And realized, to my discredit, that I’ve never mentioned Maria McKee. After all the musical stuff that I’ve stuck up on the blogwall here…

     Explanation? Sure. I’m a bonehead. Just ask around a bit; people will generally concur, sometimes rather adamantly. Almost gleefully…

     I have a CD of Clapton doing covers of old Robert Johnson. It’s awfully good. Clapton has a way of really getting through to the spirit of things. Clinically precise, meticulously performed and perfectly recorded. Very impressive…almost all the way there.

     Almost. Because when Robert himself does the songs, there is a palpable difference. And it has not to do with recording quality at all. Robert was not just a talented blues guy who could write good songs and convey them to an audience effectively. He wasn’t just close to his source material.

     He was in it. He was inside those songs, looking out. He owned those songs, and they owned him right back. He probably would have liked to have a more normal and comfortable life, with two kids and a nice house in suburban Jackson. But there was a hellhound after him, and it finally caught up.

     And in spite of being recorded on a single-track monaural reel-to-reel in a wooden shack in Mississippi, you can hear that difference.

     It’s hard to pinpoint that quality, that ” inside” perspective. But it infuses what it touches with an authority that can’t be denied. And that is precisely what Robert Johnson, Diana Krall, Johhny Winter, Michael Schenker, JS Bach, Beethoven ( especially Beethoven ), Jeff Beck, and all the other stuff I gravitate towards has in common. It’s not just that I like it, it’s that it has that authority.

     And here’s another to add; Maria McKee.

     She was in an 80′s LA band called Lone Justice. They were called ” cowpunk”, presumably for lack of a better term. She was just 21 then, and managed to survive the entire thing. Now, she works occasionally on an independent label.

     She has the authority thing going. She sings songs from the inside out somehow. She owns them. I remember seeing Lone Justice at the old Lupo’s in Providence ( on Empire St.!! ), across from the old Living Room ( on Empire St.!! ). ( Aside; this is a peculiar Rhode Island oddity. We tend to describe things not by where they are, but by where they used to be.)

     I recall standing behind the mixing console, watching the sound guy constantly changing her levels, because her dynamics changed constantly. He couldn’t keep up, and should have known better than to even try it. At one point, she really increased her volume…spiked all the levels, and blew out the circuit breakers. She put Lupo’s in the dark for ten minutes. A very odd sensation…standing in the dark, and hoping that no one does anything stupid. No one did…and Maria was very apologetic. A few minutes later, she did it again.

     I’m surprised that there is so much of her on Youtube; I didn’t expect that there would be much at all. I have two Lone Justice albums that get regular rotation again when I bring them out now and then, and a few solo albums.

     This girl was like a demented Elvis in a female body. So much energy poured off her that she barely knew which direction to point it in.

     She’s always been on my list, and she ought to be on yours too. She’s got that authority thing.

     That’s provided, of course, that you keep a list…

Well, it turns out that I was right.

Just after that post, I got the great idea of charting out ” Midnight Sun” and burdening  a guitar student with it as a next assignment; thought it would make for a pretty decent guitar duet.

So did Bucky and John Pizzarrelli, about five years ago. Beautiful version. Way, way out of my pay grade, though. So I decided to go online, find a manageable arrangement, and work from that.

And found, to my surprise, that all printable sheet versions are still under copyright.

This freaking thing is sixty-five years old. And still makes money….

So. Being the deeply dedicated, tenacious, highly creative, sublimely talented mild psychopath that my mother raised me to be….I kept digging until I found one that was free. It really wasn’t sheet music, it was just a chord chart with lyrics; but it was in D major ( as is D. Krall’s version, and if D. Krall says D major…well, I just say ” how high.” And be thankful that I don’t have to go get her dry cleaning and a Starbucks coffee, and the highly questionable strapping of a mailman to the car roof and driving to Manhattan; which I have come to deeply regret. The poor sod…and it started raining halfway there.

( Stage aside; one of the truly fun things about writing blog posts is that you can make obscure references to your own previous post’s obscure references, which were pretty damned obscure to begin with. But I’ve absolutely no interest in clarification, it’s all about fun with words. )

So, back to today’s riveting tale.

I worked out a quick chart for a single-line melody and supporting chords, and we started to work on it.

Three weeks later, and what little progress we had made was disappearing in big chunks, like watching a glacier fall apart. I just can’t “hear” this chord progression; must be the ” pay grade” thing again. And, the chord chart I had found had way, way too many chords to it; a chord for every damned syllable. And not just C, F and G7 chords, either. E#m7dim5+9, divided by 4…

So. Back to the drawing board.

And we found Lionel’s ( Tuxedo #1) original version on Youtube; instrumental, with a big band arrangement. Very fast and upbeat-sounding, not at all like what came along afterwards.

And…we also found something very curious about Lionel’s original version. He plays the melody out as one big, long continuous phrase. ( It’s fun to watch Lionel’s responses, though. He keeps looking up at the audience to see how much they like it. Must have been one of the first things ever recorded for TV use. )

And the legend has it that Lionel wrote it in 1947, with J. Mercer ( Tuxedo #2 ) adding lyrics in 1953.

But on much closer inspection; he didn’t just add lyrics. He fixed it.

He cut the long phrase in half, and added an extra bar at each end of  what is now two phrases ( the first two lines of each verse. ) This gives the singer time to catch a breath, seems to slow the natural tempo down considerably, and converts a somewhat complex jazz composition that likely would have sunk to the bottom of the East River with lots of other complex jazz compositions into a timeless classic. And, the legend has it, while driving.

Not to take anything away from Tuxedo#1, though. He still came up with one of the prettiest melodies ever, and an absolutely brilliant chord progression to hang it on.

But J. Mercer…Tuxedo#2…where does that come from?

So…in desperation, I went back online to pay the piper. Had to get a reliable version of this thing before my last three hairs fell out. But, it wouldn’t be that easy…

I found it in Dmaj, Fmaj, Aflat, Bflat, and Cmaj. We had already started working in D, so I had a look at that one.

