Okay, there's been a gap in my blogging. It doesn't mean I fell off the globe, but rather that I'm just an erratic blogger.
So, to catch up - I've been on a bit of an ECM Records jag lately. I don't know what it is about ECM, but I've always been intrigued by the label and its roster. I picked up two recent releases: "In Full View" by the Julia Hulsmann Quartet, and Nik Bartsch's Ronin Live. The Julia Hulsmann Quartet, now with British trumpeter Thomas Arthurs in the fold, is a nice Sunday morning CD. The interplay is subtle, the melodies are not too out there, and there's a warmth throughout the whole CD. Nik Bartsch's Ronin, on the other hand, is a bit more challenging. Imagine the improvisation of King Crimson in the "Larks' Tongues" era with the polyrhythms of the "Discipline" era. The music is more groove oriented - if you can discern a groove in the music, that is. (They seem a bit averse to a straight 4/4 pattern.) The use of the bass clarinet as more of a rhythmic instrument than a lead instrument is surprising, but it works well in this instance. And I still have Keith Jarrett's "Hymns/Spheres" to be played for that perfectly dismal autumn day when it's cold, dark, and windy - the music in this album doesn't really have a happy feel to it.
I was called to help out with the Disco Ensemble for the Old Town School's Disco Tribute on Friday. The drum seat was already ably filled, so I brought a tambourine and cowbell. This is from the first song of the second set - Heatwave's "Groove Line." I wasn't too familiar with it, not having heard the song in God knows how many years, but hey - it's disco. If you can count to four, you can play percussion.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dAzdiM58u70&feature=youtu.be
Saturday, though, had to be the capper. On what was rather spur of the moment, Judy and I decided to see "Once Upon a Dream" featuring The Rascals. And by The Rascals, I'm glad to say that it was the original Rascals - Eddie Brigati, Felix Cavaliere, Gene Cornish, and Dino Danelli. Given that their split in 1970 was legendary (it's one thing to burn bridges, but Brigati used a few thousand pounds of napalm to seal the deal), it's a minor miracle that they are performing on stage again. But under the tutelage of Miami Steve Van Zandt, he was able to coax them to do some performances in New York and New Jersey and, given the success, took the act out to Chicago for five nights. It was a multi-media show, including lots of filmed commentary from the band members and some "flashback" film footage showing the Rascals in their early days. The video part was extraordinary, the music was phenomenal - I can easily file that in one of the five best shows I've ever seen. Kudos to Miami Steve for getting those guys to put on a great show and not end up strangling each other by the end of the first set. There aren't many famous 60s bands whose members are on this side of the ground, so it was good to see the four of them playing together - and playing so well, too.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Two-gig Weekends and Battling the Wall
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| The Lost Artists studio, 2630 W Fletcher, Chicago. Some interesting art coming out of this place. |
A week and a half ago I had another two-gig weekend - playing at Fretknot Friday at the Independence Tap, and also with the Twangdogs at the Lost Artists Studio (shown above - you can find more at www.artcolony.info).
The Friday gig was fun - another round with the Bad Boys Ensemble where we played Steve Winwood and Al Green songs. It was the debut of sorts of the new sound system at the Independence Tap, a setup monitored in part with an iPad. Kip, fellow Bad Boy musician and person running the sound, almost had the perfect setup, but when you get some 8-10 musicians on stage, something is bound to feed back. Kip would break ranks in mid-song to tweak the sound and get us back to a good sound level. We cut the set a bit short, but we did get to play a medley of "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" and "Walking in the Wind" that went well. "Walking" is a challenge for me - the rhythm is steady, but it's the steady eighth-note on the hi-hat that wears my right thumb out. I end up switching to the Lenny White open-style of playing, where the left hand is playing hi-hat and the right-hand is on the snare, just to give the right hand a rest. I never feel comfortable doing that for long, though, so I'll switch back after about 8 bars.
The Saturday gig with the Twangdogs went quite well and we were well received by the audience. Some people perused the hallways that had the resident artists' work hanging from the walls while we were playing. We were in a fairly good-sized space, but still we were three tiers deep - Janna, Rich, and Merrie were up front, Jack, Quincy, and Jenny were in the middle row, and I got the last row. And no matter how we set up, we end up filling about every square inch of space we can. You could put us in the middle of the Bonneville Salt Flats and we'd still be stepping over each other. But we read each other well during the songs, our between-song times were kept to a minimum, and I think it gave us all a really good feel going into this Saturday's gig at the Independence Tap.
As pleased as I was about Saturday, and content with Friday's gig, I still had something gnawing at me. I bought a couple of CDs a month ago, one of which was "And If" by the Anat Fort Trio. I saw a review of the CD in Downbeat and it piqued my curiosity (as will pretty much anything on ECM Records). Anat plays piano, Gary Wang is the bassist, and Roland Schneider is the drummer, and in a piano trio you'll find lots of space between the musicians. The arrangements on "And If" steer the music to even wider spaces, there's great interplay between the musicians, and in listening to it something clicked. It had been months - years - since I heard a good piano trio, and this CD hit the spot.
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| The Anat Fort Trio - for those...contemplative moments. (It's ECM - what else would you expect?) |
Then I thought about the gigs I play. The Twangdogs, and the various ensembles, aren't the biggest groups I've played with - I think it was the "Fab Forty" Old Town School Beatles Ensemble at a Beatles Convention in Louisville around 2005 and 2006, so that record is pretty safe - but I find myself often playing with at least five or six other musicians, often in a space where I have to do a tai chi routine just to get behind the drum kit. I certainly won't declare "Hey! We have too many musicians here! You, and you, and...you - get outta here!" But I mentioned this to John Mead and he is in agreement that guitar playing in an ensemble is as much about when to play as when not to play. That goes for drums as well - I have no issue being in a band where a couple of songs are drummer-less.
So the question: how does a drummer who appreciates dynamics in music coexist with 6 to 10 other musicians who want to get heard? The answer, I think, is to accept things for what they are, and just stay steady. The last thing I want to do is lead the whole bunch off a cliff. Now, to find that pianist and bassist to delve into an introspective version of Bill Evans' "Re: Person I Knew"...
Monday, June 3, 2013
From Annapolis to Milwaukee - Avenue, that is...
It's been a while since the last post, I know. Lots of things have been going on. First off, my nephew Eric is now an Ensign in the U.S. Navy. He graduated on May 24 from Annapolis. We sat through the entire ceremony (in 55-degree weather with rain and wind - eesh), but also got to see him shake Barack Obama's hand.
The day Judy and I arrived we got to see a concert on the Naval Academy grounds. The main performer, Monte Maxwell, is the Director of Chapel Music and a phenomenal musician. The first piece he played, Pagaent by Leo Sowerby, was a workout in itself. Monte played it on the organ, pulling out stops, hammering block chords, and doing some intricate work on the bass pedals as well. ("Feets don't fail me now," indeed.)
He also had five First Class Midshipman (seniors to us non-military folk) play or sing. One piece, Chopin's Ballad No. 1, Op. 23, was played exceedingly well by Phil Rouse, who two days later graduated with a degree in Oceanography. (How can someone be *that* smart and talented?) There were also performances of the old standards "Old Man River" and "Battle Hymn of the Republic" (well, it *is* Annapolis) by some fine vocalists, and two other Midshipmen performed pieces by Debussey ("Premiere Rhapsodie" on clarinet, and "Claire de Lune" on piano). All in all it was an impressive show - spending a weekend on the Naval Academy campus gave me a large sense of appreciation and respect for the students.
To more mundane ventures, Friday night was a performance of the "Bad Boys" Ensemble. It was the "graduation" performance from last session. The venue was Moe's, a nondescript beer-and-a-bump tavern on Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood. (They do provide the drums, though - I won't complain about that!) Tired as I was that night, I was looking forward to playing because this outfit put a lot of work into the music over the previous eight or ten weeks, and I had a sense that the music was going to be good.
We had an opening act - Samantha Church, a young woman who combines soul and r-and-b with, of all things, a banjo. She busks at the Monroe Street stop on the O'Hare El, and is well worth the dollar in the banjo case. She has a strong and very expressive voice. Her set was well-received, and it was great to look around and see people actually listening to the music.
The "Bad Boys" ensemble went up next. We covered several Steve Winwood-penned tunes: "Can't Find My Way Home," "Dear Mr. Fantasy," "40,000 Headmen," and one of my all-time favorites, "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys." That gave me a chance to cross over from jazz to rock and back again. It's a great song to play with, but I'm realizing that I can't get too hyper or free-wheeling or else I trip myself up and run the risk of throwing everything into a tailspin.
"Walking on the Wind," from Traffic's When the Eagle Flies album, was a highlight. Our vocalist was having a rather hard time feeling the rhythm of the lyrics, and we played the song three times in a row on Wednesday's practice. But on Friday it all came together. He sounded great, and the song came off without a hitch. In moments like that, one tends to think that the set is a "cinch" - nothing major will go wrong for the rest of the set. And that was true. "Time is Running Out" and "Vacant Chair" were both top-notch, the vocalists on "Vacant Chair" doing a great job of reading each other. I tried to synch the right foot to Lindsay Cochrane's bass line on "Time is Running Out" to give it a little more punch. (I think I enjoy playing that song as much as, if not more than, "Low Spark.")That was one of the better ensemble performances I've been a part of, but we still had one set to go.
The third act was a bit of a carry-over - John Mead, keyboardist Cathy Goodman, and Lindsay were joined by Peter Manis (a very solid drummer, someone I can learn quite a bit from) and David Argentieri for a set of originals. The group, named John Cougar Melancholy, were fronted by David and Cathy. David wears his Springsteen-as-folkie influence on his sleeve, and his songs are slow and soulful. Cathy has a wider palate and her songs have a bit more range, from two-step to ballad to straight rock. The songs were all well done, and some studio time for these guys wouldn't be a bad idea - they're worth hearing.
