Wednesday, September 17, 2008
GrassQuest 2008
Apparently this is the easiest way to share progress with prime contractor Don Varner. I used the Milwaukee Tools jigsaw again, so I guess that means it's time to post something on Swamptooth. Will helped too. Shown here, excited with our progress, he demonstrates his knowledge that it's almost time for the yard to turn green.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Great Gig in the Sky
Today we're in (supposedly) the worst financial crisis since the twenties. Funny how that sort of once-in-a-lifetime superlative seems to crop up pretty often. Sort of like lunar eclipses and close approaches of Mars.
None of it bothers me as much as the passing of Richard Wright, dead today from cancer at age 65. If you don't like Pink Floyd, you're excused now; I don't really want to talk to you anyway. I swear to God, five minutes before I found out (ten minutes ago), I was hearing a Pink Floyd song in my head as I drove up to my house. The song was "Welcome to the Machine." Why that song at this time? Probably because it was my oldest son's first day of preschool.
My guess is that Richard Wright will begin to get more recognition. I can't say that he was some groundbreaking genius or pioneer synthesizer musician, although maybe he was. He wasn't the main songwriter in Pink Floyd, though he did write a bunch of good stuff. What places him in the pantheon for me, though, and occasions a deep sigh and a dark mood with his passing, is his piano playing throughout The Dark Side of the Moon. If it's possible to reach across the anonymous void and attain certain knowledge that you are not alone in the universe, the expressiveness of Richard Wright's playing in the song "Us and Them" gets it done. Like the individual notes are reaching right into your brain and triggering synapses that tap directly into your soul, almost as an extension of the instrument. That quality is exceedingly rare in any music.
Sad, too, how he was treated callously by his bandmates from The Wall on.
I was pleasantly surprised when Pink Floyd put the old rancor behind them to reunite for Live 8, and genuinely moved by their performance in a way that could not be explained by the pretty-darn-good musical standard maintained.
Why does it happen that fantastic bands so often fall into fratricidal behavior that leaves bitterness lingering for decades? The Beatles, The Eagles, especially Creedence Clearwater Revival? How could you give up something so good - the ability to tap into that rare elixir - and make that same leap into meaningless solo careers?
To find out, I started my own band. The elixir wasn't as good, but we did the same thing as those others. Various band members who were best friends and (more or less) grew up together now won't speak to each other. I can't say I'm any wiser for it, but at least now I've seen it up close (apart from the "fantastic" aspect).
I think it's like getting a divorce, although I've never done that. I've seen a few up close, though. Not that close.
None of it bothers me as much as the passing of Richard Wright, dead today from cancer at age 65. If you don't like Pink Floyd, you're excused now; I don't really want to talk to you anyway. I swear to God, five minutes before I found out (ten minutes ago), I was hearing a Pink Floyd song in my head as I drove up to my house. The song was "Welcome to the Machine." Why that song at this time? Probably because it was my oldest son's first day of preschool.
You've been in the pipeline filling in time
Provided with toys, and scouting for boys
Provided with toys, and scouting for boys
My guess is that Richard Wright will begin to get more recognition. I can't say that he was some groundbreaking genius or pioneer synthesizer musician, although maybe he was. He wasn't the main songwriter in Pink Floyd, though he did write a bunch of good stuff. What places him in the pantheon for me, though, and occasions a deep sigh and a dark mood with his passing, is his piano playing throughout The Dark Side of the Moon. If it's possible to reach across the anonymous void and attain certain knowledge that you are not alone in the universe, the expressiveness of Richard Wright's playing in the song "Us and Them" gets it done. Like the individual notes are reaching right into your brain and triggering synapses that tap directly into your soul, almost as an extension of the instrument. That quality is exceedingly rare in any music.
Sad, too, how he was treated callously by his bandmates from The Wall on.
I was pleasantly surprised when Pink Floyd put the old rancor behind them to reunite for Live 8, and genuinely moved by their performance in a way that could not be explained by the pretty-darn-good musical standard maintained.
Why does it happen that fantastic bands so often fall into fratricidal behavior that leaves bitterness lingering for decades? The Beatles, The Eagles, especially Creedence Clearwater Revival? How could you give up something so good - the ability to tap into that rare elixir - and make that same leap into meaningless solo careers?
To find out, I started my own band. The elixir wasn't as good, but we did the same thing as those others. Various band members who were best friends and (more or less) grew up together now won't speak to each other. I can't say I'm any wiser for it, but at least now I've seen it up close (apart from the "fantastic" aspect).
I think it's like getting a divorce, although I've never done that. I've seen a few up close, though. Not that close.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Too Much, Too Fast
Today I had that conversation with my older son, now that he’s pushing four. I had to explain to him all about … Jimi Hendrix.
We’ve been going on regular sunset outings to playgrounds, harbors, hilltops and such. Today his sister couldn’t come because she had missed her nap. My son requested that we take “some songs in the car, from the cabinet” (meaning CD’s, not the iPod or the radio).
After I assented, he got the ponderous CD cabinet door open and grabbed about a dozen jewel cases for me to carry to the car. I said “Are you sure you have enough?” He thought for ~1 millisecond, and grabbed several more. I said “You really want to listen to these?” and to make my point, “which one do you want to hear?”
