I have no idea what I was thinking about when the topic of Shakespeare and bluegrass crossed my mind; I mean, I teach English and I play bluegrass, but that's not really a good reason to be putting the two together. Hell, lots of surgeons play golf, but I sure hope if they have me laid open they're not thinking about golf swings or something. How the hell would that be?
"Fore!" the guy would hollar, and then with the phizoclampet whhoossis he's holding, he'd blast your pancreas out of yer insides and right into the garbage pail.
Unless he opened his stance and sliced it into the hallway. I hate it when that happens.
And I have to confess that I am not really in a funny mood; death and destruction have been very much in evidence around here lately, and I think I may have slipped a cog or something, because I have had sudden and almost uncontrollable urges; one that I can write about is to bark at rude people and maybe even bite on them a little bit.
Maybe I have situational Tourettes. Anyhow, let's take a look at some of the bard's stuff, done bluegrass style.
Him: To be or not to be; that is the question!
Us: Poo or get off the pot; ya either have to go or not!
Him: Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I might say goodnite until it be morrow!
Us: How can I miss you if you never leave? And take that .44 outta yer sleeve!
Him: The lady doth protest too much, me thinks!
Us: Quit 'chur bitchin and git in the kitchen!
Him: Is that a dagger I see before me?
Us: Is that a booger I see before me?
Him: Romeo, Romeo! Wherefor art thou, Romeo?
Us; Hey, Tilly! You over here or down in Philly?
Him: GOodnight, sweet prince! And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Us: Goodnight Irene, goodnight, Irene, I'll see you in my dreams...
Him: Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all...
Us: She came on down the stairs and tossed back her long yeller hair, and her cheeks were as red as a rose...
Him: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways!
Us: She came into the room where she met her final doom, and I ain't gonna be treated thisaway...
Him: Life is a tale told by an idiot, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Us: Yonder stands little Maggie, with a dram glass in her hand....
Well, maybe next time we can slap together a little play, something like "Hamlet meets Macbeth and gets killed right away because he's a whiney girlie-man, and then Ophelia starts cheating on her new beau Hotspur, who can't do nothing but get drunk and sing off-key, and Macbeth gets really mad and is going to blast the bejesus out of both of them with his .44 but some dude named Shylock buys him off just long enough to steal a pound of headcheese and they all get shipwrecked and land on a strange shore where they meet a boy who never grew up and a bunch of Indians and a large alligator with a clock in his stomach, and it all looks like it will end badly for most of them, but that's where the surprise ending comes in because instead they are all blown to kingdom-come by a meteor and only the alligator survives, except that the clock never does keep the right time after that."
And they say that drama is so hard. pah!
Monday, February 27, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Techno Bluegrass
I love life's little surprises. There are an abundance of those nasty little suckers, too, crawling around and ready to drop down your metaphysical collar at any turn.
Brrr!
That's what the bluegrass is all about, isn't it? Things are going as right as rain and you come home with that mood ring you been thinking about getting your honey, on account of she is always letting you go and raise cain for a weekend while she battles with field-mice. And I don't mean the kind you see in that Nutcrackly Sweet they always put on around Christmas.*
Anyhow, you waltz in there and she's expecting chocolates and some roses maybe, and you smile real big and hold out that mood ring that it costed four cartons of Marlboros, and you don't even smoke, that's how much you love her.
And then you find out that you must have read the instructions wrong, 'cause when she puts it on and she's happy, it's apposed to be green, except immeditately she smacks you upside the head and your forehead turns red and then you see stars just like on Roger Rabbitt, so you never get to see exactly how she is feeling.
One of life's little mysteries, as I was saying.
But the reason I started this whole thing was because I was just trying to fill out a grant application, which is something I don't really know how to do. People keep asking me to do it, and then I do, and then they give me some more money to write it again, which to me means I didn't get it right the first time. Then they slap me on the back and they give me more papers to fill in.
Most perplexing. I tell ya, it's like pushing a rope; it's hard to do! The difference is the rope doesn't appreciate it, and evidently these folks do, because every year about this time, here they come, and every year they have some different questions to ask.
This year the stunner was, "How is your art form unique, and what characteristics does it possess that are not readily apparent to the itinerant?"