Impossible, for guitar players, at least. As always, singers move stuff around at will to suit their needs, and D was just a nightmare. ( Apologies to D. Krall. I will atone at some other time; please, just leave the federal employees alone. Maybe I can sweep the steps at the brownstone? )

And finally decided on good old C major. It’s almost understandable; I’m beginning to ” hear” it. My life is a bit easier for that, but sadly, my student’s is not. The melody is actually more challenging to execute in C than in D. He is not aware, and I’m betting that he will not be reading this post. He also does not know that the second half of his assignment is for us to switch parts once he’s comfortable with what’s on his plate right now, and do it all over again. Beware the guitar teacher in the cheap tuxedo…

So, in defeat, I paid the $5.25 for one legal download, and promptly broke several copyright laws by duplicating it. I’m sure that’ll be worth 2-5 years at the ACI, and with my luck, I’m sure that the big scary guy in the upper bunk will want…guitar lessons. Thank you, Jesus.

But who will get Diana’s dry cleaning??

And once at work, I run my morning routine; and then, with a bit of luck, I might have a few minutes where I can check a few blogs, maybe even put up a comment; do a few things before my boss arrives.

So I checked up on the story I had just heard on the radio; heard yet another from the desk radio behind me; checked on that one too, and then popped in to the Wakefield Doctrine; an unfortunate sequence of events.

The ” evil clown” seemed to reinforce a thread that I had to admit has been building up in my head for a while; a rant in the making.

The thread’s theme? I am very, very worried about the world that my niece Olivia is growing into. The one that she’s inheriting, and will have to find some way to be a functioning member of. She’s thirteen; it won’t be long now.

I am very worried for her sake. And my particular form of worry is to focus on things that I perceive as being especially and pointlessly insidious. I cannot prevent any of them from potentially harming her, and that in itself  somehow becomes all the more reason to have to focus on them.

The clown did not help.

Steel Panther helped even less; just knowing that the bastard spawn of Poison’s road crew? and some faceless groupies could possibly intrude on Olivia’s worldview is more than I could stand. Let’s provide those millions of hopelessly impressionable boys with yet another graphic example of how to victimize females. This is not rock and roll, it’s Rape 101.  I’d rather skewer the bastards on the point of an Enfield bayonet. And the clown. Enfields need love, too.

The two news items that began all this?

A video clip of a guy in LA, standing in an intersection and randomly shooting at anything.

Juliette Dunne and Lisa Jefferson. Sitting in a park in Bridgeport, Conn.; police found them force-feeding beer to Juliette’s children, ages 4 years and…10 months. The boy told police that he had to drink beer every day, and preferred Natural Ice over “the dogbite beer.” Both children tested positive for alchohol, and the baby also tested positive for cocaine.

2 Broke Girls. This is a CBS sitcom that airs at 8 pm. I have taken lately to seeing how long it takes the writers to insert a dirty joke into the dialogue. They started off with one truly objectionable joke per episode, but have quickly sped things up. Last night, they got a joke in about a threesome in under 10 seconds, followed by a line about batteries for dildoes by 20 seconds in. That must be some sort of record. This is not late-night cable; it’s prime-time network, and there are millions of innocent kids being exposed to this overtly graphic stuff. And that’s just one example.

  They will be slowly and irrevocably affected over time. Innocence can only be destroyed once. Olivia will invariably be touched by this and all the other offerings like it, the programs, rap videos,  Rihanna ( being beaten by her boyfriend…no, not the famous one, I mean the guy in her last video. ) Of all people…and why aren’t there any advocates for women anymore? Politically incorrect? Why isn’t anyone outraged? Why don’t they even notice?

 It seems that everything in popular culture these days is designed to undermine and destroy any semblance of innocence. Kids don’t have the slightest chance of escaping.

Mexican drug cartels. An interesting statistic; so far, 35,000 people have died in the drug wars. 1,000 of them have been children. Apparently, when one cartel attacks another, they’ve taken to killing  any children that they find at home if the prime target is not available. And the guns used are mostly from the U.S.; private-sector suppliers.

And speaking of private- sectors; if Newt Gingrich somehow manages to get into the White House, I swear I’ll head for Canada. I haven’t a very high opinion of politicians generally, but this revoltingly criminal slimeball may well be the only guy the Republicans have left standing. Whenever he’s questioned about any of  his dealings, he replies that” that happened when I was in the private sector.”

What I want for Christmas. I want to be Bob Newhart. In the office of the inn in Vermont. My spouse is tending the front counter, and Olivia is taking breakfast orders in the dining room. Life is sane, well-ordered, and safe. Humor is low-key and very tasteful. My comic timing is impeccable, and I just love it when the phone rings. Olivia dates a pleasant young man from nearby, and he’s quite respectful.

 It may be because he’s seen the Enfield in the corner behind Bob’s desk. And the clown mask hanging on the point of the bayonet. 

Thank you for listening. I can’t do anything about any of these things, but I always feel more grounded after I’ve released some angst. And I suppose that socks and underwear will once again suffice in lieu of an inn in Vermont.

Guys who had to spend their entire existences wearing a tuxedo.

Can you picture H. Bogart in a polo shirt?

No, of course not. ( Immaterial that they didn’t exist yet. )

Can you picture those guys as little kids, doing little kid stuff?  Playing sandlot baseball?

No. They would have been standing along the third-base line, smoking cigarettes and gazing wistfully at the horizon; poignantly longing for the childhood that never was.  ( Immaterial that they are still children in this scenario. )

And of course, in their tuxedos. White for summer, black for winter. There may very well have been tuxedos of a wild array of colors available, but all rendered ineffective in the world of film noir.

And now I’ve found two more. Guys who were probably born in a tuxedo, which I’m sure their mothers could well have done without at the time. ” Yes, mother and baby are both fine, but there were some…well…complications…”

I speak of  Lionel Hampton and Johnny Mercer.

