Bold Predictions, Fearless Prognostications For This, Our Newest of Years

"There is no problem so great/that you cannot run away from it." The late, great blues/folk guitarist and singer Dave Van Ronk said that, and it's certainly as true today as it was then. But it's clear from all indications that Americans are tired of running away from our problems, and are ready to, as they say at the new Kinder's Meats in the Muir Station Shopping Center, "wash my hands and prepare your order." 

A mere 19 days from now, a gigantic party will take place from sea to shining sea. For some, a joyous beginning, for others, a sorrowful wake. But when it's over, on Jan. 21 for all of us, as Americans, it's a chance to start again, get some much-needed work done, make our case, plead our cause. This is a vast and great nation, with important work to do. We seem to have forgotten that somehow over the past years. It's time to remember.

That said, let's get to the important stuff. What is going to happen in the world of music in 2009? I've given this much thought, dear readers. I've used my best statistical models, employed complex databases and consulted hundreds of experts, all in the service of making this column as thorough and accurate as possible. So let's get to it. 

Prediction: As local bars and clubs continue to monitor the sound levels of bands with those repulsive decibel meters, the material covered by said bands will tend toward John Mayer, Crosby, Stills and Nash, and James Taylor. Rock and roll will become a distant memory, and the only thing still allowed to thunder through the city will be the sound of the modified Harleys, which the police department will continue to insist is ok, because it's for safety.

Side note about the decibel meters: if the bands are truly too loud for the audience, then the audience would leave. It's not the audience who has a problem with the volume. I am a proponent of reasonable volume myself, but this trend to stick a meter in my face and bark at me to turn it down, often by people who have little or no musical abilities themselves, in the name of some audio safety benchmark, just makes me want to buy a Marshall stack and turn it up to 11. Whatever happened to rock and roll? When did we become a nation of decibel meter geezers? Studies have shown that people too obsessed with reading studies about hearing loss become boring. I have a great storage suggestion for anyone who happens to have one of those decibel meters. Give me a call. . .

Prediction: despite a continuously demonstrated fact that Martinez is a hotbed of musical talent, the city's event organizers will continue to ignore that and book musical acts based on whether or not they charge for their services, for the occasional Main Street event. And the musicians themselves will continue to remain disjointed and unorganized, thus perpetrating the problem. Would it really be so difficult to stage an  annual musical celebration of Martinez at Waterfront Park? We have enormous resources here. An event like that could feature kids from Gina Graziano's class, local rock bands, the Martinez Opera, jazz and blues, the community band, the Alhambra Valley Band for bluegrass. . . that kind of event would attract more than just the locals, but what the heck is wrong with attracting locals to a celebration of local talent? It would be a simple thing to organize and operate, and would be a blast to attend. Why are our municipal cheerleaders so deaf to that suggestion? Have they been going to musical events that don't have decibel meters? 

Prediction: Armando's will continue to grow in popularity, and will become the only after-hours destination spot in downtown Martinez. Well, it already is, so that's not much of a prediction. But still, Roy Jeans and Eloise Cotton have created a masterpiece of a club (despite the decibel meter), a location where you can just relax and listen. I've never seen a problem in the place that wasn't attended to immediately, and I don't hesitate to suggest this as a spot for people of all ages and musical persuasions to go for auditory bliss and community love. As a side note, my band, the Very Bad Boys, will be there on Jan. 17, and five more times in 2009. Drop me a line if you want to be on our mailing list. 

Another side note about decibel meters: if the owners of these places with decibel meters are so intent on the bands keeping the volume low, will they be every bit as adamant about keeping the audience from talking through these now-low-volume performances? There are far too many instances where customers feel the need to chat at full-volume while musicians are trying to get something across. It would be fair and far more palpable if the decibel meter were aimed at these chatterers as well as at the band. Thank you.

Prediction: No one will continue to know you when you're down and out (blues joke).

Prediction: This column will become relevant and interesting in 2009 (a huge stretch, but you never know -- it could happen). 

All that said, what's important is that you and yours have a prosperous and productive year, despite all the noise and hand-wringing about the economy. And don't forget to get out and hear some live music this year. It's never been better, and you know you love it. 

The Best Kind of Christmas Present

A brand new red Firebird. Sounds spectacular. Plays like butta. 