The Bad Boys went up for the final set - Al Green songs. This gave me a chance to stay in the pocket - find a groove, and keep it. That was the best thing for me, because at that point (12.30 a.m.) I was getting a little cloudy-headed. I started relying on John Mead for his cues a bit more often - on "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart" (yeah, yeah, the Bee Gees had the original), I don't think I would have come back in on time from the breaks. (Al Green's version is slowed down, and as any drummer can attest, slower is often harder. Playing a slow song, while tired, can lead to unavoidable moments of ritard.) Kip Plourde did a fantastic job with vocals, especially on "Here I Am." He's got a voice that's well-suited for r-and-b.
And where was Judy in all this? Frankfort, a far south-west suburb, listening to a concert by Greg Cahill, Alan Munde, and Don Stiernberg. The concert was at Down Home Guitars, a music store in a miniature mall. The store itself has some extremely nice instruments, guitars and banjos mainly, and is well worth the trip if you're a guitar connoisseur who lives in the Chicago area. It's no surprise, then, that they would get some really top-notch performers like Cahill, Munde, and Stiernberg. Frankly, I don't blame Judy for going to that concert instead of the gig at Moe's. She got home a lot earlier than I did, that's for sure.
The day Judy and I arrived we got to see a concert on the Naval Academy grounds. The main performer, Monte Maxwell, is the Director of Chapel Music and a phenomenal musician. The first piece he played, Pagaent by Leo Sowerby, was a workout in itself. Monte played it on the organ, pulling out stops, hammering block chords, and doing some intricate work on the bass pedals as well. ("Feets don't fail me now," indeed.)
He also had five First Class Midshipman (seniors to us non-military folk) play or sing. One piece, Chopin's Ballad No. 1, Op. 23, was played exceedingly well by Phil Rouse, who two days later graduated with a degree in Oceanography. (How can someone be *that* smart and talented?) There were also performances of the old standards "Old Man River" and "Battle Hymn of the Republic" (well, it *is* Annapolis) by some fine vocalists, and two other Midshipmen performed pieces by Debussey ("Premiere Rhapsodie" on clarinet, and "Claire de Lune" on piano). All in all it was an impressive show - spending a weekend on the Naval Academy campus gave me a large sense of appreciation and respect for the students.
To more mundane ventures, Friday night was a performance of the "Bad Boys" Ensemble. It was the "graduation" performance from last session. The venue was Moe's, a nondescript beer-and-a-bump tavern on Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood. (They do provide the drums, though - I won't complain about that!) Tired as I was that night, I was looking forward to playing because this outfit put a lot of work into the music over the previous eight or ten weeks, and I had a sense that the music was going to be good.
We had an opening act - Samantha Church, a young woman who combines soul and r-and-b with, of all things, a banjo. She busks at the Monroe Street stop on the O'Hare El, and is well worth the dollar in the banjo case. She has a strong and very expressive voice. Her set was well-received, and it was great to look around and see people actually listening to the music.
The "Bad Boys" ensemble went up next. We covered several Steve Winwood-penned tunes: "Can't Find My Way Home," "Dear Mr. Fantasy," "40,000 Headmen," and one of my all-time favorites, "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys." That gave me a chance to cross over from jazz to rock and back again. It's a great song to play with, but I'm realizing that I can't get too hyper or free-wheeling or else I trip myself up and run the risk of throwing everything into a tailspin.
"Walking on the Wind," from Traffic's When the Eagle Flies album, was a highlight. Our vocalist was having a rather hard time feeling the rhythm of the lyrics, and we played the song three times in a row on Wednesday's practice. But on Friday it all came together. He sounded great, and the song came off without a hitch. In moments like that, one tends to think that the set is a "cinch" - nothing major will go wrong for the rest of the set. And that was true. "Time is Running Out" and "Vacant Chair" were both top-notch, the vocalists on "Vacant Chair" doing a great job of reading each other. I tried to synch the right foot to Lindsay Cochrane's bass line on "Time is Running Out" to give it a little more punch. (I think I enjoy playing that song as much as, if not more than, "Low Spark.")That was one of the better ensemble performances I've been a part of, but we still had one set to go.
The third act was a bit of a carry-over - John Mead, keyboardist Cathy Goodman, and Lindsay were joined by Peter Manis (a very solid drummer, someone I can learn quite a bit from) and David Argentieri for a set of originals. The group, named John Cougar Melancholy, were fronted by David and Cathy. David wears his Springsteen-as-folkie influence on his sleeve, and his songs are slow and soulful. Cathy has a wider palate and her songs have a bit more range, from two-step to ballad to straight rock. The songs were all well done, and some studio time for these guys wouldn't be a bad idea - they're worth hearing.
The Bad Boys went up for the final set - Al Green songs. This gave me a chance to stay in the pocket - find a groove, and keep it. That was the best thing for me, because at that point (12.30 a.m.) I was getting a little cloudy-headed. I started relying on John Mead for his cues a bit more often - on "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart" (yeah, yeah, the Bee Gees had the original), I don't think I would have come back in on time from the breaks. (Al Green's version is slowed down, and as any drummer can attest, slower is often harder. Playing a slow song, while tired, can lead to unavoidable moments of ritard.) Kip Plourde did a fantastic job with vocals, especially on "Here I Am." He's got a voice that's well-suited for r-and-b.
And where was Judy in all this? Frankfort, a far south-west suburb, listening to a concert by Greg Cahill, Alan Munde, and Don Stiernberg. The concert was at Down Home Guitars, a music store in a miniature mall. The store itself has some extremely nice instruments, guitars and banjos mainly, and is well worth the trip if you're a guitar connoisseur who lives in the Chicago area. It's no surprise, then, that they would get some really top-notch performers like Cahill, Munde, and Stiernberg. Frankly, I don't blame Judy for going to that concert instead of the gig at Moe's. She got home a lot earlier than I did, that's for sure.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
From barbecue to Chicago's best wine in 48 hours
Why is it that if you are involved in two bands, those bands will somehow manage to book practices and gigs for the same time? That's what happened to me this past weekend. It left me with a "good" tired feeling, but tired all the same.
Friday night I had a final practice at the Old Town School with Little Queens, a Heart tribute band with Andrea Bunch, Aerin Tedesco, John Mead, Debbie Kaszinsky, and Greg Nergaard. We were fortunate enough to get a gig at the City Winery, a place on West Randolph that makes their own wine and has an eye-catching menu as well. The practice in itself wouldn't have been so bad, but the Twangdogs, the country-Americana outfit that I'm in, had a gig two hours later.
I loaded up the drums and dropped them off at the Horseshoe Tavern on Lincoln Avenue, then drove to the Old Town School. I sat down and started playing during "Love Alive" and immediately spilled my Starbucks grande mocha. Okay, not a great start to the practice. Rather annoyed, I cleaned up as best as I could. (I also left a big brown mocha stain on the rug underneath the drums - to the Old Town administration, please take it out of my membership fee.) We did the run-through of the songs, and I would have liked to play some more, but it was time to hop in the car and head down to the Horseshoe. John Mead was nice enough to head back to Starbucks and buy another mocha for me.
Thankfully it was a short drive from the Old Town School to the Horseshoe - only half a mile. I was feeling a bit rushed at that time, and having King Crimson's "Sailor's Tale" on the car stereo didn't help my sense of calm any. ("Sailor's Tale" is not a song to listen to if you're in need of calm or finding your "happy place" - it's a darkly intense instrumental that pulls me in every time I hear it.)
So, the Horseshoe (http://www.myspace.com/horseshoechicago). I had reservations about that bar from an experience I had some seven years ago. I was in a band with some others, and after a year of practicing we got a gig at the Horseshoe. We ran a practice at my church before leaving, then we all packed up and got to the Horseshoe. I set up my drums and sat while the others set up their guitars and amps, then I sat as the others tuned and futzed with their effects pedals, then sat as the bassist went on a frantic thirty-minute search for a songbook (which was under a coat the entire time). We finally started playing, and after five songs the sound man came up and said "Ya gotta stop playing. We got a phone call from the cops saying the neighbors are complaining." To this day I believe the sound man really said "We don't want you to play anymore." Tails between our legs, we tore down and slunk back home. That was my first gig as a drummer. But that was seven years ago, and apparently the Horseshoe learned something by putting up sound panels in the front window which made the venue sound surprisingly good for an all-wood barbecue joint.
I got to the Horseshoe to find it surprising empty - there were the other Twangdogs and about six others. "Where's the other band?"
Fellow Twangdog Rich Gordon answered "Oh, they never showed up." I found that humorous, having just read an open letter from a bar owner in the Tampa area who had some advice about band professionalism and who said that the band's true purpose was to sell drinks. (That might be a topic for another day.) I think the first tip for any band would be: come hell or high water, show up. Or, if you can't, the reason for not showing up better involve a hospital and/or a police report.
So, it turned out I had considerable time to set up the drums. I sighed - it looked like things were going to work out after all. (It's a matter of trust - trust that all will be well in the end.) We all set up, and did another remarkable Twangdogian job of filling up an entire stage with instruments. I think you could put us on stage at Symphony Center and we'd still fill the entire stage. We played our sets, and Andrea Bunch was nice enough to come down and listen after appearing at Fretknot Friday with a student of hers. There were a few good moments in our sets, but overall I felt as though we still needed a bit of work to sort out the rough spots. Towards the end of the second set, we started "Best of My Love", the Eagles ballad, and I totally blanked on what the tempo should have been. Not that I cranked it up to Warp Factor 5, but I was a bit brain-dead at that point. Ditto our closer, the Decemberists' "Down by the Water." Fortunately I guessed right on the tempo and the others carried that song quite well.
Sunday's gig at the City Winery was a different story. We had a slightly larger stage, and one fewer band member, so we had some space to work with. Instruments set up and sound check run, we went back to the Green Room where one of the staff took food and drink orders. I wasn't used to that kind of treatment. "So this is how real music stars are treated," I thought.
(For a schedule, check out http://www.citywinery.com/chicago/tickets.html. I'm sure the wine is good, but the food is incredible.)
