a little jig.
So here we were the next afternoon, almost all of us back together and feeling sweet---oh, maybe a little ragged---and we started with something mundane, like maybe it was Cooley's Reel. Kendell was on bass and I was playing mandolyn, Neil emoting and Miss Barbie on the whistle and flutes. Well, none of us was jumping up and down giddy with delight on that one, but it got the blood going, and I thought we had done a credible job of playing that tune, being the first and all. It felt pretty good, sounded sound: you know! All the things that make a music thing music were there.
So I was sitting there kinda blinking happy when my guitar buddy says to me, "All I can say about your mandolin playing is, you should play less."
Now I'm not some L&I guy that is trained in labor negotiations. Last week the sumbitch was complaining that I sounded like a bass player playing the mandolin. I was all ready to hang my head until I realized something.
I was a bass player playing mandolin. OR actually a guitar player that had been corrupted by playing bass who was trying to rectify by playing mando.
So I asked him what the hell he meant and he gave me that so-smart nod and he said: "You know." Well, one thing I thought of was that maybe bass players don't play so many notes, being bereft of strings, comparitively, so I had thought to throw a couple extra mando notes in there, to get us all out of that bass mind-set. And then there was too many notes all of a sudden.
Pah. Everybody is a critic! That's when Dean stepped up and diced it properly.
"Pete," he said."You gotta shop at the play-less store."
We laughed our asses off on that one. Well--Dean and I did. Neil was still being serious. But that's not surprising. He's one of those guys walking aroung ass-less these days, pants falling off of poor them. They laughed their asses off in days of yore and they have no more ass to keep up those trousers.
And in case you are wondering about the happy birthday thingie, it was my birthday weekend, although our friends in Hamilton Township have elevated the phrase to mean something more like "screw you". So these old guys would be out there BBQing a thousand halves of chicken (best damn chicken going--they use butter and lemon juice as the marinade btw) and smiling all nice and saying, "Hey Dave! Happy Birthday, my friend!" hehe.
Think about that the next time a bunch of tuneless folks croon that old favorite. IN the meantime I have to go play.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Bluegrass Musicians: the Next Wave of Educational Leaders
Anyone who is not awed and inspired to have the honor of being a teacher is a nitwit and should stop teaching immediately. Many do, they just forget to quit. From those ranks of toilers and lookers-on, a fortunate few become the "educational leaders" of both our teachers and our children.
Being fairly close to Presidents Day, it's appropriate to point out that the kind of leadership some of us have been treated to is the same kind that discovered the new world.
You take Columbus, of whom we eye-ties are very proud, thank you very much. We're so thankful to him that we forget that Columbus damn near died, then he found some folks running around in some banana leaves, and after claiming everything he found for some Queen, not his own one, either, sat there jabbering to that bunch of indiginous folks of indeterminant tribe thinking they were a big bunch of
Well, the resemblance was remarkable: Both the Caribs and the real-deal Indians had the same highly developed culture, architecture and custom, and they...wait. Scratch that. They had nothing in common! But they were both really strange-looking,so I guess we can forgive the mistake.
But back to leadership like Columbus, we need to remember that things didn't turn out well for Don Columbo or his brothers, or, well, the guys that sailed with him, for that matter. They did manage to try and save the Indians, but the attention didn't have the desired effect on them, either.
The whole story is a bit jumbled, on account of all the folks that were there are dead now. And that was a best case scenario. Ole Chris and cohort could've clipped a coastline and crashed, too.
So in some of our schools, these LLC's (do I really need to?) are busy leading our schools down dark alleys and trying to lose us all like some big brother that doesn't want you around and tries to ditch you so he can make out with some hottie someplace.
Mind you, I'm not saying that these folks are with some brazen hottie from a small town just the other side of the county line.* From the looks of some of them, I kind of doubt it.
But they've amazed me before.
I suspect some of them are not doing what they do on purpose, so I guess I try to forgive those folks in advance. All I'm saying is that leadership like that makes me dizzy and I want to sit down.
So I got to thinking about how the schools would be run if it was up to bluegrass musicians. Hehe. That made me feel some better, I can tell you! So now that I got that rant offen me chest, here's a short list of some of the things you would notice if you walked into a school run like that:
First, there would be lots of little groups of people with instruments in every square inch of the building, completely eliminating vandalism. Oh--and these groups would be playing music and singing and being happy, except when the banjo was too loud or the mandolin player screwed up his break or..well, they'd be happpy most of the time, anyhow. And when they weren't, everybody would gather 'round and eavesdrop, almost like a fight except nobody would get hurt and there would be no mess. Oh--and hardly any hard feelings.
Second, nobody that didn't really love being there would last long. There is no shoulder colder than a turned bluegrass shoulder.** It's the BG equivalent of being shunned. It's like walking around a festival where nobody likes you or needs you because you add nothing to the sauce. Everybody else gets offered hot dogs and high-fives except you, so after awhile you just go home. That alone would save us about 30% of our bill right off the top, chasing off that stinky 10%.
Kids would love it, too. They don't like slackers, sneaks or smackers either.