I’ ll not bother to trumpet their accomplishments. You have access to the same resources that I do. You would do well to make their acquaintance. Extremely old-school, and so impossibly good at what they did that they managed to define both themselves and their chosen art forms as they went along. And were perfectly comfortable in their own skins, which were, of course, tuxedos.

Lionel was a jazz musician. He played the vibraphone.

Johnny was a songwriter and lyricist.

In 1947, Lionel wrote an instrumental tune he titled ” Midnight Sun.”

In 1953, Johnny wrote lyrics for it.

It is , in a word, gorgeous. Over the years, everybody in jazz has done a cover of it. Dozens of renditions.

And here’s what is so good about it.

It’s sort of… backwards. Most songwriters will start with a bit of lyric, and structure a chord progression to support it; conventional wisdom, usually with conventional results.

Johnny took a very unconventional song, one that utilizes a unique song form, unique chordal movements, and chromatic scales as a base for the melody, and wrote a seamlessly sophisticated set of lyrics for it. This is an extremely difficult thing to accomplish, especially because it’s being done in reverse; music first, lyrics later.

You’d better have your tuxedo on if you’re going to try something like that.

I have the Diana Krall cover of this song. It’s on my” top-ten best of all time” list.

And because I’m such a devoted special fan, I’ve followed the subliminal instructions hidden in the second verse to the letter. ( Diana put them there, not Johnny Mercer. )

A) Kidnap your local mailman, and duct-tape him to the roof rack of your car

B) Then stop and do Diana’s grocery shopping ( she is obviously too busy to do it herself, and that pesky Elvis fellow seems to be awfully self-involved )

C) Hold up either a 7-11 or a gas station; your choice. The mailman will need money for his train fare home.

D) Finally, stop and get Diana a Cinnamon Grande Latte at Starbucks, and be at a certain Manhattan address by 4 pm.

I was 10 minutes early.

We had about a dozen spectators on hand, and a reporter from the Providence Journal; and although he meant well, I would much doubt if anything featuring us would make it past an editor’s desk.

One of those spectators was a woman whom we recognized from attending in previous years. We finally got around to making her acquaintance, and she agreed to join us for breakfast at the nearby Phenix Restaurant after the ceremony. The Phenix is used to seeing us by now, and already had a large table arranged for us; a benefit of minor celebrity.

In her mid-seventies, Cindy describes herself as a psychic and a medium. She says that she always stops by the Greenwood cemetery because it’s ” always busy there.”  She’ll also tell you in detail all about stones, crystals, herbs and spices; what they all do, and why they don’t work for almost everyone;” because people always say that they want positive energy in their lives but really aren’t willing to do a damned thing to find it, get it, or keep it.”

I found myself  liking her a lot. Completely insane, but in a very grounded sort of way. She said that she could come with us to breakfast because she had her lucky scarf on, which she only wears on trips to cemeteries.

And through the course of  pleasant breakfast conversation, we found that Cindy likes to attend our Veteran’s day rites because she has been trying for years to determine who the little girl is.

Little girl?

Yes, she says; the one who is always playing amongst the gravestones while we are commemorating Sam. She only sees her occassionally, but always while we are there.

A few people were being supportive of Cindy in general; a few others were harshly skeptic. I remained neutral, enjoying her dismissal of the skeptics with a short-tempered backward wave of her hand, as if Queen Victoria had been suddenly accosted by a commoner.

When pressed for details, Cindy described again the little girl in a white dress, cavorting between the graves across the somewhat small cemetery while we held our ceremony. She always brings a camera, but really knows better than to think that would work. Still, it’s worth the try, she thinks.

And we always thought she was taking shots of us; more benefits of very pitifully minor celebrity.

The table’s general response was to the effect that, after several years, no one had ever seen a little girl in a white dress doing anything at all.

She understood completely, but begged to differ. She knows what she knows, and she knows about these things.

I personally thought that Cindy’s description of the little girl was very typically 19th- century stereotype, and was wondering why pleasantly insane people never seemed to come up with anything a bit more creative than this. This sounded like a movie trailer.

And then someone asked her where in the cemetery she had actually seen her; and she said she was always in the same small area; and described that in detail, too. ” Why, that’s the Sprague family plots” said our own Sgt. Salisbury.

And then…  dots suddenly connected in my head, dots which until just then had absolutely no reason to ever cross paths. I lost interest in my corned beef hash and eggs, and believe me, those who know me would attest to the gravity of any situation that might cause such a culinary calamity. The room spun a little bit, an actual sensation of vertigo.

I have my own story to tell about those gravesites. I told a lot of people about it when it happened, and I sat there in realization that their response to me back then was only marginally more civilized than what poor Cindy was getting right now. At the time , I considered myself a perfectly viable witness; and I suppose that Cindy has always considered herself equally viable. But she is obviously pleasantly bonkers, and I am, of course, not. At all. I am viable if nothing else.

My story goes back to yet another Veteran’s day, eight years ago. Same people, same place, same reason. It was a very cold and snowy day; I remember getting there very early and searching for Sam’s grave marker under the snow with a broom; and then putting up the 21st’s newly-made flag, thinking that Sam would appreciate seeing the old company colors again. ( A rather un-viable sentiment, in retrospect…)

I was a lieutenant in the company then, and during the ceremony, I stood at the left end of the company line; the captain was standing by sam’s grave while speaking to the assembly. We were at attention.

And while I stood and listened, I noticed something moving in the distance beyond where Capt. Wrona stood. It was situated so that I could watch both him and the movement simultaneously.

Across the cemetery and over the captain’s shoulder, I watched what I took to be a large piece of black crepe paper being blown back and forth between some gravestones. I thought that it was likely the remnants of a Halloween decoration that had broken loose. I stood and pondered the idea of such decorations in a cemetery, and thought it no less likely than the Christmas decorations, photographs, toys, and teddy bears that you would find in the newer section of Greenwood.

But shortly, I realized that there was something very odd about the paper. There was nothing at all random about its movement. It moved slowly and methodically from one point to another, and back again. It stayed at the same height, probably a foot or so off the ground. It would appear between the grave markers, and was not visible while it was behind the markers.

