To where so much bluegrass music began

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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



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

Judy tries her hand with a banjo guitar.

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

Do you think Judy is excited to visit?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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