And last thing would be that the bluegrass leaders would be people who:
1. Knew how to play their instrument for real and not be all talk.
2. Knew how hard it is to learn.
3. Listened when others played or sang---really, really listened, from the bottom of their feet.
4. Had taste and knew when not to play.
5. Had judgment and knew who could really play and who was all blow and no go.
6. Understood that songs have a beginning, a middle and and a point.
7. Nurtured the players coming up and helped them.
8. Always thought of others first. Or at the very least a close second.
9. Never ever did something that would make the song sound bad.
10. Never, ever, ever forgot that music without listening is like breathing in without breathing out, like kissing somebody that isn't kissing you back, like an afternoon watching NFL without a achingly cold Yuengling and crispy toothsome hot wings and friends and freedom and health and a night without a warm bed and someone you love to come home to.***
*A fine song title, by the way.
**That would be too, except it's too hard to say fast. Try it. It's like trying to sing "The Irish Washerwoman" at warp speed.
*** Is this an old Santana song by accident? If so, I say, "Yo, Carlos! Via con Dios!"
Being fairly close to Presidents Day, it's appropriate to point out that the kind of leadership some of us have been treated to is the same kind that discovered the new world.
You take Columbus, of whom we eye-ties are very proud, thank you very much. We're so thankful to him that we forget that Columbus damn near died, then he found some folks running around in some banana leaves, and after claiming everything he found for some Queen, not his own one, either, sat there jabbering to that bunch of indiginous folks of indeterminant tribe thinking they were a big bunch of
Well, the resemblance was remarkable: Both the Caribs and the real-deal Indians had the same highly developed culture, architecture and custom, and they...wait. Scratch that. They had nothing in common! But they were both really strange-looking,so I guess we can forgive the mistake.
But back to leadership like Columbus, we need to remember that things didn't turn out well for Don Columbo or his brothers, or, well, the guys that sailed with him, for that matter. They did manage to try and save the Indians, but the attention didn't have the desired effect on them, either.
The whole story is a bit jumbled, on account of all the folks that were there are dead now. And that was a best case scenario. Ole Chris and cohort could've clipped a coastline and crashed, too.
So in some of our schools, these LLC's (do I really need to?) are busy leading our schools down dark alleys and trying to lose us all like some big brother that doesn't want you around and tries to ditch you so he can make out with some hottie someplace.
Mind you, I'm not saying that these folks are with some brazen hottie from a small town just the other side of the county line.* From the looks of some of them, I kind of doubt it.
But they've amazed me before.
I suspect some of them are not doing what they do on purpose, so I guess I try to forgive those folks in advance. All I'm saying is that leadership like that makes me dizzy and I want to sit down.
So I got to thinking about how the schools would be run if it was up to bluegrass musicians. Hehe. That made me feel some better, I can tell you! So now that I got that rant offen me chest, here's a short list of some of the things you would notice if you walked into a school run like that:
First, there would be lots of little groups of people with instruments in every square inch of the building, completely eliminating vandalism. Oh--and these groups would be playing music and singing and being happy, except when the banjo was too loud or the mandolin player screwed up his break or..well, they'd be happpy most of the time, anyhow. And when they weren't, everybody would gather 'round and eavesdrop, almost like a fight except nobody would get hurt and there would be no mess. Oh--and hardly any hard feelings.
Second, nobody that didn't really love being there would last long. There is no shoulder colder than a turned bluegrass shoulder.** It's the BG equivalent of being shunned. It's like walking around a festival where nobody likes you or needs you because you add nothing to the sauce. Everybody else gets offered hot dogs and high-fives except you, so after awhile you just go home. That alone would save us about 30% of our bill right off the top, chasing off that stinky 10%.
Kids would love it, too. They don't like slackers, sneaks or smackers either.
And last thing would be that the bluegrass leaders would be people who:
1. Knew how to play their instrument for real and not be all talk.
2. Knew how hard it is to learn.
3. Listened when others played or sang---really, really listened, from the bottom of their feet.
4. Had taste and knew when not to play.
5. Had judgment and knew who could really play and who was all blow and no go.
6. Understood that songs have a beginning, a middle and and a point.
7. Nurtured the players coming up and helped them.
8. Always thought of others first. Or at the very least a close second.
9. Never ever did something that would make the song sound bad.
10. Never, ever, ever forgot that music without listening is like breathing in without breathing out, like kissing somebody that isn't kissing you back, like an afternoon watching NFL without a achingly cold Yuengling and crispy toothsome hot wings and friends and freedom and health and a night without a warm bed and someone you love to come home to.***
*A fine song title, by the way.
**That would be too, except it's too hard to say fast. Try it. It's like trying to sing "The Irish Washerwoman" at warp speed.
*** Is this an old Santana song by accident? If so, I say, "Yo, Carlos! Via con Dios!"
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
A review of a reveiw of Bluegrass: the Novel
Well, it finally happened. Somebody bought my book and then they went and read it.
No, seriously, that happened awhile ago. What was different this time was that the person actually gave half a crap and went and reviewed it. Now, I know what they say about the dangers of believing your own PR. Look at what happened to that hoser that wrote "One Million Pieces", which turned out to be more like "5 easy pieces and a big load of crap". I guess I should be grateful I got three stars and comments that she liked my writing and that the book was a "light, easy read" and a sort of multi-culturalist's delight.
That last one would have any of my friends choking on their pork rinds and spitting Yuengling out their noses.
Let's not forget that, from the moment when my father fled the perils of New York back in the '40's, with all its urban trash---human and otherwize---I was fated to be born and bred an Italian redneck. That was kind of uncommon in the day, but I've since met a few more, and we are like anybody else in the forgotten middleland of the US.