I was watching carefully, and trying to determine how a sheet of paper adrift in the wind could move in such a way; and starkly realized that there was no wind to speak of.

And then…I realized that what I was seeing couldn’t be paper at all. There was no fluttering motion of any kind.

It was a flat, non-reflective, black square. It was like a black opening in the daylight. And it was moving, back and forth, behind a particular group of markers.

I glanced at the others; there was seemingly no recognition in their faces, and the captain stood with his back to it. It continued for the rest of our ceremony. As we marched from the area to our cars, I noticed then that it was gone.

As we broke formation, I made a few jokes and comments, but no one bit for it. I was apparently the only one who noticed anything.

I begged off breakfast. I really just wanted to get away from there. Something was very wrong.

So what was it, then, that made me go back? After I knew that everyone else was gone…I drove back. I wanted to find the crepe paper. I wanted to find something rational.

I walked to the grave markers…and realized that it was a family grouping, with marble markers on the corners; with a large central marker. Very elaborate.

It was the grave of Elisha Harris, surrounded by several later generations, very well- organized.

He had been a governor of Rhode Island, was a very successful businessman, had both prominent ancestors and descendants; he passed away in 1861.

There was no sign of black crepe paper anywhere. There was nothing at all out of place.

And I was very suddenly struck with a vicious back spasm. I tried to steady myself on the nearest marker, but had to fall to the ground. These were not unknown to me at that time, but the intensity of this one was beyond my experience.

The pain was blinding, but usually would subside after a few minutes; but there was always an indeterminate period afterward where you had to be very careful of any movement, because just the right motion could set it all off again.

I had no choice but to lie there. A guy in a Confederate uniform, struck down in the middle of the Harris family burial plot. Whimsical…maybe. Ironic, yes.

What I really was… was terrified. That the black square would come back. I was lying right in the path of where it had been  moving. It would go right over me. Or through me.

I have never been, before or since, so frightened. In spite of the pain it caused, I slowly crawled away from the graves and into the road. There was no one around. I might just as well have been on the dark side of the moon. I had a cell phone, but it was in the car.

It took me over an hour to crawl to the car. It was only about two hundred feet away. I did not dare to once look back towards where I had been, or even peripherally glance to the side, for fear of it being right beside me.

I made it back. No black squares. And got home.

I told a lot of people about that incident. It never once occurred to me how completely impossible it sounds. And if they all patronized me, I never once actually noticed.

But sitting across from Cindy this morning changed all that. She sees a little girl… I see black squares…but in the same exact place?

I have tremendous respect for Governor Harris, and his entire family. There is some big magic going on over there. I might actually take a walk over there again sometime, if I’m not alone. And dressed appropriately. I’m honestly a little nervous about having even downloaded the photo of his gravestone. It’s as close as I’ve been in a long time.

And I like Cindy, and would never dare to patronize her, because I think she might have a little ju-ju of her own.

Maybe she can help me find a lucky scarf.

And I know it really does sound crazy…but I know what I know.

And with that said, here is yet another intriguing tale from my community college career. There is no dream sequence attached to this; this is just a damned fun story. So sit right back, and you’ll hear a tale…

Two other courses that I took at CCRI back then were ” Jazz History” and ” Fundamentals of Rythym”; both taught by Prof. Lloyd Kaplan. He had also just published a book titled ” Who’s Who in Rhode Island Jazz”.

Professor Kaplan ( now retired ) was the penultimate gentleman. He was meticulously polite, very old-school; he wore a bow tie and/or suspenders with a sharply starched shirt every day. He was very soft-spoken in a Garrison Keillor sort of style with a similarly droll sense of humor. He was a local mainstay during the jazz years and played clarinet and sax.

His courses were listed as 3-credit electives, and consequently drew many students who were looking for easy courses to float through (once the finger-painting electives were all filled). Lots of sports kids, basketball players especially. Timberlands as far as the eye could see.

He would begin his courses by asking that people please keep to the same seat each day, so that he could assimilate their names. He referred to all as “Mr” or” Ms”, last names only; but in a very relaxed and familiar way. He would then joke a bit about his “easy 3-credit finger-painting courses”, and then politely warn those people to vacate while there was still time. No harm done. But if you chose to stay…

 The music kids would mostly be clustered in the front rows, with the sports kids sleeping in the back. It has ever been thus.

Once we were under way, it didn’t take long for the finger-painters to try anything and everything to escape. Their dogs regularly ate their homework; they had been yet again abducted by aliens and left along Rt. 80w in Nebraska; or, there was a big important game that took precedence.

None of it worked. He just expected everyone to keep a good attitude and work. If so, then he would certainly pass you just for the honest attempt. If not…

He taught the Jazz History course from memory. There was no textbook. If you took good notes, you had a chance. If you didn’t, you sank like a stone.

The ” fundamentals” course was extrememly challenging. Based on the concept that musical rythyms can be divorced from the other aspects of music ( key signatures, melodies, scale use ), he wrote the book for the course. It was made up of hundreds of examples of rythym only( no key signatures, no particular instrument). The first example was: quarter notes in 4/4 time. You could use any verbal syllable that you were comfortable with ( da da, la la, do do, whatever ), but you had to verbalize the example; sing the rythym, as it were.

So, Ex.1 might sound like ” da da da da “( quarter notes in 4/4 time, 1 measure). The text included examples of every conceivable rythym pattern, in every time signature. Hundreds of them.

Mr. Kaplan went over everything in great detail, but ultimately could only tell if you were getting any of it by; calling out an example number, pointing to someone, and having them sing the pattern.

Most found it to be excruciating and embarrassing ( not to mention difficult.) The music -oriented kids caught on pretty quickly, but the others found themselves in a particularly awful purgatory.

It actually worked very well; you didn’t have to be musical at all, and you could learn to conquer the hardest single aspect of reading music.

Testing was done by dictation; he sang a pattern, you wrote it down. But the exams were a complex combination of things, and you could survive only if you had honestly worked at it.