I want to go on and type a lot more about that, but just typing that tired me "right aught", as the Dutchies up here say, and besides, that's another blog for another day. All I know is, they are calling bluegrass an "artform" (!). Sometimes when we play people actually listen. The other day we sold 3 CD's and I think we're up to 4 pairs of socks for this year so far. That's up 50% YTD. Let me see IBM do that! Oh----and when we record these days, it actually sounds like what it sounded like.
That's why I call this piece "techno bluegrass." It's almost like "Back to the Future"; technology has finally caught up to strings and voices in the thin air.
And maybe tastes are changing,too.
One thing is sure. You shouldn't trust the fate of your marriage to free gifts from Marlboro. And watch out for them mood rings. Doesn't matter what color they are--them things hurt!
* Man. They play that music even the guy that wrote it was trying to buy back, figuring he was gonna chop it up and sell it in small little pieces for like baroque commercials or something, and then these freakin' kids that weigh more than I do start prancing around up there in black leotards with those lil mouse ear costumes waving their arms around. I tell ya, it reminds me of those flying monkeys on the Wizard of Oz. Brrrr....it's enough to put a guy right off his feed.
Brrr!
That's what the bluegrass is all about, isn't it? Things are going as right as rain and you come home with that mood ring you been thinking about getting your honey, on account of she is always letting you go and raise cain for a weekend while she battles with field-mice. And I don't mean the kind you see in that Nutcrackly Sweet they always put on around Christmas.*
Anyhow, you waltz in there and she's expecting chocolates and some roses maybe, and you smile real big and hold out that mood ring that it costed four cartons of Marlboros, and you don't even smoke, that's how much you love her.
And then you find out that you must have read the instructions wrong, 'cause when she puts it on and she's happy, it's apposed to be green, except immeditately she smacks you upside the head and your forehead turns red and then you see stars just like on Roger Rabbitt, so you never get to see exactly how she is feeling.
One of life's little mysteries, as I was saying.
But the reason I started this whole thing was because I was just trying to fill out a grant application, which is something I don't really know how to do. People keep asking me to do it, and then I do, and then they give me some more money to write it again, which to me means I didn't get it right the first time. Then they slap me on the back and they give me more papers to fill in.
Most perplexing. I tell ya, it's like pushing a rope; it's hard to do! The difference is the rope doesn't appreciate it, and evidently these folks do, because every year about this time, here they come, and every year they have some different questions to ask.
This year the stunner was, "How is your art form unique, and what characteristics does it possess that are not readily apparent to the itinerant?"
I want to go on and type a lot more about that, but just typing that tired me "right aught", as the Dutchies up here say, and besides, that's another blog for another day. All I know is, they are calling bluegrass an "artform" (!). Sometimes when we play people actually listen. The other day we sold 3 CD's and I think we're up to 4 pairs of socks for this year so far. That's up 50% YTD. Let me see IBM do that! Oh----and when we record these days, it actually sounds like what it sounded like.
That's why I call this piece "techno bluegrass." It's almost like "Back to the Future"; technology has finally caught up to strings and voices in the thin air.
And maybe tastes are changing,too.
One thing is sure. You shouldn't trust the fate of your marriage to free gifts from Marlboro. And watch out for them mood rings. Doesn't matter what color they are--them things hurt!
* Man. They play that music even the guy that wrote it was trying to buy back, figuring he was gonna chop it up and sell it in small little pieces for like baroque commercials or something, and then these freakin' kids that weigh more than I do start prancing around up there in black leotards with those lil mouse ear costumes waving their arms around. I tell ya, it reminds me of those flying monkeys on the Wizard of Oz. Brrrr....it's enough to put a guy right off his feed.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Bluegrass WInter Blues
Anybody who doesn't know about bluegrass festivals and the interesting behaviors and events that occur at festivals is a cultural moron who needs immediate remediation. Hear that, Hollywood? Get my drift, Wall Street?
So I am sitting here achy and happy on a Monday morning after our 6th annual WinterFest, skipping school for a much-needed rub-down and adjustment, which I will do after I unload the car, burdened as it is with the detritus of a weekend's worth of stealth bluegrass. The Lost Ramblers and 20 other bands invaded every eatery and bar worth talking about, in addition to coming together at the BPO Elks here in bucholic East Stroudsburg, Pa. for two days worth of stellar music and non-stop laughing.