Well, let me start by all the ways I have learned that "political correctness" that reviewer was talking about: first, I have learned not to choke on my cheetos when somebody with an accent as thick as somebody from the Soprano's informs me that they have just "moved up heah from New Yawk". I want to say, "Really? Wow. I thought maybe you were from France!"
And I don't point out that the eternal bitching new arrivals here in PA bless us with about the roads, the timeliness of contractors, or the tastes, sexual proclivities and education of us poor benighted locals is ironic in the highest degree. Yes, the roads are rough and full of gravel. Shoot--don't those folks know anything about research? Just put a freakin' bluegrass album on! Yes, we do prefer the opposite sex. I mean, you take that "BrokeAss Mountain" movie that all the yuppies are yammering about. I mean, I thought about it some, and I was thinking, give the guys the benefit of the doubt---all that time up there alone and all. But then I found out these "cowboys" were really sheepherders!
I mean, do I have to draw a picture??
About the education, I guess I don't know what to say to some union trashman about how he's improved the gene pool up around here, when all us poor fools actually went to school and learned to read and write and cypher and he's brought up kids that can't survive without a cellphone planted on their ear, where they spend every waking hour talking about American Idol. Eessh.
And yes, anyone stupid enough to believe that they will see any part of a contractor during deer season deserves to be left standing on a cold concrete slab looking sadly at a half-framed house.
But hey! You ever hear me saying any of that? Of course not! Doesn't mean I like it. It just means that I've been around the block enough times to know that saying something isn't going to change much. We're in the maw of the great American Consumption--death by burbicide. God grant me the strength, wisdom and courage to run like hell in the opposite direction when the going gets that tough.
So anyway, the reviewer didn't like my ending much--she was bemoaning how a real bluegrasser should have written an ending that would reject and smash the mainstream idiots that bluegrassers despise and hate.
If they really do, that is. Hell, some of the guys that I know and play with work in East Orange and drive new cars to their office jobs. Lots, actually. Many of them actually moved east. People do that from time to time. The whole romantic ideal of bluegrassers as toothless rural idiots, well, it's just not so. Some live in the city!
Actually, the idea of the note not played points right in the direction she thought I didn't go, but that's okay. Not everyone can read between the lines. So, hoping to gain that coveted fourth---or even fifth!---star, I offer the following treatments of various endings that might please our erudite reviewer:
A. Finding that playing nice and being a gentleman avails him not, Chat steals an F-116, hires Ty to fly it and nukes Hugh's headquarters in NY. Then he flies on down to the other Pigeon Forge, meets Dolly, who, moved to tears about his plight, sets him up and allows him to retire and play until his fingers fall off.
B. Seeing rapacious development engulfing the land he loves, Chat breaks into Oprah's show while taping and holds her hostage until she agrees to allow him to appeal to the American public to save the county. The American public, however, being broke from Katrina, Iraq and mindless consumption, annoyed with Chat's accent and his swarthy, outdoorsy look, sleepy from watching American Idol and secretly uncomfotable about the whole BrokeAss Mountain thing, doesn't send him a cent, and Oprah's popularity crashes, along with the hope of an itinerant novelist in Eastern Pennsylvania who, after years of scratching along on middling reviews and the odd insult from union trashman, had finally managed to get her to read his multicultural book about bluegrass. *Snort!*
C. Chat and the boys enlist the help of the dregs of rural society, and in a scene reminiscent of the barricade scene from Les Mis, push the urban interlopers into the sea, reclaim New York and the environs, and begin a bluegrass utopia on earth where all men are equal, the woman slightly less so, except for bass players and accordianists.
D. While everyone is arguing about this and that, a fluke burst of radiation from an Iranian underground test revitalizes a fleet of vikings, and they burst on the scene and hack and slew in an east coast version of something like "Beowulf" meets "Baywatch." (and hey---I thought of that last thing waaaaaaay before the capital one commercials!)
So, whadda think of me now? Huh?
Well--gotta run. It's time for my yoga class, and from there I have to check the fwang schway on my deerstands.
Bet she won't think that's too PC or mainstream!
No, seriously, that happened awhile ago. What was different this time was that the person actually gave half a crap and went and reviewed it. Now, I know what they say about the dangers of believing your own PR. Look at what happened to that hoser that wrote "One Million Pieces", which turned out to be more like "5 easy pieces and a big load of crap". I guess I should be grateful I got three stars and comments that she liked my writing and that the book was a "light, easy read" and a sort of multi-culturalist's delight.
That last one would have any of my friends choking on their pork rinds and spitting Yuengling out their noses.
Let's not forget that, from the moment when my father fled the perils of New York back in the '40's, with all its urban trash---human and otherwize---I was fated to be born and bred an Italian redneck. That was kind of uncommon in the day, but I've since met a few more, and we are like anybody else in the forgotten middleland of the US.
Well, let me start by all the ways I have learned that "political correctness" that reviewer was talking about: first, I have learned not to choke on my cheetos when somebody with an accent as thick as somebody from the Soprano's informs me that they have just "moved up heah from New Yawk". I want to say, "Really? Wow. I thought maybe you were from France!"