So I put in my order - mini-sliders and a pork belly coupled with french toast - a strange combo on paper, but not so odd on the taste buds. I ate my meal with Judy in the audience.
I went back to the Green Room to join the others. Debbie and Andrea changed into their stage outfits, John put on his striped 70s pants, and at 7 we took the stage. Taking the stage with us was a guy we dubbed "Wine Man". The show was a "wine pairing" - the audience would get a taste of wine for a three song set, then a taste of a different wine for the next three songs, and so on. So, four glasses of wine for 12 songs.
I fought off nerves for a good part of the evening. The City Winery is a venue that is a big step up for folks like me - an attentive audience, no TVs so I can follow the ball game or try to follow the detective story on USA Network while playing. This was a concert. Fortunately, the audience couldn't have been more receptive and encouraging. After a couple of songs, and in spite of a mistake here and there (the perfect gig, I think, is like chasing the horizon), it was a great show. Aerin was bogged down with laryngitis, so Andrea had to sing all the songs, and she handled it extremely well. It's like having two Ann Wilsons in the band - Aerin is an outstanding singer in her own right and all the members have a good sense of the arrangements of the songs.
As a band we acquitted ourselves rather well. "Even It Up" started off the set, and the first song is always the hardest, though if you get that first song down, it's a big boost for your psyche for the rest of the night. "Mistral Wind," an extremely tricky song, went off without a hitch. "White Lightning and Wine" started off at a given tempo and I tried, given Aerin's cues, to slow it down a bit. (If you think trying to slow down a song as inconspicuously as possible is an easy task, think again.) The last set had two of my favorites: "Crazy on You" and "Barracuda." We finished with Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll," and we may have stumbled a bit, but the song is enough of a full-throttle rocker that a flub here or there may almost be required to do justice. But that last set tested my mettle as a drummer - I played about as hard as I could, so much that my solo at the end of "Rock and Roll" sounded to me (as I remember it) to be a bit clumsy, though I did have some fun with one of the roto-toms.
Two gigs in three nights - two paying gigs, though I'd be able to blow through that money on a decent night out with Judy - and a good sense of tired on Monday. Just give me a few days, and I'll be ready to go. I think. Maybe give me a week.
Friday night I had a final practice at the Old Town School with Little Queens, a Heart tribute band with Andrea Bunch, Aerin Tedesco, John Mead, Debbie Kaszinsky, and Greg Nergaard. We were fortunate enough to get a gig at the City Winery, a place on West Randolph that makes their own wine and has an eye-catching menu as well. The practice in itself wouldn't have been so bad, but the Twangdogs, the country-Americana outfit that I'm in, had a gig two hours later.
I loaded up the drums and dropped them off at the Horseshoe Tavern on Lincoln Avenue, then drove to the Old Town School. I sat down and started playing during "Love Alive" and immediately spilled my Starbucks grande mocha. Okay, not a great start to the practice. Rather annoyed, I cleaned up as best as I could. (I also left a big brown mocha stain on the rug underneath the drums - to the Old Town administration, please take it out of my membership fee.) We did the run-through of the songs, and I would have liked to play some more, but it was time to hop in the car and head down to the Horseshoe. John Mead was nice enough to head back to Starbucks and buy another mocha for me.
Thankfully it was a short drive from the Old Town School to the Horseshoe - only half a mile. I was feeling a bit rushed at that time, and having King Crimson's "Sailor's Tale" on the car stereo didn't help my sense of calm any. ("Sailor's Tale" is not a song to listen to if you're in need of calm or finding your "happy place" - it's a darkly intense instrumental that pulls me in every time I hear it.)
So, the Horseshoe (http://www.myspace.com/horseshoechicago). I had reservations about that bar from an experience I had some seven years ago. I was in a band with some others, and after a year of practicing we got a gig at the Horseshoe. We ran a practice at my church before leaving, then we all packed up and got to the Horseshoe. I set up my drums and sat while the others set up their guitars and amps, then I sat as the others tuned and futzed with their effects pedals, then sat as the bassist went on a frantic thirty-minute search for a songbook (which was under a coat the entire time). We finally started playing, and after five songs the sound man came up and said "Ya gotta stop playing. We got a phone call from the cops saying the neighbors are complaining." To this day I believe the sound man really said "We don't want you to play anymore." Tails between our legs, we tore down and slunk back home. That was my first gig as a drummer. But that was seven years ago, and apparently the Horseshoe learned something by putting up sound panels in the front window which made the venue sound surprisingly good for an all-wood barbecue joint.
I got to the Horseshoe to find it surprising empty - there were the other Twangdogs and about six others. "Where's the other band?"
Fellow Twangdog Rich Gordon answered "Oh, they never showed up." I found that humorous, having just read an open letter from a bar owner in the Tampa area who had some advice about band professionalism and who said that the band's true purpose was to sell drinks. (That might be a topic for another day.) I think the first tip for any band would be: come hell or high water, show up. Or, if you can't, the reason for not showing up better involve a hospital and/or a police report.
So, it turned out I had considerable time to set up the drums. I sighed - it looked like things were going to work out after all. (It's a matter of trust - trust that all will be well in the end.) We all set up, and did another remarkable Twangdogian job of filling up an entire stage with instruments. I think you could put us on stage at Symphony Center and we'd still fill the entire stage. We played our sets, and Andrea Bunch was nice enough to come down and listen after appearing at Fretknot Friday with a student of hers. There were a few good moments in our sets, but overall I felt as though we still needed a bit of work to sort out the rough spots. Towards the end of the second set, we started "Best of My Love", the Eagles ballad, and I totally blanked on what the tempo should have been. Not that I cranked it up to Warp Factor 5, but I was a bit brain-dead at that point. Ditto our closer, the Decemberists' "Down by the Water." Fortunately I guessed right on the tempo and the others carried that song quite well.
Sunday's gig at the City Winery was a different story. We had a slightly larger stage, and one fewer band member, so we had some space to work with. Instruments set up and sound check run, we went back to the Green Room where one of the staff took food and drink orders. I wasn't used to that kind of treatment. "So this is how real music stars are treated," I thought.
(For a schedule, check out http://www.citywinery.com/chicago/tickets.html. I'm sure the wine is good, but the food is incredible.)
So I put in my order - mini-sliders and a pork belly coupled with french toast - a strange combo on paper, but not so odd on the taste buds. I ate my meal with Judy in the audience.
I went back to the Green Room to join the others. Debbie and Andrea changed into their stage outfits, John put on his striped 70s pants, and at 7 we took the stage. Taking the stage with us was a guy we dubbed "Wine Man". The show was a "wine pairing" - the audience would get a taste of wine for a three song set, then a taste of a different wine for the next three songs, and so on. So, four glasses of wine for 12 songs.
I fought off nerves for a good part of the evening. The City Winery is a venue that is a big step up for folks like me - an attentive audience, no TVs so I can follow the ball game or try to follow the detective story on USA Network while playing. This was a concert. Fortunately, the audience couldn't have been more receptive and encouraging. After a couple of songs, and in spite of a mistake here and there (the perfect gig, I think, is like chasing the horizon), it was a great show. Aerin was bogged down with laryngitis, so Andrea had to sing all the songs, and she handled it extremely well. It's like having two Ann Wilsons in the band - Aerin is an outstanding singer in her own right and all the members have a good sense of the arrangements of the songs.
As a band we acquitted ourselves rather well. "Even It Up" started off the set, and the first song is always the hardest, though if you get that first song down, it's a big boost for your psyche for the rest of the night. "Mistral Wind," an extremely tricky song, went off without a hitch. "White Lightning and Wine" started off at a given tempo and I tried, given Aerin's cues, to slow it down a bit. (If you think trying to slow down a song as inconspicuously as possible is an easy task, think again.) The last set had two of my favorites: "Crazy on You" and "Barracuda." We finished with Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll," and we may have stumbled a bit, but the song is enough of a full-throttle rocker that a flub here or there may almost be required to do justice. But that last set tested my mettle as a drummer - I played about as hard as I could, so much that my solo at the end of "Rock and Roll" sounded to me (as I remember it) to be a bit clumsy, though I did have some fun with one of the roto-toms.
Two gigs in three nights - two paying gigs, though I'd be able to blow through that money on a decent night out with Judy - and a good sense of tired on Monday. Just give me a few days, and I'll be ready to go. I think. Maybe give me a week.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
The Progger's Progress, pt. 2: Smitten by the Mellotron
I think in it was 1972 when I first heard "Stairway to Heaven." And, if you're honest, you were probably impressed with that song when you first it as well. Sure, the song is the poster child for radio overexposure and general adulation, but it's range in dynamics, from opening acoustic guitar to all-out rock, is done so subtly that you probably didn't notice the changes. Sure, the lyrics are a bit over-the-top, but you can't deny the excellence of the instrumental performance.
So, like about 80% of the other kids my age, I became a Zeppelin fan. And, it was on "The Rain Song" from the Houses of the Holy album (an album whose cover shouldn't be left lying around, unless you wish to give grandmothers a strong bout of arrythmia), that the Mellotron finally stuck in my conscience. Of course I had heard it used before - the flute opening of "Strawberry Fields Forever," and numerous Moody Blues songs that came across the radio. In this case, however, the Mellotron was so prominent in that lush, lengthy instrumental passage after the first verse of "The Rain Song" that it would be impossible to forget.
Chicago made interesting use of the Mellotron on their seventh album. The opening track, "Prelude to Aire," featured Walt Parazaider's flute meandering over tom-toms and percussion, then Robert Lamm comes in, adding some odd counterpoint. At the end, Lamm uses an off-kilter six-note ascending arpeggio. When I first heard this song, so uncharacteristic of the band that gave us "Saturday in the Park" and "Just You 'n' Me," I was caught by surprise. Head sandwiched tightly between the two speakers of the crummy record player I had at the time, I thought "Okay, that worked." That Chicago VII may be my favorite album of theirs should have told me something - side 1, with "Prelude to Aire," "Aire," and "Devil's Sweet" was a daring bit of jazz-rock fusion that I appreciated from when I first heard it.
