To where so much bluegrass music began

Judy and I took a trip to a place where lots of wonderful bluegrass music got its start.  No, not some remote hillside in the Appalachians where guys in overalls play "Li'l Darlin' Pal of Mine" all day, but to the Deering banjo factory in Spring Valley CA, just east of San Diego.  Judy had just upgraded to a Deering banjo (it does sound great, even to my untrained ear), and since she was in San Diego for a conference, I got to tag along for a long weekend.  (The perks of being married to an academic librarian - oh, the places I get to go!)  The Deering factory gives tours, and we were both interested to see how banjos were made. 

We got there a half-hour early after stopping off at an In-n-Out Burger (they only do two things - burgers and fries - but they do them exceedingly well), and that gave us time to peruse the store.  They had 'em all - four strings, five strings, the long-neck banjos that Pete Seeger and the Kingston Trio made famous (does anyone ever bother with those lower frets?), and six-string banjo-guitars.  They had resonator banjos, open-back banjos, along with song books, hats, picks, CDs, DVDs, straps, about as much as you could ask for in a banjo store.

Our tour guide was Carolina, a 50-ish woman in jeans and red turtleneck.  She showed us the difference in sound between various banjos, answered a few questions, and then took us back into the factory.  Those in our tour group who didn't wear glasses had to wear safety goggles, and I was tempted to get a pair myself.  I've had these new lenses in my glasses for less than a week, and I didn't want to get them scratched up.  It turns out the goggles weren't needed, though.  So we went through the factory pretty much in a random order of assembly rather than starting at "this is where the wood comes in" and finishing at "the banjo has passed inspection, goes into its shipping box, and gets sent to a dealer.  Bye, banjo!"  Carolina's voice was also at the same range as the background noise of the factory, so her voice faded away before it ever hit my ears.  Judy and I nodded, looked interested, and peeked over the shoulders of the men hunkered away at their work stations.  (All men - the women-folk were all working up at the front office.  The division of labor there, like the music, bends toward the traditional.)  There was also time for some questions, and I tried to avoid the usual questions as well as the off-the-wall questions:

"Did'ja ever meet Bela Fleck / Earl Scruggs / Jerry Garcia / (insert name here)?"
"You hardly ever hear banjo in prog rock.  Why is that?"
"How come that one string only goes halfway down the neck?"
"Pete Seeger?  I've heard of him.  He sang 'Night Moves,' didn't he?"
"Know any good banjo jokes?"

We kind of got the bum's rush during the tour because the factory was expecting a local celebrity - Larry Himmel, a long-time local reporter and former south side Chicagoan. He and his camera crew arrived just as the tour finished, and the sight of all those banjos must have jarred his memory. "I grew up with this guy in Oak Lawn who was a really good banjo player. We went to high school together, we went to college together, and he just got nominated for a Grammy!"

I overheard the conversation. "You mean Greg Cahill?"

"Yes! That's him! Greg Cahill!"

"Well, my wife is currently taking banjo lessons with him!" Not only does Greg give great banjo lessons as shown by Judy's sense of excitement when she comes home afterwards, but Greg's band Special Consensus got a Grammy for Best Bluegrass album for Scratch Gravel Road. So I introduced Judy to Larry, and he left her a message to give to Greg, all while the camera was rolling.


Larry Himmel - San Diego local reporter since 1979 who felt
the time has come to tell the banjo's story.

We went back to the showroom and admired the banjos.  The prize banjo was a tenor banjo that had amazing inlay on the back and ran for a cool $38,000.  I was playing with a lesser-prized tenor banjo - only $11,000 - and was able to figure out a C chord, and from there I was playing a rather disjointed version of Neil Diamond's "Song Sung Blue."  (For those trying out an instrument with only a rudimentary knowledge of that instrument, "Song Sung Blue" is a good way to fake a sense of expertise.)


The back of a Deering tenor banjo, complete with gorgeous wood inlay and zirconium jewels.  Thirty-eight grand and it's yours.



All I need is a short-sleeved stiped shirt and I'm ready for the Kingston Trio.

Judy tries her hand with a banjo guitar.

We finished our visit with purchases of a few CDs (Carolina Chocolate Drops and John McEuen) for the rest of the trip, having forgotten to bring any CDs with us.  (Nothing says "incongruous" like an acoustic version of "Mr. Bojangles" booming out of a 2013 black Ford Mustang.)  But Judy was happy to see where her new banjo originated, I tried out a five-figure tenor banjo, so the trip was a big success.  Now if I could get Deering to make some left-handed models.