Mr. Kaplan and I became friends somehow along the way. One day during the Jazz history course, he was trying to explain the idea of blues guitar ala Robert Johnson, and asked me if I might take my guitar out for a second and play a slide lick. I had the use of an old Epiphone classical, and played a few bars of ” Dust My Broom” with a Coke bottle. It did not work at all, but he and I were good after that.

He mentioned in passing one Friday that he had a gig that weekend, at the Larchwood Inn in Wakefield.

I asked about it, and he said he worked in a jazz quartet that had been doing that gig for the last three thousand years or so. I poked around a bit and was asking about how jazz guys ” did stuff ” and what would be different from what I usually did.

He invited me to come down and sit in.

I accepted. This is where the “pompous and delusional” part kicks in. I expected to go down there and easily shred the old jazz guys, show them what a modern Schenker-esque rock guy could do to them. Scare the tuxedos off them.

So I took a Strat that I had use of and a small amp, and set out that night to show those old guys what for. I felt like I was in a Clint Eastwood western; I wished someone could play that little flute lick that Clint always gets when he goes through the saloon doors.

The Larchwood Inn was a very quiet, dark and subdued setting, with lots of regular patrons. It was like parachuting into the middle of ” Casablanca”. Mr. Kaplan was kind of surprised that I actually came, and set me up sitting right alongside of him. Besides his clarinet and sax, there was a piano guy, a standup bass, and a drummer ( with just a snare, hi-hat, and one cymbal; playing with brushes only) Everyone in a tuxedo.

I sat and listened for a set, absorbing the vibes.

I of course listened for ways to fit in and integrate, but still thought that I was going to have to hurt these people. I didn’t know much of what they were playing, but knew that I could rely on my uncanny ability to improvise, to ” comp” as the old jazz guys would say. No worries. And, I had an inside edge with the sax player.

I sat in on the second set.  Sitting by Mr. Kaplan, I noticed that he kept a small bright lamp by his chair that had a rolodex file by it; chord charts on file cards, I thought. What a good idea. Instant access. Sad, though, that he doesn’t just remember stuff anymore…

I played softly through a few numbers, just touching on a chord here and there, being cool, plotting my attack…

They played some pretty complicated stuff, and did it all very, very adeptly; chord progressions that changed so smoothly that you could hardly even notice them.I had to admit that the old guys were really good at this, and I was suddenly having some trouble keeping up. I finally leaned over to Mr. Kaplan and asked what the chord progression was.

His answer triggered in me one of the many ” OMG” moments that sometimes happens in my musical education, where the clouds may as well open up and hit me in the forehead with a sunbeam. Or more to the point, a band of angels pointing down and laughing.

He said; ” I don’t know. I’m a reed player, I don’t care about chords. You want chords, ask the piano player.”

While he spoke, I was squinting past him at the rolodex file that was there beside him.

No chords there. Little snippets of melodies written out.

I was not dead yet, but there was a distinct possibility. I was entirely on my own. These guys were good, and I was an alien on their planet.

I panicked, but just a little. Think, think…

I recovered by locking onto the piano guy. He played very expressively and flowery with his right hand, and the left kept touching on little chord bits here and there. I zoned completely on what his left was doing.

That helped a bit; I was not totally lost, but the music was complex and hard to track. And this had somehow become very hard work. I suddenly realized that I might not be shredding the old guys after all.

And then… Mr. Kaplan leaned over and said…” why don’t you take the next solo”…

I started off ok. I kept close to the progression that I had caught from the piano; the bike was a little shaky, but still upright and moving forward.

And suddenly; the old guys all took a very slick and sophisticated left turn, to a place that I could not hear any little bit of. No one of them even blinked or looked up; they were just suddenly somewhere else. And it was in a galaxy far, far away.

And I, Wile E. Coyote, with a stick of  Acme dynamite taped to my head, went straight off the cliff on the bicycle, stopped and looked wistfully into the camera, and plunged to my musical death. I had absolutely nothing.

 The chord progression came back around again to where it had been, but it did not matter. I was dead by then. They all knew it. The bartender, the band, all the ancient Larchwood Inn patrons. They all looked away, not wishing to stare at the horrific accident that had just smeared the nicely appointed carpet before them. I appreciated their sense of civility.

But being pompous and delusional, I had to try again. And again.

And finally begged off in the middle of the set for a rest. That was ok with them.

And then begged off for the rest of the night. I could not hang with these guys, and I’m sure that they were glad of my absence.

I had not just been outplayed a little by the old jazz guys; I had been completely and totally destroyed. In their tuxedos, and bowties. Ripped to bits.

It was a long drive home.

On Monday, back in class, we joked about it a bit. He was very gracious, and even asked me back, saying it was certainly not that bad; he had seen worse.

There was no way in hell that I would ever go near those guys again.

Later on, I chose to write about it in my term paper for the Jazz History class, and he enjoyed that so much that he gave me an A+ for the course; said that he never saw anyone learn to appreciate jazz so fast…

This is the title of a favorite old “Cream” song, produced by Felix Papallardi. Felix was a phenomenal producer; he really knew how to infuse a recording with a sense of atmosphere. He was also the bassist in Mountain, using an old Gibson EB-1 bass when most of the world used Fender. Gibson was always a bit late to the party, and especially so where electric bass was concerned. At any rate, poor Felix was accidently… shot to death by his wife Gail in 1983.

 Hmm…not that short of a note after all. Sorry. How thoroughly pompous, to start writing a piece without mentioning what it’s actually about; and how delusional, to presume that readers will see how it ties in later on.

And now, on to the actual topic. Relax, this is only semi- delusional.

There are certain specific places, my ” deserted cities”, that I visit in dreams.
I attempted to describe one such place in a previous post, and even though the description was lacking, I still felt much better for the attempt. This is important stuff, and it is has apparently become imperative that I get this across to someone somewhere somehow. I haven’t a clue as to why. ( See? Only semi-delusional. If I were completely delusional, I couldn’t have written that at all.)