A few months later, on a cold and windy Saturday afternoon, I had stumbled across a cassette of "A Question of Balance" by the Moody Blues. I always liked "Question" and put the cassette in for a listen. As the song faded, Mike Pinder's "How Is It (We Are Here)" came right in - a standard technique on those Moodies albums. The song is a bit furrow-browed, as are pretty much all of Pinder's songs, but after the first verse there's a swell of mellotron. And it hit me. Psychologists refer to it as a "flash moment" - an otherwise insignificant moment in time that becomes permanently etched in one's memory. For me, I had my flash moment.
Suffice it to say that I was on a Moody Blues jag for the next six months, buying all their albums, from "Days of Future Passed" to "Seventh Sojourn." There is no doubt that many would consider the Moodies as prog, but so many of their songs weren't really that difficult to play, technically - hardly anything like Yes or King Crimson. Anyone with a year or two of guitar under his or her belt could play all of "Seventh Sojourn." It's a lesson, I guess - prog doesn't have to be 23 minutes of 17/8 music about fairies and elves (though some would say that if it is, then all the better). Nor does using a Mellotron qualify a song as being prog - if so, then you can put "Freebird" in the prog bin - a sobering thought. It leaves the question "what is prog?" to which I now answer "decide for yourself."
Somewhere in this time my high school had a dance after a basketball game. I looked forward to hanging with my friends and being disappointed by a total lack of interest from the girls. A band was going to perform (no dj's for this upper-crust school), and I got there a little early to watch them load in. As the band was bringing in their equipment, two of the members lugged in what looked like an organ in a white wooden casing. Jamie Vogt, who was a friend of mine at the time (and also a Moodies/mellotron fan) and I asked what this strange-looking keyboard was.
The guy carrying it in was nonchalant. "It's a Mellotron."
You'd have thought it was the Hope Diamond. ("So...that's...a...mellotron. Ohhhhhh...") Jamie and I stood there, wide-eyed and transfixed, while we got an explanation of its workings - a series of tape loops inside that played when the keys were pressed. (Legend says that the sampling of the string sounds were taken by three elderly women playing violins in a room. It may be true - who knows for sure?) We got a small demonstration of its ability, and Jamie and I were pretty much blown away. Wow - a Mellotron. Right there in our high school cafeteria. Why nobody ever cordoned off that area and put up a sign ("Here once stood a Mellotron. Proper decorum expected.") was a mystery to me.
And to this day, if I hear what sounds like a Mellotron (I don't know if anyone really uses them anymore - they weighed as much as a diesel engine and often went out of tune), it hits me like a scritch behind a dog's ear. The head tilts back and a slight expression of reverie comes to the surface. The sound goes from the ear to some place between the head and heart where music often makes its strongest connection.
So, like about 80% of the other kids my age, I became a Zeppelin fan. And, it was on "The Rain Song" from the Houses of the Holy album (an album whose cover shouldn't be left lying around, unless you wish to give grandmothers a strong bout of arrythmia), that the Mellotron finally stuck in my conscience. Of course I had heard it used before - the flute opening of "Strawberry Fields Forever," and numerous Moody Blues songs that came across the radio. In this case, however, the Mellotron was so prominent in that lush, lengthy instrumental passage after the first verse of "The Rain Song" that it would be impossible to forget.
 |
| The Mellotron in all its glory. It's a sight to behold, isn't it? |
Chicago made interesting use of the Mellotron on their seventh album. The opening track, "Prelude to Aire," featured Walt Parazaider's flute meandering over tom-toms and percussion, then Robert Lamm comes in, adding some odd counterpoint. At the end, Lamm uses an off-kilter six-note ascending arpeggio. When I first heard this song, so uncharacteristic of the band that gave us "Saturday in the Park" and "Just You 'n' Me," I was caught by surprise. Head sandwiched tightly between the two speakers of the crummy record player I had at the time, I thought "Okay, that worked." That Chicago VII may be my favorite album of theirs should have told me something - side 1, with "Prelude to Aire," "Aire," and "Devil's Sweet" was a daring bit of jazz-rock fusion that I appreciated from when I first heard it.
A few months later, on a cold and windy Saturday afternoon, I had stumbled across a cassette of "A Question of Balance" by the Moody Blues. I always liked "Question" and put the cassette in for a listen. As the song faded, Mike Pinder's "How Is It (We Are Here)" came right in - a standard technique on those Moodies albums. The song is a bit furrow-browed, as are pretty much all of Pinder's songs, but after the first verse there's a swell of mellotron. And it hit me. Psychologists refer to it as a "flash moment" - an otherwise insignificant moment in time that becomes permanently etched in one's memory. For me, I had my flash moment.
Suffice it to say that I was on a Moody Blues jag for the next six months, buying all their albums, from "Days of Future Passed" to "Seventh Sojourn." There is no doubt that many would consider the Moodies as prog, but so many of their songs weren't really that difficult to play, technically - hardly anything like Yes or King Crimson. Anyone with a year or two of guitar under his or her belt could play all of "Seventh Sojourn." It's a lesson, I guess - prog doesn't have to be 23 minutes of 17/8 music about fairies and elves (though some would say that if it is, then all the better). Nor does using a Mellotron qualify a song as being prog - if so, then you can put "Freebird" in the prog bin - a sobering thought. It leaves the question "what is prog?" to which I now answer "decide for yourself."
Somewhere in this time my high school had a dance after a basketball game. I looked forward to hanging with my friends and being disappointed by a total lack of interest from the girls. A band was going to perform (no dj's for this upper-crust school), and I got there a little early to watch them load in. As the band was bringing in their equipment, two of the members lugged in what looked like an organ in a white wooden casing. Jamie Vogt, who was a friend of mine at the time (and also a Moodies/mellotron fan) and I asked what this strange-looking keyboard was.
The guy carrying it in was nonchalant. "It's a Mellotron."
You'd have thought it was the Hope Diamond. ("So...that's...a...mellotron. Ohhhhhh...") Jamie and I stood there, wide-eyed and transfixed, while we got an explanation of its workings - a series of tape loops inside that played when the keys were pressed. (Legend says that the sampling of the string sounds were taken by three elderly women playing violins in a room. It may be true - who knows for sure?) We got a small demonstration of its ability, and Jamie and I were pretty much blown away. Wow - a Mellotron. Right there in our high school cafeteria. Why nobody ever cordoned off that area and put up a sign ("Here once stood a Mellotron. Proper decorum expected.") was a mystery to me.
And to this day, if I hear what sounds like a Mellotron (I don't know if anyone really uses them anymore - they weighed as much as a diesel engine and often went out of tune), it hits me like a scritch behind a dog's ear. The head tilts back and a slight expression of reverie comes to the surface. The sound goes from the ear to some place between the head and heart where music often makes its strongest connection.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
From Donna Summer to Bach in 48 hours
This was another week that ran the gamut in terms of musical styles. Monday was practice with the Twangdogs minus Janna, who somehow scratched her cornea and was out. (The woes continued the next day when Jack, our guitarist/bassist/electric banjo player, lopped off the very tip of a finger when a door closed on it and is out four weeks. We're Chicago's only band with an injured reserve list.)
Wednesday was the "Bad Boys" practice, and we focused on Al Green tunes. In it we (hopefully) learned that in songs that can meander over a two-chord pattern, learning to play different chord shapes, rhythm patterns, or just dropping out for bars at a time is an admirable goal. As our instructor John Mead said, "You know the chords. Now it's a matter of when to play them." Drummers can even face that challenge - when to do a fill, or a rim-click, or just hi-hat. One of the more enjoyable tasks for me, when drumming, is to see how many sounds I can get from a drum kit. Such discoveries come in handy when trying to vary the sound as much as possible within a lengthy jam.
The Disco ensemble on Thursday is an example of that. Donna Summer's "Love to Love You Baby" went to some 12-15 minutes in our hands, and still fell short of the original 17 minutes on record. It allowed Cathy Goodman to do some rather humorous improvising on vocals as well (just how many times can someone repeat "Love to Love You Baby" and make it sound interesting?). So what do I do? This is pretty much a hi-hat-and-bass-drum song, and I have to find some way to keep things moving. Who knew disco could be so difficult?
On "Shame Shame Shame," Cathy and Joe Grandolfo shared vocals (Joe's voice nowhere near the falsetto on the original, thank the Lord) and did the bump during the instrumental passages. It's an image that keeps my eyes glued to the snare drum. The dance is goofy, not exactly fluid, but if I watch too long I start laughing and everything gets thrown off.
Now - where does Bach come in to all this? Saturday Judy and I went to the Chicago Symphony and heard them perform "Mass in B Minor." The pre-concert lecture was done by a Stephen Alltop, professor of music at Northwestern as well as conductor. (Find out about him at http://www.stephenalltop.com/. Dude has credentials, that's for sure.) I was fascinated by how much he knew not only about Bach but of the piece as well. There are all sorts of nuances in the music that Stephen pointed out, such as Bach's fixation on the number 14 (if A=1, B=2, C=3, then H=8. B+A+C+H=2+1+3+8=14, just the number of notes in one of the main themes in the piece), and a grand idea that for those in Bach's time (or afterwards, since the piece debuted after his death), a big swell in the music could be the equivalent of our seeing a grand explosion on TV or the movies - or a Kiss concert. There is so much more to Bach's music - to much of classical music - that escapes our ears, and it's always a great experience to dive in once in a while and experience something on the high end. And, as Keith Emerson pointed out by incorporating the Brandenburg Concertos in his days with the Nice, are classical and rock really that far apart?
Wednesday was the "Bad Boys" practice, and we focused on Al Green tunes. In it we (hopefully) learned that in songs that can meander over a two-chord pattern, learning to play different chord shapes, rhythm patterns, or just dropping out for bars at a time is an admirable goal. As our instructor John Mead said, "You know the chords. Now it's a matter of when to play them." Drummers can even face that challenge - when to do a fill, or a rim-click, or just hi-hat. One of the more enjoyable tasks for me, when drumming, is to see how many sounds I can get from a drum kit. Such discoveries come in handy when trying to vary the sound as much as possible within a lengthy jam.