And I don't point out that the eternal bitching new arrivals here in PA bless us with about the roads, the timeliness of contractors, or the tastes, sexual proclivities and education of us poor benighted locals is ironic in the highest degree. Yes, the roads are rough and full of gravel. Shoot--don't those folks know anything about research? Just put a freakin' bluegrass album on! Yes, we do prefer the opposite sex. I mean, you take that "BrokeAss Mountain" movie that all the yuppies are yammering about. I mean, I thought about it some, and I was thinking, give the guys the benefit of the doubt---all that time up there alone and all. But then I found out these "cowboys" were really sheepherders!
I mean, do I have to draw a picture??
About the education, I guess I don't know what to say to some union trashman about how he's improved the gene pool up around here, when all us poor fools actually went to school and learned to read and write and cypher and he's brought up kids that can't survive without a cellphone planted on their ear, where they spend every waking hour talking about American Idol. Eessh.
And yes, anyone stupid enough to believe that they will see any part of a contractor during deer season deserves to be left standing on a cold concrete slab looking sadly at a half-framed house.
But hey! You ever hear me saying any of that? Of course not! Doesn't mean I like it. It just means that I've been around the block enough times to know that saying something isn't going to change much. We're in the maw of the great American Consumption--death by burbicide. God grant me the strength, wisdom and courage to run like hell in the opposite direction when the going gets that tough.
So anyway, the reviewer didn't like my ending much--she was bemoaning how a real bluegrasser should have written an ending that would reject and smash the mainstream idiots that bluegrassers despise and hate.
If they really do, that is. Hell, some of the guys that I know and play with work in East Orange and drive new cars to their office jobs. Lots, actually. Many of them actually moved east. People do that from time to time. The whole romantic ideal of bluegrassers as toothless rural idiots, well, it's just not so. Some live in the city!
Actually, the idea of the note not played points right in the direction she thought I didn't go, but that's okay. Not everyone can read between the lines. So, hoping to gain that coveted fourth---or even fifth!---star, I offer the following treatments of various endings that might please our erudite reviewer:
A. Finding that playing nice and being a gentleman avails him not, Chat steals an F-116, hires Ty to fly it and nukes Hugh's headquarters in NY. Then he flies on down to the other Pigeon Forge, meets Dolly, who, moved to tears about his plight, sets him up and allows him to retire and play until his fingers fall off.
B. Seeing rapacious development engulfing the land he loves, Chat breaks into Oprah's show while taping and holds her hostage until she agrees to allow him to appeal to the American public to save the county. The American public, however, being broke from Katrina, Iraq and mindless consumption, annoyed with Chat's accent and his swarthy, outdoorsy look, sleepy from watching American Idol and secretly uncomfotable about the whole BrokeAss Mountain thing, doesn't send him a cent, and Oprah's popularity crashes, along with the hope of an itinerant novelist in Eastern Pennsylvania who, after years of scratching along on middling reviews and the odd insult from union trashman, had finally managed to get her to read his multicultural book about bluegrass. *Snort!*
C. Chat and the boys enlist the help of the dregs of rural society, and in a scene reminiscent of the barricade scene from Les Mis, push the urban interlopers into the sea, reclaim New York and the environs, and begin a bluegrass utopia on earth where all men are equal, the woman slightly less so, except for bass players and accordianists.
D. While everyone is arguing about this and that, a fluke burst of radiation from an Iranian underground test revitalizes a fleet of vikings, and they burst on the scene and hack and slew in an east coast version of something like "Beowulf" meets "Baywatch." (and hey---I thought of that last thing waaaaaaay before the capital one commercials!)
So, whadda think of me now? Huh?
Well--gotta run. It's time for my yoga class, and from there I have to check the fwang schway on my deerstands.
Bet she won't think that's too PC or mainstream!
Monday, January 16, 2006
Bluegrass Humor
One of life's little mysteries is why some things you do in a negligent sort of way turn out to be wildly popular, while more serious endeavors meet with, well, a sort of big fat cosmic yawn. So all these years I've been working on being a serious writer like Steinbeck, Bellow, or Buckwald, and some little fluff pieces I cranked out in about seven minutes on the perils of fatherhood just made people giddy with delight. So when I wrote Bluegrass, I figured I should listen to what P.T. Barnum said and give 'em what they want, which was at least a little humor every other page or so. Or, well, at least every couple chapters. That and lots of wild sex.
But I knew my mom was gonna read the book, so I went easy on the wild sex.
That got me thinking about the whole concept of bluegrass humor. Bluegrassers are a pretty easy-going lot on a good day, and they do poke fun at themselves, but deep down there's a lot of players that take themselves vvvvvvvvvvvery seriously. It's sort of like making fun of your own dog. That's fine and dandy. But let somebody else waltz in there and say your dog isn't fit to take a poop and you might just have a fight on your hands.
So I was at a shindig yesterday, playing this and that, and I got to back up a serious yodeling cowgirl on bass. I mean, the words "yodel" and "serious" just don't even belong in the same sentence, but there she was, hitting notes I didn't even know existed and going like a house afire. Some people liked it. The good news is that you'll seldom find bluegrassers with kidney stones. I think I was working on one, but that high lonesome is better than lithotripsey for busting them suckers up.
What I've noticed is that some of the second and third generation players like me have a more playful attitude about the music. I mean, hell, we know it ain't mainstream, but it sure is fun. So one thing I just got done writing is our own version of the Skynard song which I call "Sweet Home Pennsylvania", because, let's face it, Kentucky and Tennessee get all the good songs and we don't even have one. So here are the words, out of the key of E, and I think they're pretty dang good ones, even if they did result from a weekend of excessive beer consumption and sleep deprivation:
Sweet Home Pennsylvania, where the sky is often blue
Sweet Home Pennsylvania, Lord I'm coming home to you.