Do you think Judy is excited to visit?

Reaping the rewards, or "We're playing *what* Traffic song?"

It's been a bit of a busy week, and I'm not being too careful with my elbow - no ice-downs, no medications, just a stubborn, old codger, "tough it out, sonny" approach.  And at church today, a mad strum-fest on "Come to the Water" didn't help matters any.  (I'm all for giving credit where credit is due, but "Come to the Water" lists 12 people in the songwriting credits, or two people for each chord used in the song.  The lyrics aren't exactly Dylanesque, either.  Twelve people?  Have fun cashing your songwriting royalty checks, guys.)

I finally made a Twangdogs rehearsal on Monday and was a bit surprised to learn that we're planning on recording a demo in about a month.  I've never really been in a recording studio before - one time I went to a weekend seminar at a studio that really did voice-over work, and I've visited Jim Tullio's studio in Evanston (http://www.otbrecords.com/studio.html), but I've never really done any recording work.  I know little of the recording process, other than it can be brutally painstaking, so I plan on bringing a book or two for a four-hour session.  We're looking at a few new songs to add to our repertoire, including one where I use only my feet - bass - hi-hat - bass - hi-hat - and that suits me fine.  A seven-member band can go from zero to wall-of-sound in two seconds flat, and since I'm a little partial to having a little space in music, I'm content to play as little as possible, or not at all if the situation arises.

Two weeks ago I was approached by John Mead to help out on some of his classes.  I'm already sitting in with the Disco ensemble, but I was also asked to help out on the Bad Boys of Rock ensemble.  Last session was tartan-era Rod Stewart, this session is Al Green and Steve Winwood, two people I wouldn't really associate with the term "Bad Boys."  Al Green may have been before that pot of boiling grits dumped down his back steered him towards Gospel, and if leaving school and having a hit at age 16 makes you a Bad Boy, then I guess Winwood falls in that category.

The class is an interesting juxtaposition in styles.  With the Al Green songs there is a very steady 4/4 pattern (courtesy of Al Jackson Jr., known as "The Human Timekeeper" for his work with Booker T. and the M.G.s, among others).  I enjoy playing the songs because 1) it's Al Green ('nuf said), and 2) it's a good exercise in staying in the pocket.  Songs like "Let's Stay Together" or "Take Me to the River" tend to propel themselves, and I think it's my job to help the other musicians on the beat.  No reason to get fancy on these tunes.

One Steve Winwood tune we worked on was "Time Is Running Out" from his first solo album.  That album got fairly slagged in the media, and I'm not sure why.  I think it may have been a bit of a misfortune to release an album in 1977 that wasn't punk or disco.  The album may have been a victim more of the zeitgeist than anything else.  But again, this is another "stay in the pocket" songs that allows the other musicians to stretch a little, but I keep the anchor so it all sounds tight.

The other song?  "The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys."  As Ian Hunter says in "All the Young Dudes," "I've been waiting to do this for years."  "Low Spark" is, to me, the definitive jazz-rock fusion song.  It has the structure of rock and the syncopated rhythm and improvisational expanse of jazz.  In playing that song I found myself thinking differently than on other songs - putting myself a bar or two ahead, planning a fill here or a steady beat there.  "Am I too loud on the ride?  Am I using the same fill too often?"  It can be a bit distracting since I love the song itself, and I may be best off just listening to the others and letting the music direct me.

Still, it's a song that I like so much that I hope we don't overdo it.  But if we do, it's like o.d.'ing on pepperoni pizza or barbecue - it's a lovely way to go!

Catching Lightning in a Bottle, or The Birth of a Band

The Fretknot Friday open mic at the Independence Tap (on Irving Park Road) is becoming quite a project.  Kip Plourde, the host/soundman, has worked tirelessly over the past three years to make Fretknot Friday a success.  This past Friday there were 18 names on the sign-up sheet.  At the end of a work week, something like Fretknot Friday is a great diversion, an opportunity to meet up with friends and catch some live music.

Number four on the sign-up list this past Friday was Mike Mann, but Mike wasn't content to play by himself.  He proceded to round up an impromptu band - Ed Johnson on bass, John Mead on guitar, and me on drums.  At the last minute he invited Andrea Bunch for additional vocals.  The set list was only three songs, and that was subject to change up to the point we took the stage.  (Which, to those not familiar with open mics, is rather common.  Open mics are trying times, "trying" in the sense of trotting out a new song, or inviting some friends to come up and play with you, or getting on stage for the first time - trying your stage persona.)