The Disco ensemble on Thursday is an example of that. Donna Summer's "Love to Love You Baby" went to some 12-15 minutes in our hands, and still fell short of the original 17 minutes on record. It allowed Cathy Goodman to do some rather humorous improvising on vocals as well (just how many times can someone repeat "Love to Love You Baby" and make it sound interesting?). So what do I do? This is pretty much a hi-hat-and-bass-drum song, and I have to find some way to keep things moving. Who knew disco could be so difficult?
On "Shame Shame Shame," Cathy and Joe Grandolfo shared vocals (Joe's voice nowhere near the falsetto on the original, thank the Lord) and did the bump during the instrumental passages. It's an image that keeps my eyes glued to the snare drum. The dance is goofy, not exactly fluid, but if I watch too long I start laughing and everything gets thrown off.
Now - where does Bach come in to all this? Saturday Judy and I went to the Chicago Symphony and heard them perform "Mass in B Minor." The pre-concert lecture was done by a Stephen Alltop, professor of music at Northwestern as well as conductor. (Find out about him at http://www.stephenalltop.com/. Dude has credentials, that's for sure.) I was fascinated by how much he knew not only about Bach but of the piece as well. There are all sorts of nuances in the music that Stephen pointed out, such as Bach's fixation on the number 14 (if A=1, B=2, C=3, then H=8. B+A+C+H=2+1+3+8=14, just the number of notes in one of the main themes in the piece), and a grand idea that for those in Bach's time (or afterwards, since the piece debuted after his death), a big swell in the music could be the equivalent of our seeing a grand explosion on TV or the movies - or a Kiss concert. There is so much more to Bach's music - to much of classical music - that escapes our ears, and it's always a great experience to dive in once in a while and experience something on the high end. And, as Keith Emerson pointed out by incorporating the Brandenburg Concertos in his days with the Nice, are classical and rock really that far apart?
Friday, March 29, 2013
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.
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.)
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.
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. |
 |
| The back of a Deering tenor banjo, complete with gorgeous wood inlay and zirconium jewels. Thirty-eight grand and it's yours. |
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| All I need is a short-sleeved stiped shirt and I'm ready for the Kingston Trio. |
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| Judy tries her hand with a banjo guitar. |
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| Do you think Judy is excited to visit? |
Sunday, March 17, 2013
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!
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!
Sunday, March 10, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
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...
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...
Thursday, February 28, 2013
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".
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, February 15, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2013
On Feeling Young, Practicing, and Other Failed Endeavors
I've been listening quite a bit to "Who's Feeling Young Now?" by The Punch Brothers, a newgrass supergroup of sorts - Chris Thile on mandolin, Noam Pikelny on banjo, Gabe Witcher on violin, Chris Eldridge on guitar, and Paul Kowert on bass. I always thought that bluegrass and prog were about as two disparate genres as there were in music, but if anyone can bridge the gap, these guys can. Anyone who has the nerve, with that instrumentation, to cover Radiohead's "Kid A" isn't afraid to take chances. The leadoff song, "Movement and Location," is a favorite, the rapid-fire banjo and mandolin anchored by Kowert's clipped-quarter-note bass chords and Thile's open singing. "No Concern of Yours" is another good one, a rather dark song where the playing is muted to great effect. But it's not all navelgazing - "This Girl," for example, has a nice jazzy bounce to it, and "Hundred Dollars" has a healthy swagger to it. Dang - more albums like this and I may convert!
(As to feeling young as a failed endeavor, Judy and I went bowling on Friday. I ended up out $30 and with a very sore back. How could that happen? Why have I been going to the Y for the last three months, if not to avoid falling apart after a little exertion? And I still manage to find inventive ways to miss picking up spares. Thus the tie-in.)
So, how does one get to Carnegie Hall? Well, if you ask me, I'll tell you "There's about nine subway lines and six bus lines that'll get you there." If you think I'm going to say "practice, practice, practice," you're mistaken. I have an incredibly poor work ethic, especially with the guitar, so I'm hardly in a position to tell anyone to practice. My practicing usually consists of going to a jazz book, finding a song that sounds doable, and then playing the chords for about 15-20 minutes. Tonight's unfortunate song: "Crystal Silence" by Chick Corea. I do tend toward the slower jazz tunes since I've never really been a speed demon.
I did dust off one of the first songs I ever learned on guitar: Ralph Towner's "Icarus." My instructor at the time, Steve Hutchins, was nice enough to indulge me. (I was big into Towner's compositions at the time, and his guitar playing is one of the forces behind my going to Guitar Center, then on Clark Ave., and walking out with a $200 Epiphone.) I went back to the sheet music, played the song, and some of those chords are not as I remember them. Maybe I "cheated" when I first learned the song, and maybe it's memory, but it just doesn't sound the same. Now to see if I have that CD by the Paul Winter Consort (which had Towner and fellow Oregon band members Paul McCandless and Collin Walcott) to hear the song again.
I did have a practice Saturday with Aerin Tedesco and Andrea Bunch. They are known as A Congress of Starlings (great name, you gotta admit), and I'll be playing a gig with them this Thursday at a place on Western and Fullerton. ( I just hope the headline band brings a drum kit - I'm a bit keen on keeping physical labor to a minimum these days.) I listened to their songs before practice and, as I told them, I "mis-underestimated the density." These are not your basic I-IV-V songs, and it'll take a lot of attention to play them well. What have I gotten myself into?
(As to feeling young as a failed endeavor, Judy and I went bowling on Friday. I ended up out $30 and with a very sore back. How could that happen? Why have I been going to the Y for the last three months, if not to avoid falling apart after a little exertion? And I still manage to find inventive ways to miss picking up spares. Thus the tie-in.)
So, how does one get to Carnegie Hall? Well, if you ask me, I'll tell you "There's about nine subway lines and six bus lines that'll get you there." If you think I'm going to say "practice, practice, practice," you're mistaken. I have an incredibly poor work ethic, especially with the guitar, so I'm hardly in a position to tell anyone to practice. My practicing usually consists of going to a jazz book, finding a song that sounds doable, and then playing the chords for about 15-20 minutes. Tonight's unfortunate song: "Crystal Silence" by Chick Corea. I do tend toward the slower jazz tunes since I've never really been a speed demon.
I did dust off one of the first songs I ever learned on guitar: Ralph Towner's "Icarus." My instructor at the time, Steve Hutchins, was nice enough to indulge me. (I was big into Towner's compositions at the time, and his guitar playing is one of the forces behind my going to Guitar Center, then on Clark Ave., and walking out with a $200 Epiphone.) I went back to the sheet music, played the song, and some of those chords are not as I remember them. Maybe I "cheated" when I first learned the song, and maybe it's memory, but it just doesn't sound the same. Now to see if I have that CD by the Paul Winter Consort (which had Towner and fellow Oregon band members Paul McCandless and Collin Walcott) to hear the song again.
I did have a practice Saturday with Aerin Tedesco and Andrea Bunch. They are known as A Congress of Starlings (great name, you gotta admit), and I'll be playing a gig with them this Thursday at a place on Western and Fullerton. ( I just hope the headline band brings a drum kit - I'm a bit keen on keeping physical labor to a minimum these days.) I listened to their songs before practice and, as I told them, I "mis-underestimated the density." These are not your basic I-IV-V songs, and it'll take a lot of attention to play them well. What have I gotten myself into?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Marillion - "Sounds That Can't Be Made": One Guy's Take
I've been a fan of Marillion for several years now. I even got a chance to meet them in Cleveland back in October 2004. Nice guys all: Pete Trawavas was willing to talk soccer (prognosticating that the U.S. would have a strong showing in the World Cup of Soccer in 2006 - well, we all can't be clairvoyant), Steve Rothery was gentlemanly in his demeanor, Ian Mosley perhaps the most congenial of the whole bunch. (On meeting me: "You're a tall bloke!") These three, with Mark Kelly and Steve Hogarth, have been making some of the best prog music since their former lead singer Fish left the fold in 1988. After dabbling a bit with more commercial efforts as of late, Marillion polished their proggy chops with their latest album, "Sounds That Can't Be Made." I'm happy to say that the band still has a good sense of flair - they go the extra mile, and it shows.
What I like about Marillion is their ability to move comfortably between lengthier songs and more conventional songs. "Gaza" is the opener, and it packs a wallop. At 17:31 you might think it has some filler, but this heartfelt look at life on the Gaza Strip (really - how many bands are willing to address the Israeli-Palestinian crisis, and yet do it solely from a humanitarian perspective?) has everything going for it, from the intense, middle-eastern-flavored opening section to periods of harsh realization (marked by a plodding, march-like rhythm), sadness, contemplation, and all ending on a chilling chord as Hogarth, in layered vocals, sings "Someday, surely someone will help us." "Montreal," at 14 minutes, is a rather subdued life-on-the-road mini-epic, and "The Sky Above the Rain" is simply heartbreaking with Mark Kelly's piano serving as the anchor. Other songs, such as the ballad "Pour My Love" and "Invisible Ink," show that Marillion aren't all about epics and that they know how to write a solid, catchy tune. Steve Hogarth's vocals have gotten a bit weathered over the years, but he's becoming a much more soulful vocalist.
The album may not totally break new ground for the band, but any band that's unwilling to rest on its laurels and take the extra step in their songwriting and playing has my vote. For those who are ambivalent about prog (not that there are too many of you out there - you either love it or hate it), Marillion may be the band that converts you to the good side.
 |
| With Ian Mosley, Cleveland, October 2004. Two tall blokes. |
The album may not totally break new ground for the band, but any band that's unwilling to rest on its laurels and take the extra step in their songwriting and playing has my vote. For those who are ambivalent about prog (not that there are too many of you out there - you either love it or hate it), Marillion may be the band that converts you to the good side.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Gigs, memory, and the harsh proof of the MP3
As if fighting a cold and putting in a 55-hour week at work this week wasn't enough, I played a mini-gig Friday at the Old Town School, and a full gig with the MTV Ensemble at the Independence Tap last night. And today I'm feeling every bit my age.