IN Harrisburg we got a governor
(hoo hoo hoo!)
Lord he does what he needs to do
Now our governor don't bother us.
Does your governor bother you? Tell me true
Chorus
And then you finish up with
I never heard Neil Young sing about her
And I never heard ole Neil put her down
That's 'cause ole Neil he really likes us
We're so much fun to be around....
So yeah. It won't win any big prizes, but I think it's gonna sneak onto the Rambler hit list, right up there with Petticoat Junction, One Meatball and Fishin' Blues.
Now I know some of the old-timers might think that's sacriligeous, that you should only play fast songs about blasting the bejesus out of your wife with a .44, especially if she has long blonde hair. Hell, first thing I would do if I was one of those bluegrass beauties is get me some grecian formula for women and dye my hairs black. And I think I would avoid walking down stairs, too.
Anyway, the beauty of the music is the fact that Bill struck a right good amount of jazz into the stew when he cooked up the bluegrass recipe, and as everyone knows, when you'r a jazz player, it's not called a mistake.
It's improv hehe. So as long as somebody's listening, and if music be the staff of life, then play on, MacDuff!
And flights of blonde-haired bluegrass angels sing thee to thy rest in a comfy Barkolounger chair.
But I knew my mom was gonna read the book, so I went easy on the wild sex.
That got me thinking about the whole concept of bluegrass humor. Bluegrassers are a pretty easy-going lot on a good day, and they do poke fun at themselves, but deep down there's a lot of players that take themselves vvvvvvvvvvvery seriously. It's sort of like making fun of your own dog. That's fine and dandy. But let somebody else waltz in there and say your dog isn't fit to take a poop and you might just have a fight on your hands.
So I was at a shindig yesterday, playing this and that, and I got to back up a serious yodeling cowgirl on bass. I mean, the words "yodel" and "serious" just don't even belong in the same sentence, but there she was, hitting notes I didn't even know existed and going like a house afire. Some people liked it. The good news is that you'll seldom find bluegrassers with kidney stones. I think I was working on one, but that high lonesome is better than lithotripsey for busting them suckers up.
What I've noticed is that some of the second and third generation players like me have a more playful attitude about the music. I mean, hell, we know it ain't mainstream, but it sure is fun. So one thing I just got done writing is our own version of the Skynard song which I call "Sweet Home Pennsylvania", because, let's face it, Kentucky and Tennessee get all the good songs and we don't even have one. So here are the words, out of the key of E, and I think they're pretty dang good ones, even if they did result from a weekend of excessive beer consumption and sleep deprivation:
Sweet Home Pennsylvania, where the sky is often blue
Sweet Home Pennsylvania, Lord I'm coming home to you.
IN Harrisburg we got a governor
(hoo hoo hoo!)
Lord he does what he needs to do
Now our governor don't bother us.
Does your governor bother you? Tell me true
Chorus
And then you finish up with
I never heard Neil Young sing about her
And I never heard ole Neil put her down
That's 'cause ole Neil he really likes us
We're so much fun to be around....
So yeah. It won't win any big prizes, but I think it's gonna sneak onto the Rambler hit list, right up there with Petticoat Junction, One Meatball and Fishin' Blues.
Now I know some of the old-timers might think that's sacriligeous, that you should only play fast songs about blasting the bejesus out of your wife with a .44, especially if she has long blonde hair. Hell, first thing I would do if I was one of those bluegrass beauties is get me some grecian formula for women and dye my hairs black. And I think I would avoid walking down stairs, too.
Anyway, the beauty of the music is the fact that Bill struck a right good amount of jazz into the stew when he cooked up the bluegrass recipe, and as everyone knows, when you'r a jazz player, it's not called a mistake.
It's improv hehe. So as long as somebody's listening, and if music be the staff of life, then play on, MacDuff!
And flights of blonde-haired bluegrass angels sing thee to thy rest in a comfy Barkolounger chair.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Bluegrass Dilemnas
Well, you have to admit, that's a snappy title, and I'm sure something will come to me about the tough choices bluegrassers have to make concerning their avocation. I have to call it that because most of us don't make any money at this to speak of, which is really a clever code that I hope the IRS doesn't understand.
Let's face it, despite the fact that traditional bluegrass nuts* are generous to a fault with the things that they have, they are equally famous for their frugality. Where else would you see an old gas stove strapped to the back of a '72 Chevy pick-up with a brace of twenty-pounders on the running boards, while the operator grills venison chops and brags that the whole shootin' match, steaks, truck, stove and all only "costed 150 bucks. And a bullet." **
Be that as it may, there are approximately 17,347 bluegrass festivals in the US each year, some as small as a church picnic and some almost as big as.....ummmm, Akron. So it's my bet that somebody out there is making money at this thing. Oh, maybe not the big bucks that Darth or Barth or whatever his name is--you know, the bald guy that has to wear that big hat? But there is cash to be had, and of course those wonderful grilled venison chops with sauteed shitaki mushrooms, baby carrots and pearl onions served with a reduction of basalmic vinegar, dago red and a dash of cajun spice.