So we played three songs, all of which we were pretty much familar with - Fred Neil's "The Other Side of This Life," an original of Mike's, "Seattle," and an old blues standard the title and origin of which I'm not familiar with, but I know the hook line is "I'm seeing double / In a whole lot of trouble."  (Mike - fill me in!)

So we played.  I can't remember the last time I played with a group of people who weren't glued to the song book.  Mike was in charge the whole time, singing, playing guitar, and calling chord changes to John ("Four!  One!")  and checking on Ed and me to make sure we knew the changes and tag endings.  He was Peyton Manning with a twelve-string. 

And it all came together - perhaps better than anyone expected.  We were reading each other the entire set, a constant exercise in communication among the musicians - often wordless - that made the performance work.  For example, on the last song John took a lead over the verse, and Mike gave him the go-ahead to take another verse.  Seeing that, I thought "Hm.  The solo goes on.  Ratchet up the drums a bit."  Andrea's sense of anticipating (and finding) the right times to come in with supporting vocals and incidental tambourine was dead-on, and Ed was as solid on bass as could be.

I like to think that we may have seen the birth of a band at that point (which is all I need - another band to play in).  I heard the phrase "twelve-minute band" after our set, and the name made sense to me.  It took Mike about twelve minutes to come up with a band, and our set was twelve minutes. 

So I don't know if the five of us will play again as a unit, but it may not matter.  The memory of that set - of five people being in the moment, of someone (or a group of someones) finding that deep-down whatever that that eliminates everything else but that moment - will last for quite some time.

And maybe that's why I continue to hit things.

Sarah Siskind, "Novel": One Man's Take

Some of you may not know of Sarah Siskind, a gifted singer-songwriter working out of Nashville.  She's had songs covered by Alison Krauss and has been covered by Bon Iver and Paul Brady.  She has also opened for Over the Rhine (where, at the concert at the Old Town School, she borrowed a guitar pick from me after losing hers.  Hey, I'm all about full disclosure).

I became a fan of hers at that Over the Rhine concert.  I was pleasantly surprised at her songwriting skills, and she has a powerful, emotional voice as well.  I found her CD "Say It Louder," to be a solid mix of country, Americana, folk, and rock.  The CD was more than just a keepsake - it received considerable playing time on the CD player at home and the car.

In late 2011 she came out with "Novel," and that may have surpassed her earlier effort.  "Novel" again features Sarah's original songs (with one cover, the gospel traditional "Didn't It Rain").  Like Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska," Sarah found that rather than have a band play her songs, she'd be best off putting her own stamp on things.  Sarah handled production duties in addition to playing all the instruments (percussion is rather sparse on this album, so "Novel" has a strong folk flavor to it).

Again, the album covers a broad range of styles.  "Yellow and Blue" puts the vocals up front against a sparse guitar background.  There are some rockers here as well - "Take Me" has a sense of urgency that matches the lyrical plea to be loved ("Someone's got to come down here and take me for theirs / I'm about to lose my breath"), and "I Think About Love" has a galluping beat with intermittent yet effective harmony vocals.  "Crying on a Plane" has a soulful, torchy feel (think Beth Nielsen Chapman) with the perfect balance of piano and guitar, and Siskind smartly refrains from letting the arrangement fall into overblown cliche.  "You're Still There" somehow blends country and folk into a perfect seam, and the song stretches a little, airing itself out like a car ride with the top down.  "Rescue You" again shows Siskind in a sultry 3/4 mood, but her voice loses none of its power.  And kudos to Sarah for keeping the bluesy shuffle of "Didn't It Rain" to a 3:22.  It's obvious that she has a love for this kind of music and could probably sing the song all day if she had a chance. 

Again, Sarah Siskind has created an album that defies easy definition and gets "heavy rotation" in the Alspach household.  Now if she'd only give my back my guitar pick...

The Progger's Progress, pt. 1: "Why do you listen to that crap?"

I think all of us who play music, or at least come to love it in whatever form, have that moment of illumination when we were hit in some way, either spiritually, emotionally, or in a Zen "oh, yeah" manner where you make that indescribable connection.  A friend of mine, a phenomenal pianist, remembers listening to a sonata while following along with the sheet music that his father provided and thinking "THIS is what I want to do."  For others, it may be hearing "The Ballad of Jed Clampett" while watching Buddy Ebsen, Irene Ryan, et. al. tooling down a palm tree-lined street, that led to a fascination with bluegrass, as what happened with Bela Fleck.   