I was very pleased to re-visit this particular spot; it was only for the second time, and was very gratified to be back. It had been several years since.
An actual description of it might make more sense with a few details provided beforehand, so please allow me to back-fill a little back-story.

On a few different occasions over the years, I attended the local community college ( CCRI ); and partook of most of the music department’s offerings. The music department there is small and of course underfunded, and yet they manage great things at the hands of some truly inspired teaching.
One of my courses was Chamber Ensemble; we had piano, three violins, three guitars, two cellos, three flutes, and a trumpet. The instructor ( Cherie Markward ) managed to find suitable music for everyone, and a few pieces that utilized all of us.
One particular day ( when the guitars didn’t have anything to do), she asked me if I could play bass. Of course I answered in the affirmative. She then instructed me to venture into the instrument storage area and get one out.
Being the pompous delusional fool that I was, I got the keys, opened the door, flipped on the lights, and located the back closet where they were kept. I opened the door supposing an old Fender Precision or Jazz bass would greet me, with an old Bassman amp to supplement.
No, no, no.
There were two full-scale standup basses in there.
I was shocked, aghast; this had not occurred to me. Pompous fools always expect electric basses at such times. Why wouldn’t a chamber orchestra have an electric bass, said fool thought to himself. Could it be because all the other instruments were acoustic, and it had been thus for hundreds of years with chamber music?
I had never seen one of these things in close proximity before. I could only play electric bass, and therefore I should have been gaping at an electric bass just then; such is the tragic chain of logic of the pompously delusional.
And after the gasping, and the panicked short breathing, and the cold fear racing through my intestinal tract; I got one out. I figured; it has four strings, and they’re sideways, and there aren’t any frets, but so what? I can handle this. A bass is a bass.
Poor delusional ass. An ass is an ass.

Minutes later, Ms. Markward raised her conductor’s baton, and we began to play. Four bars in, and she stopped. And stared. At me. She lowered the baton.
Were there pizzicato marks on my score, she asked, or was I just in a ” jazz frame of mind”? I craftily decided not to answer, not having the vaguest notion of what pizzicato was, or what a pizzicato mark was, or what one actually looked like. Or what it would have meant anyway.
She craftily asked me to go back into storage and get a bow. Because there weren’t any pizzicato marks in this piece. Now, please…
A what?? A Bow???

A few minutes later…she stops again, to ask me if I could play just a little louder. Because I couldn’t produce anything at all. Absolute silence.

 I declared confidently that something was wrong or must be broken, because I was sawing away as hard as I could…

I then learned about bow rosin, at the assist of an adorable eighteen-year-old violinist, who led a hearty round of laughter at my expense.

And once again…eight bars in, Ms. Markward stops…and stares. Again.
What’s left, I thought to myself… really…

Is my score in E-flat? she asks. Yes, I reply…
Do I have issues with E-flat? Because the John Cage bass line is not working for Haydn.
Honestly, I said,… E-flat is tough for guitar players. ( Truth be told, we’d rather open up a vein and bleed out than play in E-flat.)
But it’s a walk in the park for string players…and you said you could play bass…
She asked me to check my tuning…which I did…
And discovered ( again with the smirky violinist’s help ) that string instruments( violin/viola/cello/bass ) are all tuned in fifths, not fourths…like an electric bass…
So, for me, the notes were all in the wrong places.
The class thankfully ended right about then, and I and my intestinal tract barely got out of the room alive.
A very tough day at the community college.

Over the next few weeks, I persisted, and could finally play a few simple parts. My bow technique was atrocious; apparently, they’re all supposed to move forward and back at the same rate. And, I had to make little chalk marks on the fingerboard where the frets should have been… The cool rock-and-roll guy was getting mangled daily by sarcastic children and a woman with a pointy stick. But I didn’t run.
And then…at the Christmas break…
Ms. Pointystick asked me if I would want to take the bass home over the break. Get some practice time in. Couldn’t hurt.
I was very surprised that she would allow that, and gratefully agreed.
I practiced a lot, and by the end of the two weeks…
I discovered that the double bass was the coolest instrument ever. Even though I was terrible, I still came to realize that the sound of a bowed upright bass was just the most sonorous, strident, and purely musical instrument of all.

I went back after the break, worked even harder, played the recitals, played the end-of-semester concerts, and aced the course. I played in a really neat Vivaldi trio reworked for three guitars, played my bass parts, and even got to play tympani a little. A great experience overall, and I took several more courses there. All wonderful; and there are certainly a few more entertaining stories buried in that bone lot. The tympani thing was fun all of itself; the monkey-with-a-screwdriver syndrome at its absolute worst. Seems that you can’t just pound away at will; they expect you to exhibit a sense of decorum.

And that’s all the backwash we need. On to the dream.

Not too much of anything happens in this dream. It’s where it takes place that holds significance.
The setting is a gigantic cathedral. Not so much of the old medieval stone variety, but more of a Westminster Abbey kind of place. It’s circular in shape, with acres of wooden partition seating arranged around a central open area, with a large ornate stairway that leads up to an enclosed platform with a dais. The outer walls are very high and very dark; the windows comprise the roof, which are of stained glass in a circular pattern. There are no doors, but the outer walls have heavy black drapery where the doors might otherwise be. Everything slants downward towards the central open area.
In the dream, I find myself walking down an aisle towards the lower central part; I stop about halfway down, and realize that there are many people in the seats all around. The partitions are all actually closed off from each other, each with just a  small door that opens onto the aisle. There are students in the partitions, each with an instrument, a music stand, and a small bright light to illuminate the stand. They are all practicing to prepare for some very important event. They are working very intently. Some of them get up and leave the cathedral through the black draperies, and as many others enter the same way. Bright sunlight shines through when the drapes are opened.
Not far from where I stop to look around and observe, I see a partition with a bass in it. I’m not sure if it’s mine or not. I walk towards it slowly, and stand just outside the partition door. A girl with a violin in the next partition says hello, and reaches over to open the door for me. I want to play the bass, to sit in the partition and quietly work in preparation, as all the others are. But I cannot.
The overwhelming feeling in this dream is that I do not belong. Everything about this environment reflects order, quiet, a silent joyous knowledge of belonging, and of sharing an appreciation of the entire environment. I cannot partake; my life has been too tumultuous, too painful and erratic; I am not qualified, or ready.
I can visit as long as I want, I can play the bass for a while. I notice that they are working on a Bach piece; even the sheet music moves in long, graceful flowing lines. Pastoral; civilized.
But ultimately, I have to leave. I walk upwards to the outer wall, and open one of the black draperies and step outside into the blazing sunlight.