That's the one of the hallmarks of a good festival---sore cheeks from laughing too much. I'll tell my therapist to concentrate on them to begin with. Anyhow, all went smoothly at what a few folks are beginning to call "The Lost Rambler's Festival," which it kinda is and kinda isn't.
First off all, the Festival itself was the idea of Mary Herman, once of Stained Grass Window. When she first saw the Elks building she was as blown away as anyone at the vaulted ceilings, the capacious meeting hall with its valence lighting and turn of the century plush furnishings, and most of all the helpfulness of the Elks, who it turns out were closet bluegrassers all along, all except for that cheap bastard that has been coming to our concerts for seven years and has never paid a nickle to us. He knows who he is; he just doens't know that minions are putting curses on him every day. May his ears fall off.
Anywat, Mary was sitting there with her beau Mark and she said, " This would be a great place to have a WinterFest."
And I, scholarly investigator that I am, said," What's that?"
"It's a festival you have, only in the Winter," Mary said, speaking slowly and enunciating carefully.
We wondered together exactly how that would work. Six years later, I think we are starting to get the drift. You have to start with a good hotel, since camping out in February is not optimal. Then you need about a bazillion dollars to pay the bands, which you get by asking the bands to come around once a month and play for free.
Which they all do.
That was the first hard part of explaining the idea to the nice folks at the Elks. Let's see...everybody comes to hear the bands and they give you money. Well, that's pretty common practice out there in the world. Oh--and the bands pay to play, too. Well, it sounds nuts, but it works, because a true bluegrasser can't go more than about a week before he* starts wandering around with a vacant look of distress** about him.
And sitting with my good friend and bluegrass buddy Fred, we were talking about how there is at least one funny thing that happens at a festival. I was personally involved with at least two of them. One thing was that I left the Elks at around 8 to secure a parking space for the Paisleys and the Lundys and Donnie, too, although I think I spelled his name wrong back in one of my previous posts and I will be looking that up as soon as I can get to it, exhaustive research being the hallmark of
the bluegrass scholar.
Anyhow, some idiot with plates from "that other state" had his or her (sorry) big ass SUV parked in the bus slot, so I dropped Fred off to let him freshen up for the Bandomonium, got some help from the GrillBillies in locating alternate parking, and was ready to run into the hotel and start setting up the sound when Pat Brown met me coming back into the hotel.
"Get ready to get hollered at," she said. "Some woman tripped out by your car and she's screaming her head off at you."
Now I was in an unloading zone, which I guess is okay even if you are loaded, as long as you are unloading, as I was. Come to think of it, being loaded might be a prerequisite if one wishes to unload, but of course I wasn't quick enough to explain that to her just then. And considering what she was all about, I'm fairly sure she wouldn't have been interested in conjugations or even conjucals or however you spell that other word that means screwing.
Sure enough, here she came, a woman with a cane and that most unfortunate accent, wanting to know "WHo the F**** put that car there and F*** I want to talk to F**** that ignorant f***bastard etc etc etc."
So I said, "Ma'am I am the thoughtless person who placed this van here, and you are so correct, it was incredibly rude of me to leave this van here and take more than a New York Minute to unload it, and I apologize. I don't know what I was thinking."
By now the lads from Southern Grass were coming off the bus and into the hotel, and they all lined up and watched this woman screaming at me. I avoided looking at her because I was thinking, "Man, she might be like that Greek chick with the snakes for hair that turns you to stone," and so I proceeded to avoid looking at her and started to get into the van to get moving on the sound system, and the lads were all laughing at the chick, because there was no freakin' way the van had anything to do with her "fall", and they tell me spit was flying out of her mouth and she was doing the whole "Springer" bit for us.
Quite a show. I think the whole cane thing was prolly a fake, too, because she was swinging that sucker around like Joe DiMaggio and not seeming to have any trouble standing. I seriously think if she had connected, I would be writing this with a slightly different editorial tone, rather than the condescending and arrogent one I setttled on for today's message.