I should have had an inkling of where my musical inclinations were headed when my sister Lynn brought home Sgt. Pepper in June 1967.  Besides that iconic front cover, where my siblings and I managed to misidentify half the people on the cover (we thought Lenny Bruce was Jackie Gleason, Marlene Dietrich was Lucille Ball, and that bit of statuary in the lower right was Lurch from the Addams Family - okay, we weren't the most sophisticated kids in the 'hood), and that stupid cardboard cutout mustache that I could never get to stay hooked to my nose, I was mesmerized by George Harrison's contribution "Within You Without You."  My sister Lynn, however, didn't share my enthusiasm for Eastern music, so side 2 always seemed to start with "When I'm Sixty-Four" and ended with the opening chords of "A Day in the Life" - she wasn't much for orchestral "every man for himself" excursions, either.  Still, the drone of the sitars to open "Within You" told you right up front that you were going on a journey.  I may have been seven, but if I could have voiced my thoughts on hearing the opening of that song, it might have been something along the lines of "Whoa.  Bring it.  Bring.  It."  After hearing "Within You," singing "Billy Boy" or "Bingo" in music class at school just didn't cut it anymore.

Fast forward to 1971 when, with considerable-bordering-on-insufferable pleading, begging, and whining, I got a record player and a few days later came back from Swallen's department store with the start of my music collection (you Cincinnati folks will remember Swallen's - for the others, I'll talk about that store some other time).  I had four 45s: "Beginnings/Colour My World" by Chicago, "It's Too Late/I Feel the Earth Move" by Carole King, "I Just Want to Celebrate/The Seed" by Rare Earth, and the Five Man Electrical Band's "Signs/Hello Melinda Goodbye."  (The fact that I even remember what was on the B sides of those last two 45s shows how seriously I took this stuff.)

The big prize for me, however, was my first LP: Chicago III.  I had heard it several times at a friend's house and the more I listened, the more I was impressed.  It got to where I was almost obsessed.  "Blown away" doesn't even begin to describe its impact on me.  It was the Beethoven symphonies, Rembrandt's "The Night Watch," "Citizen Kane," and every other great work of art over the last 300 years all rolled into one.  Everything about that album, from the music to the artwork, the huge poster, the label itself (I thought Columbia's label design in the 70s and 80s was worthy of a genius grant on someone's part), all added up to "Excellence."  And that's with a capital "E".



The coolest band ever.  Or so I thought at the time.

I listened to that album non-stop for a few weeks, but it wasn't enough.  I needed more and I needed it fast.  I decided that as great as Chicago III was, I had to hit their back catalogue.  One day, while mowing the front lawn, I told my brother that I wanted to get their previous album, Chicago II, with that cool metallic cover and one of my all-time favorite songs back then, "Make Me Smile."

As older brothers are wont to do, he took up the gauntlet.  "Why do you listen to that crap?"

"Crap?  Are you kidding?  It's not crap!  It's great!"  I may have been twelve, but I knew great music from crap.

"But you already have one of their albums."

"Well, yeah, but I want to get their others."

"Why don't you get something else?  Why don't you get Tapestry?"

My brain froze.  Granted, I drove my poor brother crazy with my infatuation with Chicago, and perhaps he was trying to broaden my horizons, but Tapestry?  Tapestry??  No self-respecting twelve-year-old kid is gonna buy Tapestry - that would have to be my sister Ann's job.  I sure wouldn't own up to actually owning that album even if I did buy it.  Besides, I already had a 45 of hers - that should have sufficed.  Sure, Tapestry was and still is a landmark album of wonderfully crafted tunes, but the thought of telling my classmates that I have a Carole King album would be equivalent to changing my name to Poindexter, dressing like Gainsborough's Blue Boy and reciting Emily Dickinson - in other words, making myself a ripe target for playground humiliation and massive physical abuse.  Is that what my brother really wanted?  I should have realized at that point that he may not have had my best interests in mind.