There are trees of varying heights all around; and from each branch, there are three pieces of rope, attached to a triangular cloth seat. There is a student in each seat, lying backwards as if in freefall. This is what they are coming outside for, and going back in again when they are rested.
I stand there amazed at the sight of such a large structure surrounded by sleeping musicians in freefall; and while I stand there, I quietly dissipate in the sunlight.

I first dreamed this many years ago; but went back just the other night. I played the bass again, and played a little better than the first time.  I didn’t remember leaving, but I seemed to sense that I’ll be allowed another visit…maybe when I’m a bit less pompous and delusional.

Or know what the hell pizzicato marks are for…

I used to know, really, and it didn’t even have to rhyme. But no longer.

Seems that one of the first things to slip out the back door without much fanfare is spelling. I used to be on a quite firm footing here, and didn’t have to look up correct spelling very often. Never, actually. Things just looked right or not.

But now…an ever- lenghthening list of things I’m just not sure of anymore. At worst, I would find myself taking an occasional 80/20 shot at a word, and just use the instinct; did it look right? Good, then go with it.

And now… I’ll have to sit and stare at recieve/receive, or…occasion/occassion…or embarass/ embarrass/ embarras ( I’m going to go with Door #2, Alex, but it’s down to about a 25/75 probability…)

This is quite annoying. I recall the Desiderata counseling that I should gracefully surrender the things of youth, but I really thought they would be talking about things ( at least initially)  that you wouldn’t mind giving up anyway, like drinking a bottle of Southern Comfort and waking up on some guy’s lawn at dawn, in a rainstorm, face-down in wet leaves. ( Yes, it did. No, I’m not. I might have been at the time.)

But spelling?? Come on, I kind of need that. Can’t we start with something a bit more colorful, say? I’ve already sworn off trying to make my own hot sauce ( because of the Incident)…

A quick description, then, and this stands as an excellent example of something that age and experience teaches one to avoid at any cost. Here’s the recipe:

Roger’s Five-Minute Homemade Habanero Sauce:

First, grow gorgeous ( I think that’s spelled right…) backyard tomatoes; the first homegrown attempt at habanero peppers ( they were so adorable, just little orange puffy things) and onion ( Vidalia, if possible ). Before starting, drink a lot of your favorite beverage, so that you”ll really, really have to go to the rest room quickly. ( An enlarged prostate gland is helpful here…one more thing I’d rather not surrender gracefully, thank you…)

Now, for this part, you’ll need a timer; set it to five minutes, and …begin.

Get all your diced ingredients into a large serving bowl, and while dicing the habaneros make sure not to wear any protective gloves or anything like that. They’re orange, for God’s sake, aren’t they just the cutest things? Then, mix tomatoes, peppers and onions thoroughly, and test immediately with your favorite brand of corn chips.

We should be a few minutes in now…plenty of time yet…

Notice that it’s not very hot at all. Very mild, really. Add more peppers.

Two minutes to go.

Things I Didn’t Know At The Time;

The substance in peppers that makes them hot is called capsaicin;

Habaneros have a capsaicin level that is 100 times higher than a jalapeno or a cayenne pepper. High- capsaicin level peppers are…orange…not red, as most people would think.

Now the fun part.

You have sampled heavily, shared some with your spouse; and are now dicing more habaneros to add. You’re secretly a bit disappointed, because you had heard that these peppers were very spicy. That’s why you grew some, after all. And while considering even adding a few jalapenos to remedy this rather pedestrian sauce…

Your face explodes.

Aparently, it takes high levels of capsaicin a few minutes to engage fully.

Your sinuses have decided to abandon all hope, and are trying to crawl out your nose. There is absolutely no passage of air, because your throat is completely constricted and your lungs are not functioning. There is a searing fiery pain spreading through your bronchial tubes. You cannot see. Liquids of several forms are streaming from your eyes and nose. Your fingers hurt; capsaicin sinks right through the skin.

You start rubbing your eyes frantically. At first, your spouse is laughing…but then, not so much. Share and share alike…

The pain is excruciating. The panic is mounting. You really can’t breathe. You can’t gather enough breath to shout “911.”  And then…the pressure is too great. You must race immediately to the rest room; because there are still a few body parts that have not yet been contaminated…

Now they are. Notice that when you scream in a bathroom, the acoustics are actually very good.

You plunge your hands into cold water and wash everything frantically. You splash water in your eyes. You gulp down cold water.

The pain actually intensifies. ( One more thing that I didn’t know about capsaicin.)

Blinded, suffocating and panic-stricken, you realize  that the high-pitched shreiking/ shrieking you hear must be coming from you somehow. Your genitals are trying to recede into your intestinal tract. Your intestinal tract wants nothing to do with this whole thing, and is barring entry. Your eyes have turned into gelatinous muck.

And once again, you find yourself on the lawn, face down in wet leaves, pleading for a merciful death. But no…you will survive, and live to write a blog post to warn the others.

And…stop.  Time’s up.

Five minutes, start to finish. You did not die, although if there were a gloriously bright tunnel of light like there’s supposed to be, you would have run straight into it, screaming for help.

*****

They’re in your local produce section…lurking. Right there, in plain sight. They mix them right in with the others, the big friendly green and red peppers. They’ll sit right beside the jalapenos and cayennes, the ones that people are wary of. They’re small, and orange, and very unassuming. They may not kill you, but they will do their level best to change the course of your life. Not bad for $2.99 a pound.