But on to the dilemnas, which of course is derived from the latin "dile" meaning to call someone,"mnas", a combinationof "m," which is latin for "very" and finally "nas", meaning "now", or, literaly, "call somebody smart right quick." And of course you want to call someone when there are tough choices to make, when things are really hard and you have to make a decision which is a tough decision. Even George Bush knows that.
So let's say you smell the venison steak up there in the third paragraph just when somebody like TJ and Bob Lundy show up with Dan and Mike Paisley right there and Donnie Eldridge wanders over and then they say, "Say, boys, lets play a few."
You 'd want to call somebody, right? But you wouldn't be able to, because you'd be too busy having a dilemna. That's one warning sign of those things. Another one is somebody wandering around jabbering in latin. Anyhow, I bet you a dollar you'd play anyhow and somebody else would eat those steaks right in front of you, because you can eat that kind of steak any old time, but a session with the Duke, Earl, Protector, Director and the Son of Grass, all at once? Shooooee---eeee! That's rare.
Like the steak. Hell, you know you'll still be hungry when the sun comes up, anyway, and the guy with the truck'll have eggs and homemade bacon cooking next day, and you'll get you some.
So, yeah. That's one dilemna. I was going to write about drinking beer and playing, but that's about as hard as drinking beer and fishing. Or whether to go over here and jam or go over there and jam, but it really doesn't make any difference, because if you do it right you'll play every square inch of the campground at some point or another.
I'd recommend you follow your ears first and then your nose. Oh, and make your bed first thing when you get there. There is nothing sweeter than a soft and ready bed after an all-night jam.
Unless it's the smell of coffee and homemade bacon being fired up on a crisp summer morning.
*"Nother good name for a bluegrass band. Hey--is anybody writing this stuff down out there?
**There's supposed to be a question mark in there someplace, but it looks wierd. So that's two dilemnas and I don't have to change the title. nanner nanner.
Let's face it, despite the fact that traditional bluegrass nuts* are generous to a fault with the things that they have, they are equally famous for their frugality. Where else would you see an old gas stove strapped to the back of a '72 Chevy pick-up with a brace of twenty-pounders on the running boards, while the operator grills venison chops and brags that the whole shootin' match, steaks, truck, stove and all only "costed 150 bucks. And a bullet." **
Be that as it may, there are approximately 17,347 bluegrass festivals in the US each year, some as small as a church picnic and some almost as big as.....ummmm, Akron. So it's my bet that somebody out there is making money at this thing. Oh, maybe not the big bucks that Darth or Barth or whatever his name is--you know, the bald guy that has to wear that big hat? But there is cash to be had, and of course those wonderful grilled venison chops with sauteed shitaki mushrooms, baby carrots and pearl onions served with a reduction of basalmic vinegar, dago red and a dash of cajun spice.
But on to the dilemnas, which of course is derived from the latin "dile" meaning to call someone,"mnas", a combinationof "m," which is latin for "very" and finally "nas", meaning "now", or, literaly, "call somebody smart right quick." And of course you want to call someone when there are tough choices to make, when things are really hard and you have to make a decision which is a tough decision. Even George Bush knows that.
So let's say you smell the venison steak up there in the third paragraph just when somebody like TJ and Bob Lundy show up with Dan and Mike Paisley right there and Donnie Eldridge wanders over and then they say, "Say, boys, lets play a few."
You 'd want to call somebody, right? But you wouldn't be able to, because you'd be too busy having a dilemna. That's one warning sign of those things. Another one is somebody wandering around jabbering in latin. Anyhow, I bet you a dollar you'd play anyhow and somebody else would eat those steaks right in front of you, because you can eat that kind of steak any old time, but a session with the Duke, Earl, Protector, Director and the Son of Grass, all at once? Shooooee---eeee! That's rare.
Like the steak. Hell, you know you'll still be hungry when the sun comes up, anyway, and the guy with the truck'll have eggs and homemade bacon cooking next day, and you'll get you some.
So, yeah. That's one dilemna. I was going to write about drinking beer and playing, but that's about as hard as drinking beer and fishing. Or whether to go over here and jam or go over there and jam, but it really doesn't make any difference, because if you do it right you'll play every square inch of the campground at some point or another.
I'd recommend you follow your ears first and then your nose. Oh, and make your bed first thing when you get there. There is nothing sweeter than a soft and ready bed after an all-night jam.
Unless it's the smell of coffee and homemade bacon being fired up on a crisp summer morning.
*"Nother good name for a bluegrass band. Hey--is anybody writing this stuff down out there?
**There's supposed to be a question mark in there someplace, but it looks wierd. So that's two dilemnas and I don't have to change the title. nanner nanner.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Bluegrass Superheros---it's all in the family
Well, on a recent walk-about I found myself thinking about the "icons of 'grass"*, which of course includes the father of us all, Bill. What started the whole thing was the thought that almost everybody I know on the bluegrass beat is defined by the instruments they play and not the jobs they do for the other 100 hours a week.
It's exactly like a family: you see a small number of them almost every day, then a few times a year you all get together and do something wild and then talk about it for the next ten weeks or months. Who wastes time talking about Chuck, the actuary, when he is also the guy that grills the best venison in the universe or the only one that ever survived a tumble down a large hill in a Porta-potty during some heavy weather?