Giggling ecstatically, he answered “I want to listen to the full moon one!”
Huh? Bad moon rising? Oh, Tom Petty. I get it. “You want to listen to ‘Full Moon Fever?’ He nodded vaguely and we got in the car. Rather dated, and still a little stale, but love is a long road. Anyway by the time we jumped in the car he had changed his mind and wanted to listen to whatever happened to be in the double jewel case. Okay, works for me: The Siegel-Schwall Band. Huh? That’s for another post.
“You want to listen to ‘My Starter Won’t Start’?”
“Yeah!” he giggled with glee.
My starter won’t start this morning
My gasoline won’t perc-u-late
“No! You don’t sing that!” Okay, fine, I won’t sing. He listened intently to his song, and the next one (‘Jim Jam’), and then pointed to the cover and said in his high register begging voice “I want to hear this one!” I re-examined the cover photo, showing the band looking moody, approximately mid-’66 first-trip greasy but not yet hippy.
“Okay, let’s put on that song.” I selected an instrumental that I happened to be in the mood for, called ‘Break Song.’ He studied the CD cover and listened intently, no doubt linking song and image in foundational association. When we got to ‘Down in the Bottom,’ I again attempted to sing along, and was once again shut down.
We went to Hesse Park. Very nice place, quiet, up high, with plenty of open space, and a playground overlooking Santa Monica Bay. On the way home, I grabbed the next CD in the stack. Jimi Hendrix: the Ultimate Experience. It’s a high-quality collection which, back when I bought it, affirmed my original opinion that I like his early stuff better. Anyway, with my son, I thought it might be hard sell, so I handed him the jewel case just in time for the opening chords of ‘All Along the Watchtower,’ which (though a later recording) is possibly the best Hendrix track after ‘Hey Joe.’
I pointed to the hard-to-see cover photo and said “That’s Jimi Hendrix. He plays the guitar.”
My son didn’t miss a beat; he jumped straight to the hard questions. “Did he die?”
A little back story here: he already knows about Stevie Ray Vaughn, and how he died in a helicopter crash on his way to a concert where Uncle David was going to see him play. But that’s another adventure in bad parenting.
“Well, yes, he did die. But this is his music.”
“Why did he die?”
Silence. “It was an accident.” Unease. “But that was a long time ago, before I was born.”
“Why was it an accident?” Go ahead and answer that, those of you at home. I must have mumbled something.
We were at a traffic light. To change the topic I opened the jewel case. “See, that’s him when he was a little boy.”
“He has his guitar. Does he play his guitar and drums?”
“Well, he has his friends to play the drums. He likes to play the guitar and sing.”
“Oh. Does he have a costume?”
“Yeah, sometime he dresses in a Halloween costume. He likes to dress in funny clothes while he plays the guitar. How about you? Do you like to dress in funny clothes when you play music?”
“No! Just regular!” Well, me too I guess. Comme pere, comme fils.
“Was it on the street?” Huh? “Did he get died on the street?”
(No, he was in bed. He died in his bed because he took too much medecine. Which is good for you, if you are sick, but only if the doctor tells you to take it. No, the doctor didn’t tell him to. If you take too much, it’s bad for you. By the way, yeah, I know it wasn’t as simple as a straight OD.)
“How did he take too much medecine in his stomach?” Good point. If you’re almost incapacitated, how do lift that last spoonful of cherry Robitussin? Well, it takes a while to kick in. I didn’t mention anything about needles.
“Why did he take too much medecine?”
“He thought it would make him feel good.”
“But it made him feel bad in his stomach?” Yeah, that’s about right.
“But the doctor fixed him at the hospital?” This was not fun to answer. Can’t we just enjoy the man’s music?
“I’m sad that he died. I don’t want him to die!”
“Well, it’s too late now.” What a wonderful father I am. “Yes, lots of people are sad that he died. They like his music and wish he did not die.”
“Maybe he can go to the hospital, and when he wakes up, he can look for the hospital people to make him feel better.”
Well, that was a long time ago, and after you die, no one can make you better. Now I was starting to get a little bummed.
Paging through the liner notes: “Is this when he died?” he pointed to a grainy b&w that, yeah, kind of looked like Jimi with his eyes closed lying on a sheet. What is this: liner notes, or a comic book adaptation of the Passion of Jimi Hendrix?
“Yeah. That’s him after he died, in his bed.” Yes, I am ashamed, but I was actually pretty tired. Anyway the pages kept turning.
“Is he dressed like a bad guy?” Speaking of comic books I recently saw a 1978 New York City comic-inspired gang movie called “The Warriors” (special edition) which features a character called Cochise who tied feathers in his afro and the whole nine yards, Lakota-style, like Jimi Hendrix. Great movie, by the way.
I said “Sometimes people dress like bad guys so they won’t be scared.”
“But he’s not a bad guy.” It’s good to end on a high note. I was already getting into the ‘Manic Depression’ groove. One of those early songs that Don and I learned.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Started out as a note to Don
In other news, I have found I can still shovel trenches alright with my gimp finger. Just got back into action tonight. Maybe I should have said "even with my gimp finger," so it doesn't sound like I dug the whole night's work solely with that sorry, bandaged excuse for an appendage.
Maybe I should have posted that. Okay, I will.
Maybe I should have posted that. Okay, I will.
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