But I persevered by more pleading and whining, getting the first two Chicago albums before exploring their closest jazz-rock competitor at that time, Blood, Sweat, and Tears.  Sure, the music sounds a bit mundane now (though I still hold that Dave Bargeron's solo on "Redemption" from BS&T 4 is as rocking a trombone solo as has ever been recorded), and I'll occasionally listen to Chicago III for sentimental reasons rather than for the music itself, but in the 1970s sticking a horn section with a rock rhythm section was PROG, doggone it!  So, what was it that knocked me for such a loop?  I think it was that those bands had a broader palette of sound than other popular bands at the time such as Creedence or Three Dog Night.  Horns, woodwinds, piano, organ, guitar - it was varied.  And maybe that's what caught my ear, much like Revolver or Sgt. Pepper did - the pure broadness of it all, coupled with a little bit of adventure.

That still holds true for me.  I can appreciate the two-guitars-bass-drum approach, from "Please Please Me" to XTC's "Black Sea" to King Crimson's "Discipline", but it may have been that the horn bands of the 60s and 70s were trying to actually *go* somewhere.  It went beyond much of the I-IV-V songs out there, and there's no denying that Chicago, back then, could flat out rock.  I connected with them.  And so, in September of 1971, a progger was born.

Next: 1974 - The Epiphany of the Mellotron.

From Zeppelin and Yvonne Elliman to Rachmaninoff in 24 hours

Sometimes my favorite weekends are the ones that are the most incongruous.  Judy and I had something like that about a year ago in Toronto when we went to the Hockey Hall of Fame in the afternoon and heard Colin Carr play the Bach Suite for Solo Cello in the evening.

This weekend was something like that.  I had a gig on Friday playing for two Old Town School ensembles.  The first was Led Zeppelin Acoustic, um, led by Richard Pettengill.  It was flattering for him to ask, and it was a great opportunity for me to play some music I've always liked. We led off with "Ramble On" and covered five or six other tunes, two of which I sat out entirely: "That's the Way" and "Going to California." 

At one point, during "The Rain Song" (one of my favorite Led Zeppelin songs), I heard a cheer from the folks there.  "Wow, they must really enjoy us!"  It gives a musician - or me, anyway - some pleasure in knowing that people like your performance and react to it.  More disheartening, however, was later learning that the cheering was for a goal that the Blackhawks scored against San Jose, and most of the people there were watching the Hawks play rather than to listen to the music.

I think that may have been some sort of cosmic payback.  As an undergraduate in Akron I went out with some friends and we were listening to a cover band (you could tell they were serious - matching outfits and all that) when I and others let out a whoop mid-song.  Sure, the music was good, but Len Barker had finished a perfect game against Toronto, and the moment was captured on the big screen TV in the corner.  Not only was it a historic moment, it was a Cleveland Indians victory, and those were rare enough to warrant celebration regardless of who was playing.

In all, though, the set went well.  I returned after dropping Judy home (she just can't party like she used to) and then played the disco set. 

Talk about a struggle, and I don't think it was just me.  The venue, Moe's Tavern, is not very friendly in terms of acoustics.  The stage is rather small, so we have several people crammed into a small space. Some of our group were playing beside the stage.  On top of that, we were loud - very loud.  For the first time, I played with ear plugs, and I found that to be a major benefit.  I could feel the bass in my chest, a sign that things may be too loud for me. "Stayin' Alive" and "Dancing Queen" went well, but I noticed that my left arm was feeling rather sore.  "Great.  How am I going to get through this set?"

I had an inkling when we started "If I Can't Have You" that the song wouldn't go well.  Unfortunately, I was right.  I blame the acoustics - we played it rather well in practice the night before!  Still, there's enough rhythmic cross-ups to keep us on our toes.  We wobbled, we pulled through, we found our footing, we wobbled again. 

We pulled through the last two songs, and by then I felt that I was hanging on by a thread.  My left arm was hurting, so I tried an "open grip" method of playing the hi-hat with the left hand and playing the snare with the right.  (To see somebody do that really well, check out Return to Forever's Lenny White on "Medieval Overture," at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjOYscEN6Qc.)  And the strobe light effect didn't help me either.  I was playing with ear plugs, my eyes half-closed - a bit too cloistered for my own good. 

The set was over, I gathered my things, got in the car, and drove home.  My left elbow was throbbing, I was unsure about my performance, so when I got home I sat on the couch and did a decompression of sorts. 

Saturday I woke up, tried to stretch my arm, and thought "Is this what Sandy Koufax went through his last few years with the Dodgers?"  Every little stretch or movement hurt.  "Okay," I thought, "it may be time to play guitar for a few days.  Or weeks.  Time to rest up."

