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.
Monday, June 3, 2013
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. |
 |
| 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. |
 |
| 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.
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