So there's a guy that trains ferrets or something, and another one that works in the death room at the local hospital where they wait to hear lil bells ring when an almost-dead guy twitches his big toe, but we don't call them "Ferret-trainer boy" or "dead-ringer". They're "Al, the mandolin player" or "Moe, that guy that used to play bass but is playing guitar now. But he should go back to the bass."
That's because, in the bluegrass world, you don't really care what a person does on the outside.
In the military, they would call that "being in country." Forget about CAT scans and stress ratios; forget about the number of paperclips in a gross. What you want to know is, "What year is that Martin? And, oh, you guys got a can opener? I got some Vienna Sausages here that are just beggin' to be fried up, and a jug of syrup to go with 'em!"
So I seriously know a guy that is an advise councillor for iguanas, and another guy that makes motorcycles from recycled beverage containers, and a gal that makes 20 foot-tall "installations" made of those blown out truck tires you see laying all over the roads. They are, respectively:
mad dobro man
the spoon-playing spooonster,
and the yodeling gypsy.
Maybe all these nick-names started with our "Father of Bluegrass", Bill. Hell, every sport and genre has it's nick-names: The Splendid Splinter. The Master of Disaster. The Minister of Defense. The Bear. The Lion, the witch, and the...no..wait. Scratch that last one, that there is the movie list from last Sunday hehe.
Anyway, in bluegrass we have the Father of Bluegrass, Bill, and the King of Bluegrass, Jimmy, (rest their souls!) and I suspect that if you hunted around you could find out who were the Prince, Princess, Duke and Earl of Grass, for which I would nominate Del, Alicia, and then for the last two either Dan Paisley (with the entire Paisley/Lundy Court) or the Reno brothers, in either order.
Then, I guess you'd need some bluegrass knights, and a bunch of bluegrass peasants, and maybe even a Pope of bluegrass, if you were really going for historical accuracy. I'm not sure what that would look like, but since Doc Stanley looked pretty good in the movie with that hood and all, I think he might have the whole pope thing pretty well wrapped up.
I expect you could get the peasants pretty cheap---promise them a wrist-band, maybe some sausage gravy, and they'd come, I betcha.
The knights, though, have me a little concerned. First of all, when I was playing chess, I remember the knights and the cardinals never got on too well, so you might have to watch out for the way you schedule stage times and all that if you had knights and cardinals on the same bill. Then, too, knights often have horses, and you know what that means. Besides, we're still trying to figure out what our policy is on dogs, especially those frisbee dogs with the bandana tried around their necks.
What are they on there for, anyway? Damn dog can't wipe his own nose, and the only other guy in the room is the dog's owner, so what's up with that?
Anyhow, seems to me that, in an aristocratic sort of way, we're all related in the bluegrass world. What village can operate properly without their very own idiot? After all, some of us were put here to make the rest of us look good. Every one of us fills our own little spot.
Sure, deep down I know I'll never be the arch-Duke of grass, but I still have hopes. Maybe a small town needs a mayor to buck them up and raise their hopes--I'm your man! Or perhaps they'll open up some new categories, like "Protector of 'Grass," or maybe the "Director of 'Grass."
I'd be good at that one.
I'd set in the gate when they had their festival, and they'd say, "Well, where's that bluegrass music?"
And by cracky, I'd direct 'em!
Easy as pie, and I don't think Directors need to get horses.
*I have no idea why I put that asterix up there. But that word asterix is pretty funny hhee.**
** I just remembered. That would be a good name for a bluegrass band.
You could even have uniforms or something!
It's exactly like a family: you see a small number of them almost every day, then a few times a year you all get together and do something wild and then talk about it for the next ten weeks or months. Who wastes time talking about Chuck, the actuary, when he is also the guy that grills the best venison in the universe or the only one that ever survived a tumble down a large hill in a Porta-potty during some heavy weather?
So there's a guy that trains ferrets or something, and another one that works in the death room at the local hospital where they wait to hear lil bells ring when an almost-dead guy twitches his big toe, but we don't call them "Ferret-trainer boy" or "dead-ringer". They're "Al, the mandolin player" or "Moe, that guy that used to play bass but is playing guitar now. But he should go back to the bass."
That's because, in the bluegrass world, you don't really care what a person does on the outside.
In the military, they would call that "being in country." Forget about CAT scans and stress ratios; forget about the number of paperclips in a gross. What you want to know is, "What year is that Martin? And, oh, you guys got a can opener? I got some Vienna Sausages here that are just beggin' to be fried up, and a jug of syrup to go with 'em!"
So I seriously know a guy that is an advise councillor for iguanas, and another guy that makes motorcycles from recycled beverage containers, and a gal that makes 20 foot-tall "installations" made of those blown out truck tires you see laying all over the roads. They are, respectively:
mad dobro man
the spoon-playing spooonster,
and the yodeling gypsy.
Maybe all these nick-names started with our "Father of Bluegrass", Bill. Hell, every sport and genre has it's nick-names: The Splendid Splinter. The Master of Disaster. The Minister of Defense. The Bear. The Lion, the witch, and the...no..wait. Scratch that last one, that there is the movie list from last Sunday hehe.
Anyway, in bluegrass we have the Father of Bluegrass, Bill, and the King of Bluegrass, Jimmy, (rest their souls!) and I suspect that if you hunted around you could find out who were the Prince, Princess, Duke and Earl of Grass, for which I would nominate Del, Alicia, and then for the last two either Dan Paisley (with the entire Paisley/Lundy Court) or the Reno brothers, in either order.