The Friday giglet went well. I played with the Disco Ensemble, and we did justice to "Stayin' Alive," "Dancing Queen," and the Emotions' "Best of My Love." The first two songs were treated as a medley and the segue went flawlessly, a bit of a surprise to me. One of the singers had a small mirrored ball that she put on the floor in front of the stage. It reminded me of Stonehenge in "Spinal Tap" - way undersized and still charming in an underwhelming sense.
I also sat in on the Roots of Rock ensemble. The first song was "Hound Dog," done in the original Big Mama Thornton bluesy vein rather than the Elvis rockabilly way. The second, "One Night," was done in the Elvis way, and I made one big flub during the song that taught me something (albeit a bit late, but isn't that always the way?) - stay within yourself. I think I found myself trying to do too much and got crossed up. I recovered, but the yell of frustration was quite audible: "Arrgghh!" The final was a medley of "My Baby Left Me" and "That's All Right." I was able to read the songs and players well, and that was one fun romp. So much so that fellow Twangdog Quincy came up to me and said "We have to put that in our set! It's got my vote!"
"It's got two of mine!" I said. So the set, and the night, ended on a high note for me, and I'm a bit excited to bring some good ol' two-step rompers into the Twangdogs set. We could have a blast with that.
Last night the MTV Ensemble ended its year-long run with a set that was shaky in some spots, but in the end we all connected. Our set was pushed to the last of three acts - the first band were a heavy metal outfit that were loud and rather competent, but I didn't hear anything in the music that really grabbed me. The second group, including some folks I've seen at the Old Town School, were competent and surprisingly quiet. Still, the set ran a bit long, leaving us to scramble to set up. I got the drums up in about five or seven minutes and waited for all the others to get set. It's odd - the drums take less time to set up than some guitar setups.
The set started with Madonna's "Borderline" and The Human League's "Don't You Want Me" - two songs that involve incessant beating on the high-hat. By the end of the second song I was starting to feel the effects. The closest thing to a ballad was "Don't Dream It's Over." So, even though there were some clunker moments during the set, and a constant struggle with hearing the singers ("Edge of Seventeen" was an exercise in flying blind, and "West End Girls" seemed to go in all different directions), there were some good efforts. "A Million Miles Away" went without a hitch, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" went surprising well, especially since John was savvy enough to print up a to-the-word chart. I was thrilled - it was finally my chance to be Stewart Copeland. Perhaps the best moment was the intro, after the little high-hat flourish and the keyboards came in - the audience cheered its approval. (One can imagine Brubeck hearing the audience on the opening of "Blue Rondo a la Turk" and "Take Five" - who could get tired of that?) Pat Benatar's "We Belong," handed so ably by Cathy Goodman on vocals, put John in a much calmer mood. We finished off the second set with another tough one (for me, anyway), Duran Duran's "Rio", and for our "encore" we played two of the dumber songs in our repertoire: "Jessie's Girl" and "Addicted to Love." For "Addicted" I kicked off with the drums, and there was an "ah!" of recognition and, one hopes, anticipation. I never had that kind of reaction and for a fraction of a second I thought "this is why people play music." If you've never felt a rush of adrenaline at a moment like that you've either been playing music too long or you have felt it but might be too cool to admit it. It all worked - half the ensemble was doing that pivot dance that the women did in the original video, there were no blown chords, the stops and starts were on spot. We left the audience happy and yelling for more - more Stevie Nicks, especially.
It made for a long night, though - Judy and I dropped off the drums at 6.30, went to dinner, and packed up the drums at around 12.30. And now, as I write this, the evidence comes in - the mp3 files. It's amazing how one's memory can change things from just fifteen hours ago. To be fair, it's one microphone recording all of us in a less-than-accomodating room, so it's hardly state-of-the-art recording. (I am in dire need of a bass drum microphone), but as Ralph Towner said, the tape recorder doesn't lie - neither do mp3 files. And so the examining, the critical listening, the combing over every bar, beat, crash and fill begins. The unexamined life, as Plato said, may not be worth living, but why does the examination have to be so darn deflating?
The Friday giglet went well. I played with the Disco Ensemble, and we did justice to "Stayin' Alive," "Dancing Queen," and the Emotions' "Best of My Love." The first two songs were treated as a medley and the segue went flawlessly, a bit of a surprise to me. One of the singers had a small mirrored ball that she put on the floor in front of the stage. It reminded me of Stonehenge in "Spinal Tap" - way undersized and still charming in an underwhelming sense.
I also sat in on the Roots of Rock ensemble. The first song was "Hound Dog," done in the original Big Mama Thornton bluesy vein rather than the Elvis rockabilly way. The second, "One Night," was done in the Elvis way, and I made one big flub during the song that taught me something (albeit a bit late, but isn't that always the way?) - stay within yourself. I think I found myself trying to do too much and got crossed up. I recovered, but the yell of frustration was quite audible: "Arrgghh!" The final was a medley of "My Baby Left Me" and "That's All Right." I was able to read the songs and players well, and that was one fun romp. So much so that fellow Twangdog Quincy came up to me and said "We have to put that in our set! It's got my vote!"
"It's got two of mine!" I said. So the set, and the night, ended on a high note for me, and I'm a bit excited to bring some good ol' two-step rompers into the Twangdogs set. We could have a blast with that.
Last night the MTV Ensemble ended its year-long run with a set that was shaky in some spots, but in the end we all connected. Our set was pushed to the last of three acts - the first band were a heavy metal outfit that were loud and rather competent, but I didn't hear anything in the music that really grabbed me. The second group, including some folks I've seen at the Old Town School, were competent and surprisingly quiet. Still, the set ran a bit long, leaving us to scramble to set up. I got the drums up in about five or seven minutes and waited for all the others to get set. It's odd - the drums take less time to set up than some guitar setups.
The set started with Madonna's "Borderline" and The Human League's "Don't You Want Me" - two songs that involve incessant beating on the high-hat. By the end of the second song I was starting to feel the effects. The closest thing to a ballad was "Don't Dream It's Over." So, even though there were some clunker moments during the set, and a constant struggle with hearing the singers ("Edge of Seventeen" was an exercise in flying blind, and "West End Girls" seemed to go in all different directions), there were some good efforts. "A Million Miles Away" went without a hitch, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" went surprising well, especially since John was savvy enough to print up a to-the-word chart. I was thrilled - it was finally my chance to be Stewart Copeland. Perhaps the best moment was the intro, after the little high-hat flourish and the keyboards came in - the audience cheered its approval. (One can imagine Brubeck hearing the audience on the opening of "Blue Rondo a la Turk" and "Take Five" - who could get tired of that?) Pat Benatar's "We Belong," handed so ably by Cathy Goodman on vocals, put John in a much calmer mood. We finished off the second set with another tough one (for me, anyway), Duran Duran's "Rio", and for our "encore" we played two of the dumber songs in our repertoire: "Jessie's Girl" and "Addicted to Love." For "Addicted" I kicked off with the drums, and there was an "ah!" of recognition and, one hopes, anticipation. I never had that kind of reaction and for a fraction of a second I thought "this is why people play music." If you've never felt a rush of adrenaline at a moment like that you've either been playing music too long or you have felt it but might be too cool to admit it. It all worked - half the ensemble was doing that pivot dance that the women did in the original video, there were no blown chords, the stops and starts were on spot. We left the audience happy and yelling for more - more Stevie Nicks, especially.
It made for a long night, though - Judy and I dropped off the drums at 6.30, went to dinner, and packed up the drums at around 12.30. And now, as I write this, the evidence comes in - the mp3 files. It's amazing how one's memory can change things from just fifteen hours ago. To be fair, it's one microphone recording all of us in a less-than-accomodating room, so it's hardly state-of-the-art recording. (I am in dire need of a bass drum microphone), but as Ralph Towner said, the tape recorder doesn't lie - neither do mp3 files. And so the examining, the critical listening, the combing over every bar, beat, crash and fill begins. The unexamined life, as Plato said, may not be worth living, but why does the examination have to be so darn deflating?
Friday, January 25, 2013
Disco's Revenge
I got a bit antsy about sitting out a session at the Old Town School. Of course, it didn't take long for me to swallowed up into a class - the Disco Ensemble. And once again my Thursday nights are booked.
There's some sort of cosmic equity going on here, of course. For those of you who remember disco's heyday, you'll remember which side of the fence you stood on - like Rush and White Castle hamburgers, you either loved it or hated it. I was on the hate side of disco (Rush and sliders, on the other hand) - in fact, back then anything that didn't meet my fancy was pretty much deemed worthless (the thought of making an objective argument out of musical tastes crossed my mind more than once back then). Disco seemed so...insipid. I saw it as some screwy way to bridge the gap between young folks and their parents, one of those "fun for the whole family" things that Jerry Seinfeld said ends up being no fun for anyone. That, I figured, accounted for disco's short shelf life - that and people cottoned on to the idea that the accompanying clothes looked stupid. I had a semi-leisure jacket back then and I'll attest: not my best fashion idea.
And thirty-five years later, look where I end up - playing drums on a bunch of disco songs. John, our instructor, hears nuances in the music that have slipped my ears, and he does a good job of arguing his point in between impromptu guitar lessons during the class. I tell myself "You're paying your dues - when you go to the great beyond, it'll be nothing but prog, and you'll be playing the oddest time signatures, right next to the guy on mellotron." Yup - I just keep telling myself that.
The class, however, isn't half bad. We have some good musicians and some rather good singers in the class. And, as I mentioned earlier, any practice is good practice. If nothing else, stomping on the hi-hat and bass drum on the 2 and 4 is a test in placing the drum seat in the right place so I don't end up getting shin splints.