Anyway, I'm not one to judge her, bless her heart. Also lucky for her heehe.
Well, she was standing there spitting and swearing and swinging, and seeing it had absolutely no effect on any of us. Hell, this was nothing: we watched some guy in a porta-potty get blown down a hill during some rough weather at Kline's Grove back in the 70's, bouncing through a couple campsites before it fetched up against a big and suddenly stinky tent. So some poser with a cane didn't strike us as so unusual.
So she finally screamed at me, "Yeah, well I think you are half in F***** bag." (She liked that word. She used it all the time.)
And I said, "No, ma'am. I'm all the way in the bag. The good news is, you're not in here with me."
We all almost peed ourselves on that one, it was so rich. We were laughing and being all polite, and I guess it just put her right off her feed. Sure enough, that polite stuff actually shut her up for a moment, long enough for me to park the van practice the art of not being seen.
Of course the next day the band boys were all busting on me like crazy, except Donnie's brother, whose name I forget, since I was in a bag by myself during much of the whole experience. He said he saw the whole thing from her "fall" to my compelling exit scene, and so if you are out there reading this, "Ms. New York Cane Faker", all I can say is: "Bless your soul."
Oh---and "Happy Birthday" too!
*APA style dictates that one never use "he", "his" or "him" to refer generically to humans. I am ignoring that rule for several reasons. First, it is stylistically problematic. You get so many "he and/or she" thingumies going on you can't read the freakin' sentence. Then there is the general paucity of women bluegrass pickers, or bluegrass women pickers, or picking bluegrass women, or whatever you're apposed to call them. Whatever moniker you want to hang on those beautiful creaures, bless their hearts, they are outnumbered by males by a good five or six to one ratio. Finally, I ignore it here to annoy the APA types that like that PC crap. If some chick writer wants to use "she", "her" and her's" instead, let 'er fly. I can take it.
**Teacher said to Tommy, "Use the word distress in a sentence." So Tommy said," Hey teacher...distess makes yer butt look fat."
So I am sitting here achy and happy on a Monday morning after our 6th annual WinterFest, skipping school for a much-needed rub-down and adjustment, which I will do after I unload the car, burdened as it is with the detritus of a weekend's worth of stealth bluegrass. The Lost Ramblers and 20 other bands invaded every eatery and bar worth talking about, in addition to coming together at the BPO Elks here in bucholic East Stroudsburg, Pa. for two days worth of stellar music and non-stop laughing.
That's the one of the hallmarks of a good festival---sore cheeks from laughing too much. I'll tell my therapist to concentrate on them to begin with. Anyhow, all went smoothly at what a few folks are beginning to call "The Lost Rambler's Festival," which it kinda is and kinda isn't.
First off all, the Festival itself was the idea of Mary Herman, once of Stained Grass Window. When she first saw the Elks building she was as blown away as anyone at the vaulted ceilings, the capacious meeting hall with its valence lighting and turn of the century plush furnishings, and most of all the helpfulness of the Elks, who it turns out were closet bluegrassers all along, all except for that cheap bastard that has been coming to our concerts for seven years and has never paid a nickle to us. He knows who he is; he just doens't know that minions are putting curses on him every day. May his ears fall off.
Anywat, Mary was sitting there with her beau Mark and she said, " This would be a great place to have a WinterFest."
And I, scholarly investigator that I am, said," What's that?"
"It's a festival you have, only in the Winter," Mary said, speaking slowly and enunciating carefully.
We wondered together exactly how that would work. Six years later, I think we are starting to get the drift. You have to start with a good hotel, since camping out in February is not optimal. Then you need about a bazillion dollars to pay the bands, which you get by asking the bands to come around once a month and play for free.
Which they all do.
That was the first hard part of explaining the idea to the nice folks at the Elks. Let's see...everybody comes to hear the bands and they give you money. Well, that's pretty common practice out there in the world. Oh--and the bands pay to play, too. Well, it sounds nuts, but it works, because a true bluegrasser can't go more than about a week before he* starts wandering around with a vacant look of distress** about him.