Hey…maybe it’s the capsaicin that ‘s affecting my capacity to spell. Or do I mean effecting…

It had to do with re-enacting, a favorite pastime of mine ( although not so much lately ), and that if I could make a cologne out of the combined odors of sweat, dirt, wet wool, woodsmoke, and harness leather, I’d pour a cup of it over my head every morning and probably have a pretty good day.

Or the smell of fallen maple leaves in October and November; and even deeper and much further back, the smell of burning leaves. The tradition was that once the leaves had been thoroughly played in by the kids, parents from all over New England would rake the leaves into huge piles, and burn them. Not the most environmentally friendly solution, but there were an awful, awful lot of leaves. Now completely illegal. ( I resist the urge to follow that up with some vaguely supportive, simperingly politically correct, pro-environment sentiment. It was what it was. Live with it). That smell would make one hell of an after-shave.

And now, here’s one more.

I was talking today with a MetLife VP who has a favorite hobby/ pastime, and also has the funding to be able to comfortably indulge in it. He’s a car guy, and he will tell you about his latest acquisition whether you want hear or not. ( God, why doesn’t he care about Lawyers, Guns, and Money, like a normal person would? Doesn’t know the difference between a gold-top Les Paul and a tree branch. Doesn’t even realize the global significance of Jackson’s flanking march at Chancellorsville. Can you even believe such a thing? ) In a world completely of his own. The absolute nerve…

Anyway… he drove up today in an orange 1956 Thunderbird convertible. I offered my compliments; it was gorgeous, after all. And, I somehow knew it as a ’56. My mistake. I then learned the particulars of Thunderbird engines, transmissions, overhead cams, and all manner of stuff that might well have been in Mandarin Chinese.

He asked me what I had driven in to work today.

As if I had much choice.

Any choice at all.

The nerve.

I said that I had taken the ’03 Ford Focus, the red one.

He wasn’t terribly familiar with that one.

Really, Sherlock? Really??

I did manage to mention one thing; that there are only two cars on the planet that I would honestly go out of my way for.

One was the Mini-Cooper ( not bloody likely, on my pay range); and an old Volkswagen ( a restored one probably costs more than the Cooper).

He liked the Cooper comment, had bought a yellow one for his daughter to drive to college last year. Didn’t get the VW thing at all. Why would anyone want one of those?

Our conversation ended with my phone ringing, and me promising to keep a camera trained on the Thunderbird; he would only be an hour or so.

Pretty nice guy, actually. A bit disconnected from the masses, maybe, but 1.5 million dollar bonuses will do that to a person. Tough old world.

But all that set me to thinking… why would  I want an old Volkswagen?

The smell, of course. Not the 60-mph top speed ( downhill ), or the draftiness ( because the tiny little heat vents had rotted away) or the feeling of sheer terror when the clutch would slip on a steep hill.

The new ones don’t have it, I’ve checked. They smell like any new car. Nice, but you can get that anywhere.

The old ones all have it. That wonderful smell. I don’t know what it is, exactly. I know that it seemed to get stronger as time went on. It is a very, very particular thing, and I would pay a lot to be able to get it back. That smell would make a great after-shave. I’d make a spray mist for the ladies, too.

Eons ago, I bought my first old white VW from the Major for $50, and drove it to the ends of the earth; I would fill the tank for $5.00 and go everywhere, listening to the 8-track player I installed ( it worked when it wasn’t too cold out ). Engulfed in the VW aura; the particular ping of the engine, hoping that the hood latch stayed engaged, hoping that something resembling heat might waft its way in, all at 45, maybe 50 mph.

My dad wouldn’t ride in it. He was still mad at the Germans ( and the Japanese, too -very altruistic in his profiling). He didn’t like that the engine was in the back; something suspicious about that.

Yes, it’s definite now. I want that smell back.

I’m not a car guy at all, but I would find a way to pay as much as I could manage for that musty old smell.

And if I could actually drive it to work, all the better.

Would a real car guy get that, do you think?

But that got me to thinking…in the last few days, I’ve heard some other really surprising vocal material, and I realized that the way I think of musical things is …changing. I’m supposed to be a music snob who derides everything ( almost ) and hates pop music. ( Well, that is generally true…have you seen some of the synthetic crap that is being fostered on the dumb-ass public? Come on…)

Well anyway. I recently found myself noticing something extraordinary about two musical projects that I never had any use for; the B52s and Abba.  I don’t like either in particular; have no interest in early New Wave, plastic lobsters or blondes wrapped in aluminum foil ( or was that the little guy with the electric Ovation -what a strange guitar that was). But I suddenly took notice of the vocals.

They both have in common  a two-female vocal structure. All their material is based on it. I don’t care much for the actual material or its respective production qualities; but the tone and texture of the female vocals is pretty amazing. Someone, somewhere knew what the hell they were doing. Those voices are phenomenal. Too bad they ended up doing what they were doing, when they were doing it. But in their defense, if anyone remembers anything about either of them, it’s only because of them.

Wouldn’t it be something if we could lift those signature vocals right out of their element, and find a better home for them? I could imagine the B52s girls working with T-Bone Burnett on all kinds of roots-based stuff. Or Adele, maybe…and the Abba girls would add significantly to anything. Just have to keep them away from the Reynolds Wrap.

So now, I’m listening for other stuff that might share in the Secret of the Two Girl Singers. There must be a whole lot out there.

I know…I’m weird. But this is fun for me. And I just thought of another one…Dark Side of the Moon. And how about…I Shot the Sheriff…who are all those  girls? Are they all in some kind of a union? Do you think they all know each other? Do they get together for holidays? Do they bring pie? Apple, maybe? Yeah, probably apple…with ice cream? Who makes the best pie? Who gets the ice cream? Baskin-Robbins? Ben and Gerry? You don’t think they get store-bought pie, do you? Well, do you?? They wouldn’t do that, would they? Could they? I’ll bet they’ve got a secret hand signal, too. Just like Spock’s, but with the middle finger bent…so that we’ll think they’re just flipping us off…hey,wait, I’ve seen that… a lot, actually…