And the songs? I'm trying to develop an appreciation for the songs, but I'm sorry - "Stayin' Alive," when you think about it, is rather silly. "Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk / I'm a woman's man..." Well, you sure couldn't tell from their singing. And Robin Gibb touting his masculinity is a bit like Lindsay Lohan lecturing on the Federalist Papers - it's a stretch. A real stretch.
Abba's "Dancing Queen" doesn't do much for me but affirm that the two guys in that band knew how to craft a pop tune. (For whatever reason, Abba always seemed to get off easier in my hierarchy than other pop bands at that time.) And The Emotions' "Best of My Love" was an eye opener for me. After those vocalists hit those high notes that influenced other glass-shatterers like Mariah Carey - I did learn something: the song speeds up a click or two. I think - correct me if I'm wrong - that it's Maurice White on drums. I'm a bit surprised that the song would speed up like that, but John and I are in agreement. So there you are - keep an open ear (and mind) and you'll be surprised what you'll learn.
I'm still wrestling with "Dream a Little Dream of Me." I'm getting the song down, but it's odd: once I learn one way to play the song, I'm okay. When I start using different chord voicings, however, is when I start getting a little tripped up. I guess I'm still on the "re-learning" curve with the guitar, but it'll take time. It'll come in time, though. Besides, the learning - at whatever level - is too much fun.
There's some sort of cosmic equity going on here, of course. For those of you who remember disco's heyday, you'll remember which side of the fence you stood on - like Rush and White Castle hamburgers, you either loved it or hated it. I was on the hate side of disco (Rush and sliders, on the other hand) - in fact, back then anything that didn't meet my fancy was pretty much deemed worthless (the thought of making an objective argument out of musical tastes crossed my mind more than once back then). Disco seemed so...insipid. I saw it as some screwy way to bridge the gap between young folks and their parents, one of those "fun for the whole family" things that Jerry Seinfeld said ends up being no fun for anyone. That, I figured, accounted for disco's short shelf life - that and people cottoned on to the idea that the accompanying clothes looked stupid. I had a semi-leisure jacket back then and I'll attest: not my best fashion idea.
And thirty-five years later, look where I end up - playing drums on a bunch of disco songs. John, our instructor, hears nuances in the music that have slipped my ears, and he does a good job of arguing his point in between impromptu guitar lessons during the class. I tell myself "You're paying your dues - when you go to the great beyond, it'll be nothing but prog, and you'll be playing the oddest time signatures, right next to the guy on mellotron." Yup - I just keep telling myself that.
The class, however, isn't half bad. We have some good musicians and some rather good singers in the class. And, as I mentioned earlier, any practice is good practice. If nothing else, stomping on the hi-hat and bass drum on the 2 and 4 is a test in placing the drum seat in the right place so I don't end up getting shin splints.
And the songs? I'm trying to develop an appreciation for the songs, but I'm sorry - "Stayin' Alive," when you think about it, is rather silly. "Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk / I'm a woman's man..." Well, you sure couldn't tell from their singing. And Robin Gibb touting his masculinity is a bit like Lindsay Lohan lecturing on the Federalist Papers - it's a stretch. A real stretch.
Abba's "Dancing Queen" doesn't do much for me but affirm that the two guys in that band knew how to craft a pop tune. (For whatever reason, Abba always seemed to get off easier in my hierarchy than other pop bands at that time.) And The Emotions' "Best of My Love" was an eye opener for me. After those vocalists hit those high notes that influenced other glass-shatterers like Mariah Carey - I did learn something: the song speeds up a click or two. I think - correct me if I'm wrong - that it's Maurice White on drums. I'm a bit surprised that the song would speed up like that, but John and I are in agreement. So there you are - keep an open ear (and mind) and you'll be surprised what you'll learn.
I'm still wrestling with "Dream a Little Dream of Me." I'm getting the song down, but it's odd: once I learn one way to play the song, I'm okay. When I start using different chord voicings, however, is when I start getting a little tripped up. I guess I'm still on the "re-learning" curve with the guitar, but it'll take time. It'll come in time, though. Besides, the learning - at whatever level - is too much fun.
Monday, January 21, 2013
A weekend on both sides of the stage
Saturday was the first gig of the year for me - playing drums with the Twangdogs and also the Rocky Horror Picture Show ensemble. Like many gigs I've played, it started with more people on stage than in the audience. When we kicked off with Richard and Linda Thompson's "Wall of Death", the musicians outnumbered the listeners seven to two, the two being Judy and a member of the Rocky Horror ensemble (the feature act, apparently).
At that point one of my personal rules kicked in: when the musicians outnumber the audience, it is no longer a gig. It is simply another practice. Once I get past that fleeting moment of disappointment that it's not a full house with a waiting list in the lobby, I go into a different mindset, and I tend to feel more relaxed. Fortunately, other musicians and friends appeared, so I was able to ease into the role of performer-musician rather than "just sittin' in" musician.
Then the Rocky Horror Picture Show ensemble took the stage. Many, about half of them, were fellow Twangdogs dressed in Rocky Horror-appropriate attire, including Rich in a passable Dr. Frank-N-Furter getup, replete in platform heroes. Steve Levitt, ensemble leader, played it rather safe in a pair of overalls. For me, though - dark shirt and jeans. I gave up dressing up for such occasions years ago - a benefit of age, if you ask me.
And the fun began. I felt hideously unprepared for the set. First off, I didn't sign up for the Rocky Horror class, so I never practiced with the other musicians. I spent Wednesday and Friday cramming - trying to learn as many of the songs as possible. It was a guessing game for me since I never did receive a set list. Some songs - "Time Warp," "Light at the Frankenstein Place," "Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me" - I had figured out. Fortunately, the other songs didn't have too many surprises - the movie is a musical, after all, so there won't be too many curves thrown - and I was able to get through the set without making a fool of myself.
I left feeling rather happy - the Rocky Horror set went much better than I expected, and I sensed an "end" of sorts of the Twangdogs. Not that we're breaking up, but that our set list was in dire need of some new blood. Yes, we're actually playing "Wagon Wheel", a song covered by some 85% of folk/country/rock bands in Chicago, and the subject of a Facebook post warning against cover bands playing overly tired songs. For all I know the Chicago Symphony Orchestra is covering "Wagon Wheel" and it wouldn't surprise me. Talking with Janna (fellow Twangdog and French maid in the Rocky Horror ensemble), it seems the time is right for all to start bringing new songs to the table.
Sunday Judy and I saw the opening night of The Slingshot Tour, featuring Aoife O'Donovan and Gabriel Lahane, at Space in Evanston. Aoife (pronounced Eva) is the lead singer for Crooked Still and has her own solo career as well. We saw her in August and found her songs, influenced by Suzanne Vega, to be quite good. (After the August show I described her music as being "autumnal," an assessment she apparently valued: "I love it!") Gabriel has a CD out (which we bought) and his music is rather difficult to describe. One song sounded as if Keith Jarrett recorded for Rounder Records (which I told Gabriel and he got a laugh out of it). Gabriel's songs are a bit edgier than Aoife's, but they both work well with each other and the tour should do well - at least I hope it does. These are two musicians (and the bassist, whose name escapes me right now, served the music quite well) deserving wider recognition.
And if anyone gets a chance to see a show at Space, I highly recommend it. Last night's show was one of the best-sounding shows I've ever heard (kudos to the soundman). The mix between voices and instruments was perfect. It was one of those shows that will stay with Judy and me - and for all the right reasons.
At that point one of my personal rules kicked in: when the musicians outnumber the audience, it is no longer a gig. It is simply another practice. Once I get past that fleeting moment of disappointment that it's not a full house with a waiting list in the lobby, I go into a different mindset, and I tend to feel more relaxed. Fortunately, other musicians and friends appeared, so I was able to ease into the role of performer-musician rather than "just sittin' in" musician.
Then the Rocky Horror Picture Show ensemble took the stage. Many, about half of them, were fellow Twangdogs dressed in Rocky Horror-appropriate attire, including Rich in a passable Dr. Frank-N-Furter getup, replete in platform heroes. Steve Levitt, ensemble leader, played it rather safe in a pair of overalls. For me, though - dark shirt and jeans. I gave up dressing up for such occasions years ago - a benefit of age, if you ask me.
And the fun began. I felt hideously unprepared for the set. First off, I didn't sign up for the Rocky Horror class, so I never practiced with the other musicians. I spent Wednesday and Friday cramming - trying to learn as many of the songs as possible. It was a guessing game for me since I never did receive a set list. Some songs - "Time Warp," "Light at the Frankenstein Place," "Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me" - I had figured out. Fortunately, the other songs didn't have too many surprises - the movie is a musical, after all, so there won't be too many curves thrown - and I was able to get through the set without making a fool of myself.
I left feeling rather happy - the Rocky Horror set went much better than I expected, and I sensed an "end" of sorts of the Twangdogs. Not that we're breaking up, but that our set list was in dire need of some new blood. Yes, we're actually playing "Wagon Wheel", a song covered by some 85% of folk/country/rock bands in Chicago, and the subject of a Facebook post warning against cover bands playing overly tired songs. For all I know the Chicago Symphony Orchestra is covering "Wagon Wheel" and it wouldn't surprise me. Talking with Janna (fellow Twangdog and French maid in the Rocky Horror ensemble), it seems the time is right for all to start bringing new songs to the table.
Sunday Judy and I saw the opening night of The Slingshot Tour, featuring Aoife O'Donovan and Gabriel Lahane, at Space in Evanston. Aoife (pronounced Eva) is the lead singer for Crooked Still and has her own solo career as well. We saw her in August and found her songs, influenced by Suzanne Vega, to be quite good. (After the August show I described her music as being "autumnal," an assessment she apparently valued: "I love it!") Gabriel has a CD out (which we bought) and his music is rather difficult to describe. One song sounded as if Keith Jarrett recorded for Rounder Records (which I told Gabriel and he got a laugh out of it). Gabriel's songs are a bit edgier than Aoife's, but they both work well with each other and the tour should do well - at least I hope it does. These are two musicians (and the bassist, whose name escapes me right now, served the music quite well) deserving wider recognition.