Judy had planned a "date day" for me, so we went to the Garfield Park Conservatory (the smell of ferns and plants is sorely missed and greatly appreciated in late February), then to Hyde Park where we heard some excellent choral music by the Rockefeller Chapel Choir.  The featured piece was Rachmaninoff's "Vespers."  The choir sang in the back balcony as the audience focused on a piece of art on the altar.  How to describe - two sliver-shaped pieces stood about ten or fifteen feet from each other, and as the piece started, a light emerged from each piece - one at the top of the piece on the left, the other at the bottom of the piece on the right.  During the piece the two points of light inched upwards or downwards, making the piece look like the passing of a full moon during the night.  Given that "Vespers" is a piece of sacred music reflecting a night vigil, the piece was quite effective as a visual accompaniment.

Two of the early pieces in the set were also quite moving.  "Water Night" by Eric Whitacre had some drop-dead beautiful passages, and there was also a piece, premiered that night, which also struck me.  "Marta Niegs" ("March Snow") was composed by Katherine Pukinskis, with text by Latvian poet Zinaida Lazda.  I was fortunate enough to meet Katherine after the show and told her how I liked her piece.  She is only 26, and I can't imagine anyone that young composing such beautiful music.  I'm not sure it's fitting to say in the world of choral music, but I'll say it anyway: the kid's got chops.  Classical music, like jazz, takes an incredible work ethic, and I'm impressed by anyone who has that degree of dedication.  I've become a fan of Katherine and wish her the best. 

So, from Led Zeppelin and disco to choral music in 24 hours.  After a night of one, I sure needed the other.  And the arm?  Well, we'll give it a few more days.  Just don't ask me to pitch batting practice anytime soon.

On the gift of finding similarity

I got a pleasant surprise the other day and a lesson to make as few assumptions as possible when meeting others.  I bought a copy of Prog magazine (guess what it's about?) and took it up to the counter for purchase.  The woman behind the counter, a nice woman about my age named Bobbi, looked at the cover (Prog magazine comes in a cardboard sleeve to hold both the magazine and accompanying CD) which had the terrified face from King Crimson's first album.  I thought she would say "Ack!  What the hell is that!?"  Instead, she said "Oh, look at that.  I have that album!"

That comment caught me a bit by surprise.  "Do you really?"

"Mm hmm!  I still have it on vinyl!  An original copy.  Mm hmm...'Said the straight man to the late man...'"

Yup, she had the album - proof right there.  (For you non-proggers, Bobbi quoted the first line from "I Talk to the Wind," the second song on that album.) 

So there we were - a middle-aged white guy and a middle-aged black woman discussing King Crimson's classic first album.  I didn't think to ask if she remembered when or where she bought that album, but perhaps that's for next time.  In the meantime, it was a reminder to me that the person on the other side of the counter, on the seat next to me on the train, taking my order, or in front of me at the sandwich shop, may have more in common with me than I think.  And maybe that's the lesson I take away from this: look for the similarities.

Last night I had a gig with Congress of Starlings, headed up by Andrea Bunch and Aerin Tedesco.  We were the openers of a three-act card, all part of a small one-night Gay Music Festival.  (The second act was named Les Beau.  And that's "Les" as in WKRP's Nessman, not as in Miserables.  You can figure it out from there.)  I was a bit nervous about the gig since we had one practice with the four of us (Andrea, Aerin, bassist Greg Nergaard, and myself), so I wanted to play well for them - the other three are great musicians, and I wanted to hold up my end of the deal.  Happily, it went well with no real catastrophes.  And, on Andrea's "Killing Wage," a song that flits between 4/4 and 7/4, I had a great time playing.  (As I would hope - I listened to that song about 18 times over three days.  Time signature aside, it's just a great song with some incredible production.)  And folks were calling for "Artemis," a rocker of a song of Aerin's that sounds a bit like Patti Smith (especially in the vocals).  We obliged, and I even timed my stops at the right moments.  (That's the thing with Andrea and Aerin - the music demands a lot of attention.  You can't just sit back and say "yeah, I got the groove.")  But gay or straight, people were there to hear some good music.  I hope that folks liked my playing and forgave the occasional "deer in the headlights" moment when my pause in playing was sold as "letting the music breathe" rather than "oh, crud - where's the one??"  But in the end folks want to hear good music. I'll do my best to provide that in my own little way.  And so we look for - and find - the common ground.