And sitting with my good friend and bluegrass buddy Fred, we were talking about how there is at least one funny thing that happens at a festival. I was personally involved with at least two of them. One thing was that I left the Elks at around 8 to secure a parking space for the Paisleys and the Lundys and Donnie, too, although I think I spelled his name wrong back in one of my previous posts and I will be looking that up as soon as I can get to it, exhaustive research being the hallmark of
the bluegrass scholar.
Anyhow, some idiot with plates from "that other state" had his or her (sorry) big ass SUV parked in the bus slot, so I dropped Fred off to let him freshen up for the Bandomonium, got some help from the GrillBillies in locating alternate parking, and was ready to run into the hotel and start setting up the sound when Pat Brown met me coming back into the hotel.
"Get ready to get hollered at," she said. "Some woman tripped out by your car and she's screaming her head off at you."
Now I was in an unloading zone, which I guess is okay even if you are loaded, as long as you are unloading, as I was. Come to think of it, being loaded might be a prerequisite if one wishes to unload, but of course I wasn't quick enough to explain that to her just then. And considering what she was all about, I'm fairly sure she wouldn't have been interested in conjugations or even conjucals or however you spell that other word that means screwing.
Sure enough, here she came, a woman with a cane and that most unfortunate accent, wanting to know "WHo the F**** put that car there and F*** I want to talk to F**** that ignorant f***bastard etc etc etc."
So I said, "Ma'am I am the thoughtless person who placed this van here, and you are so correct, it was incredibly rude of me to leave this van here and take more than a New York Minute to unload it, and I apologize. I don't know what I was thinking."
By now the lads from Southern Grass were coming off the bus and into the hotel, and they all lined up and watched this woman screaming at me. I avoided looking at her because I was thinking, "Man, she might be like that Greek chick with the snakes for hair that turns you to stone," and so I proceeded to avoid looking at her and started to get into the van to get moving on the sound system, and the lads were all laughing at the chick, because there was no freakin' way the van had anything to do with her "fall", and they tell me spit was flying out of her mouth and she was doing the whole "Springer" bit for us.
Quite a show. I think the whole cane thing was prolly a fake, too, because she was swinging that sucker around like Joe DiMaggio and not seeming to have any trouble standing. I seriously think if she had connected, I would be writing this with a slightly different editorial tone, rather than the condescending and arrogent one I setttled on for today's message.
Anyway, I'm not one to judge her, bless her heart. Also lucky for her heehe.
Well, she was standing there spitting and swearing and swinging, and seeing it had absolutely no effect on any of us. Hell, this was nothing: we watched some guy in a porta-potty get blown down a hill during some rough weather at Kline's Grove back in the 70's, bouncing through a couple campsites before it fetched up against a big and suddenly stinky tent. So some poser with a cane didn't strike us as so unusual.
So she finally screamed at me, "Yeah, well I think you are half in F***** bag." (She liked that word. She used it all the time.)
And I said, "No, ma'am. I'm all the way in the bag. The good news is, you're not in here with me."
We all almost peed ourselves on that one, it was so rich. We were laughing and being all polite, and I guess it just put her right off her feed. Sure enough, that polite stuff actually shut her up for a moment, long enough for me to park the van practice the art of not being seen.
Of course the next day the band boys were all busting on me like crazy, except Donnie's brother, whose name I forget, since I was in a bag by myself during much of the whole experience. He said he saw the whole thing from her "fall" to my compelling exit scene, and so if you are out there reading this, "Ms. New York Cane Faker", all I can say is: "Bless your soul."
Oh---and "Happy Birthday" too!
*APA style dictates that one never use "he", "his" or "him" to refer generically to humans. I am ignoring that rule for several reasons. First, it is stylistically problematic. You get so many "he and/or she" thingumies going on you can't read the freakin' sentence. Then there is the general paucity of women bluegrass pickers, or bluegrass women pickers, or picking bluegrass women, or whatever you're apposed to call them. Whatever moniker you want to hang on those beautiful creaures, bless their hearts, they are outnumbered by males by a good five or six to one ratio. Finally, I ignore it here to annoy the APA types that like that PC crap. If some chick writer wants to use "she", "her" and her's" instead, let 'er fly. I can take it.
**Teacher said to Tommy, "Use the word distress in a sentence." So Tommy said," Hey teacher...distess makes yer butt look fat."
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