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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

"But you already have one of their albums."

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

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

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

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

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

Next: 1974 - The Epiphany of the Mellotron.

From Zeppelin and Yvonne Elliman to Rachmaninoff in 24 hours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the gift of finding similarity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

With Ian Mosley, Cleveland, October 2004.  Two tall blokes.

 

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.   

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?