Then, I guess you'd need some bluegrass knights, and a bunch of bluegrass peasants, and maybe even a Pope of bluegrass, if you were really going for historical accuracy. I'm not sure what that would look like, but since Doc Stanley looked pretty good in the movie with that hood and all, I think he might have the whole pope thing pretty well wrapped up.
I expect you could get the peasants pretty cheap---promise them a wrist-band, maybe some sausage gravy, and they'd come, I betcha.
The knights, though, have me a little concerned. First of all, when I was playing chess, I remember the knights and the cardinals never got on too well, so you might have to watch out for the way you schedule stage times and all that if you had knights and cardinals on the same bill. Then, too, knights often have horses, and you know what that means. Besides, we're still trying to figure out what our policy is on dogs, especially those frisbee dogs with the bandana tried around their necks.
What are they on there for, anyway? Damn dog can't wipe his own nose, and the only other guy in the room is the dog's owner, so what's up with that?
Anyhow, seems to me that, in an aristocratic sort of way, we're all related in the bluegrass world. What village can operate properly without their very own idiot? After all, some of us were put here to make the rest of us look good. Every one of us fills our own little spot.
Sure, deep down I know I'll never be the arch-Duke of grass, but I still have hopes. Maybe a small town needs a mayor to buck them up and raise their hopes--I'm your man! Or perhaps they'll open up some new categories, like "Protector of 'Grass," or maybe the "Director of 'Grass."
I'd be good at that one.
I'd set in the gate when they had their festival, and they'd say, "Well, where's that bluegrass music?"
And by cracky, I'd direct 'em!
Easy as pie, and I don't think Directors need to get horses.
*I have no idea why I put that asterix up there. But that word asterix is pretty funny hhee.**
** I just remembered. That would be a good name for a bluegrass band.
You could even have uniforms or something!
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Bluegrass dictionary
Bluegrass has a langauge all its own. Here are some commonly used terms you can sprinkle into your bluegrass conversation to sound as authentic as a died-in-the-wool hill billy picker.
Ale: sickness of any sort.
"I drank a pint of shine and I was miserable ale." (See also chaw)
a-tall: Not any.
"He got no brains a-tall."
Blonded: Inablity to see.
" He got chaw in his eye and got blonded."
Chaw: tobacco product meant to be chewed and spit.
"He swallered his chaw and got ale."
Far: a chemical reaction producing visible light and radiant energy that is most commonly the result of oxidation of organic compounds.
"Don't sit in the far too long---it'll wreck yer pants."
Haint: a ghost, or not having the ability to do something.
"He haint goin' make that curve."
Keifer (ki-fer) an individual that "borrows" but never "returns."
"Don't loan him no pick. He's the biggest keifer that ever walked the earth."
Kin:one's relatives, alternately the ability to do something.
"I know we're kin; even Ray Charles kin see that."
pickin': playing any stringed instrument
"If you keep pickin' that geetar like that, son, it'll never heal."
Rat cheer:in this very location.
"Y'all can set that keg rat cheer were we kin reach it.
*Shine: a clear, potent, home-made alcohol with a proof of 180 made from corn, fruit, potato peels or any other organic material. One pint is usually enough to reduce 20 men to raving drunkeness and fire-sitting behaviors.
Showin' yer ass: behaving in a boorish and reprehensible manner.
"He drank a gallon of shine*, busted his geetar and showed his ass."
Spacial: unique or worthy of note
"That gal rat cheer is somethin' spacial all right!"
win: movement of air caused by unequal heating of the atmosphere.
"Dad blame it's hot. Haint no win a-tall."
wire: a specific place
"We wasn't goin' no wire spacial."
Ale: sickness of any sort.
"I drank a pint of shine and I was miserable ale." (See also chaw)
a-tall: Not any.
"He got no brains a-tall."
Blonded: Inablity to see.
" He got chaw in his eye and got blonded."
Chaw: tobacco product meant to be chewed and spit.
"He swallered his chaw and got ale."
Far: a chemical reaction producing visible light and radiant energy that is most commonly the result of oxidation of organic compounds.
"Don't sit in the far too long---it'll wreck yer pants."
Haint: a ghost, or not having the ability to do something.
"He haint goin' make that curve."
Keifer (ki-fer) an individual that "borrows" but never "returns."
"Don't loan him no pick. He's the biggest keifer that ever walked the earth."
Kin:one's relatives, alternately the ability to do something.
"I know we're kin; even Ray Charles kin see that."
pickin': playing any stringed instrument
"If you keep pickin' that geetar like that, son, it'll never heal."
Rat cheer:in this very location.
"Y'all can set that keg rat cheer were we kin reach it.
*Shine: a clear, potent, home-made alcohol with a proof of 180 made from corn, fruit, potato peels or any other organic material. One pint is usually enough to reduce 20 men to raving drunkeness and fire-sitting behaviors.
Showin' yer ass: behaving in a boorish and reprehensible manner.
"He drank a gallon of shine*, busted his geetar and showed his ass."
Spacial: unique or worthy of note
"That gal rat cheer is somethin' spacial all right!"
win: movement of air caused by unequal heating of the atmosphere.
"Dad blame it's hot. Haint no win a-tall."
wire: a specific place
"We wasn't goin' no wire spacial."
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