And if anyone gets a chance to see a show at Space, I highly recommend it. Last night's show was one of the best-sounding shows I've ever heard (kudos to the soundman). The mix between voices and instruments was perfect. It was one of those shows that will stay with Judy and me - and for all the right reasons.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
What? A gig? When?
Isn't it always the way: I took a break from playing drums with various Old Town School-related ensembles and bands because it just got a little too much for me towards the end of last year. I was playing with The Twangdogs, a group of Old Town School folks who share an affinity for Americana, roots rock, and country-rock, genres not too high on my preference list (but I get to play, they seem to enjoy having me, so it's not the worst thing); The Hot Tongues, a sporadic endeavor that covers songs from various decades (70's through the "Oh-ties," as I've heard it mentioned), and the 80's "MTV" ensemble at the Old Town School. Rarely do these projects space themselves out - if one group wants to do something at a certain time, they all do.
And so it is again. The Twangdogs will have a gig Saturday, and since most of them are in another OTS ensemble (covering the Rocky Horror Picture Show album), I've been asked to play both sets. One problem: I really don't know the songs in Rocky Horror outside of "Time Warp." The 80's Ensemble scheduled a practice on the same night the Twangdogs will be practicing, I've been asked to sit in with an Old Town ensemble on Thursdays, and a group I haven't played with in about three or four years may do a one-off on the 26th. "Can you find time to practice?" At this point, who knows? And why do all these opportunities happen at once? I suppose I should be flattered, and I am. It's nice to be asked to play with other people. Unfortunately, I'm not the superior musician who can dictate what and when I'll be playing and with whom. I've made some $150 or $200 over the course of my musical avocation (starting in 1989), so I guess I take what I can get. But it's a bit like German chocolate cake - I do like it, but too much at once can be a bit overwhelming. Of course, there's always the option of saying "no" to any or all of the gigs I mentioned. Strangely, "no" doesn't seem to be in my vocabulary.
And so it is again. The Twangdogs will have a gig Saturday, and since most of them are in another OTS ensemble (covering the Rocky Horror Picture Show album), I've been asked to play both sets. One problem: I really don't know the songs in Rocky Horror outside of "Time Warp." The 80's Ensemble scheduled a practice on the same night the Twangdogs will be practicing, I've been asked to sit in with an Old Town ensemble on Thursdays, and a group I haven't played with in about three or four years may do a one-off on the 26th. "Can you find time to practice?" At this point, who knows? And why do all these opportunities happen at once? I suppose I should be flattered, and I am. It's nice to be asked to play with other people. Unfortunately, I'm not the superior musician who can dictate what and when I'll be playing and with whom. I've made some $150 or $200 over the course of my musical avocation (starting in 1989), so I guess I take what I can get. But it's a bit like German chocolate cake - I do like it, but too much at once can be a bit overwhelming. Of course, there's always the option of saying "no" to any or all of the gigs I mentioned. Strangely, "no" doesn't seem to be in my vocabulary.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Of practice and CDs
I thought it might be a good idea - a belated New Year's resolution, perhaps - to learn and memorize one song a week. I think I have four under my belt so far:
Killing Me Softly
All My Loving
I'm Only Sleeping
Dream a Little Dream of Me
Okay, perhaps not attention-grabbing stuff at the local open mic, but it's something. I'm trying to heed my own advice - any time spent playing the instrument is time well spent. And I found that so much of my playing ability that rested in finger memory had gone away, but with patience and some nudging, that ability is returning. It also leads me to think about fretboard shortcuts - how many ways can a person make a D6 chord? I think that sense of exploration can be as important as the more married-to-the-sheet-music learning approach.
Of the new CDs
On the passing of Dave Brubeck, I felt compelled to buy two of his better-known works: Time Out and Time Further Out. I got a kick out of learning that "Time Further Out" was really an experiment in the blues, and course "Time Out" is a pure classic. Great Saturday morning listening.
(In fact, it's becoming a bit of a routine now for us to put 5 CDs in the CD player and program it to random. After a long week of work, workouts, and whatnot, it's good to have that downtime. I'm finding the 5-CD approach to mellowing out to be rather effective.)
I surprised Judy with a CD of two John Hartford albums: Aero-Plane and Morning Bugle. I thought that Aero-Plane would be easy to find, given that it's considered a New-grass classic album. I was surprised to find that Amazon didn't have it at the time (sometime last summer), but fortunately someone decided to put out both albums.
And for myself: Sounds that Can't Be Made by Marillion. I'm listening to "Gaza" as I write this: a 17:31 excursion into the world of those in the Gaza Strip, done in a rather haunting fashion and with as little side-taking as possible. After the last few albums of theirs that I got: Somewhere Else and Happiness is the Road Part 2, it's good to see these guys showing their more proggy side. And, to their credit, they can do the catchy four-minute song to show that they're not all 23 minutes of fairies and elves in 11/8 (though you won't find any four-minute hook-laden songs on this one - the shortest song on this new album is 5:44). Now to find the time, the time I haven't seem to find in months, to sit down and listen to a CD - really listen - and see what effect if has on me. I figure if an act spends some 12-18 months polishing up their latest effort, I can spare an hour or 80 minutes of my time.
Killing Me Softly
All My Loving
I'm Only Sleeping
Dream a Little Dream of Me
Okay, perhaps not attention-grabbing stuff at the local open mic, but it's something. I'm trying to heed my own advice - any time spent playing the instrument is time well spent. And I found that so much of my playing ability that rested in finger memory had gone away, but with patience and some nudging, that ability is returning. It also leads me to think about fretboard shortcuts - how many ways can a person make a D6 chord? I think that sense of exploration can be as important as the more married-to-the-sheet-music learning approach.
Of the new CDs
On the passing of Dave Brubeck, I felt compelled to buy two of his better-known works: Time Out and Time Further Out. I got a kick out of learning that "Time Further Out" was really an experiment in the blues, and course "Time Out" is a pure classic. Great Saturday morning listening.
(In fact, it's becoming a bit of a routine now for us to put 5 CDs in the CD player and program it to random. After a long week of work, workouts, and whatnot, it's good to have that downtime. I'm finding the 5-CD approach to mellowing out to be rather effective.)
I surprised Judy with a CD of two John Hartford albums: Aero-Plane and Morning Bugle. I thought that Aero-Plane would be easy to find, given that it's considered a New-grass classic album. I was surprised to find that Amazon didn't have it at the time (sometime last summer), but fortunately someone decided to put out both albums.
And for myself: Sounds that Can't Be Made by Marillion. I'm listening to "Gaza" as I write this: a 17:31 excursion into the world of those in the Gaza Strip, done in a rather haunting fashion and with as little side-taking as possible. After the last few albums of theirs that I got: Somewhere Else and Happiness is the Road Part 2, it's good to see these guys showing their more proggy side. And, to their credit, they can do the catchy four-minute song to show that they're not all 23 minutes of fairies and elves in 11/8 (though you won't find any four-minute hook-laden songs on this one - the shortest song on this new album is 5:44). Now to find the time, the time I haven't seem to find in months, to sit down and listen to a CD - really listen - and see what effect if has on me. I figure if an act spends some 12-18 months polishing up their latest effort, I can spare an hour or 80 minutes of my time.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
January 2 - Off to a slow start
Watching an episode of Downton Abbey last night, I was amused to hear a character say "Live every day like it's your last day on earth." If so, I hope I don't die on New Year's Day. Not every day is a "carpe diem" sort of day, but New Year's Day is usually one of the biggest wastes of time I can think of. Like so many others, I end up watching too much football, spending too much time on the couch, and eating too much. Perhaps we're all allowed a down day once in a while, but it always seems to be a down day that kicks off the new year.
As for music, I did find that having a guitar by the TV does come in handy. Not that I practiced that much yesterday - "dabbled" is more the operative word, but I did find, in the recent copy of Banjo Newsletter, a transcription of a solo for "Autumn Leaves." The chords were printed, so I took time to play the chords, enjoying the sense of my fingers returning to patterns that were once so familiar. And playing those bar chords helps strengthen the index finger. Now, to get Judy to take a stab at the tablature of that solo. Something to get her doing something a little different from "Li'l Darlin Pal of Mine" and the other songs that she's becoming rather familiar with (and getting good at, I have to admit).
Today I found on-line the chords to David Sylvian's "The Boy with the Gun" from his great Secrets of the Beehive album from 1987. I tried the chords out when I got home. Just like the internet to offer a transcription that was quick, easy - and sounded so wrong. I'm sure some of the chords are correct, but some of them I just don't hear. I guess the next step is to play the chords along with the song itself and listen to see how on the mark they are. I wouldn't mind playing that song at an open mic sometime - if I'm going to start playing more guitar, it would be nice to get out once in a while and play in front of some folks.
As for music, I did find that having a guitar by the TV does come in handy. Not that I practiced that much yesterday - "dabbled" is more the operative word, but I did find, in the recent copy of Banjo Newsletter, a transcription of a solo for "Autumn Leaves." The chords were printed, so I took time to play the chords, enjoying the sense of my fingers returning to patterns that were once so familiar. And playing those bar chords helps strengthen the index finger. Now, to get Judy to take a stab at the tablature of that solo. Something to get her doing something a little different from "Li'l Darlin Pal of Mine" and the other songs that she's becoming rather familiar with (and getting good at, I have to admit).
Today I found on-line the chords to David Sylvian's "The Boy with the Gun" from his great Secrets of the Beehive album from 1987. I tried the chords out when I got home. Just like the internet to offer a transcription that was quick, easy - and sounded so wrong. I'm sure some of the chords are correct, but some of them I just don't hear. I guess the next step is to play the chords along with the song itself and listen to see how on the mark they are. I wouldn't mind playing that song at an open mic sometime - if I'm going to start playing more guitar, it would be nice to get out once in a while and play in front of some folks.
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