The Carols of Christmas - A Cacophonic Conundrum

Merry Christmas, those of you who celebrate this holiday. I sincerely hope today finds you among family and friends and warmth and comfort, even if you don't celebrate Christmas. It's cold outside, in more ways than one. Individuals, and the entire human race, needs all the warmth and comfort it can get, with the distinct exception of the whole global warming thing. Today a lot of folks are sleepily walking around in new pajamas, sipping warm goodness from holiday-decorated cups and watching children play with new toys. Later there will be all kinds of food, and more warm stuff in cups (perhaps, by now, even laced with warmer stuff), and, of course, the singing. 

And that, dear friends, is what I'm here to talk about today. The singing. 

I have an enormous soft spot in my heart for the word 'carol,' because I'm married to a person with that name, and I am mightily in love with her. However, that spot grows progressively harder, stone-like, even, when the word moves to define a seasonal song. When it comes to Christmas music, I am downright cynical -- Scroogelike, even. Except I'm not. Dichotomy, my friends. Contradiction. Disconnect. These are the plagues of my holiday season. That endless tape loop of both instrumental and vocal versions of these songs I've been hearing my whole life, now used as relentless marketing tools in shops and malls and elevators everywhere, that say "'tis the season, now get out there and buy things," makes me dislike the songs, and yet my memories of childhood are drawn to these very same melodies, and I secretly shiver as they waft inside what's left of my brain. 

So today, let's take a look at the origin of some of these tunes, as presented to us by our good friends at Wikipedia. If you don't know what that is, great. Then just chalk up this information to my vast array of knowledge, and we're good to go. 

The Twelve Days of Christmas: it's been postulated on the Internet for some time now, in those endless chain letters that plague my inbox, that this song is really some kind of code for English Catholics who use these various things given by his or her true love to symbolize religious items. This, according to the best research, is simply not the case. It's believed to be a sort of game, where the singer sings a verse, and the players sing it back, and the singer sings another verse, and the players sing both back, and so on, until one of the players makes a mistake and has to give up a kiss or a sweet. This is the kind of thing people used to do before they had reruns of "House" in those post-present, pre-dinner hours. Also, it used to be a tradition to celebrate Christmas from Dec. 25 to Jan. 6, thus the 12 days. And the song is believed to be French in origin, which explains a lot about its length and its lack of, um, focus. 

Silent Night: One of my favorite carols, and now I know why. The words were written by father Fredrick Mohr, an Austrian priest who apparently wanted a song to sing in church that he could play on his guitar. The music was composed by the headmaster of the school, Franz Gruber. The year was 1818, right at the beginning of the German Romantic period, and you can hear the aching, the longing, in that gorgeous melody. It's not a simple song to sing, but every voice I know clamors to sing it, because it is truly a melodic prayer. And, as with so many of these carols, everyone knows the first verse, and only some know more than that.

What Child is This: More aptly named "what song is this?" for it's Greensleeves, for my money one of the most haunting and gorgeous melodies of all time. It evokes the music of the middle ages better than any other surviving melody from the time, already well known in Shakespeare's time and probably originating to the early 1500s, a fellow named William Chatterson Dix fell ill in the late 1800s and sank into depression, composing a number of hymns, including "What Child Is This?" It's probably impossible to know which version is better known with the melody - the hymn or the ballad. But it's a great song, and proof that truly great songs live on forever. Just look at "Louie Louie." 

Jingle Bells: This is not a Christmas song, though it has certainly become one. It was written in 1857 by James Lord Pierpont, who takes four verses to describe various equestrian misadventures involving snow. The first verse and chorus we all know, the others not so much. But this song was originally written for Thanksgiving, apparently. However, since there aren't many sales of goods and items on Thanksgiving, the good merchants co-opted it as a Christmas song, is my theory. But after eight years of the previous administration, I'm still a little bitter and conspiracy minded. One of my enduring Christmas memories is my dad playing that Bing Crosby Christmas album every year, and his version with the Andrews Sisters is the one I will always associate with this tune.

Happy Xmas (War is Over): Perhaps it is indicative of my history and background that this is the song most evocative of the season for me, and the one guaranteed to make me break out weeping every time I hear it. Why do I weep? Because John Lennon had a way with composing heart-rending melodies that grab my guts and twist them in delicious ways. And I weep because, just when the song gets good, John shoves Yoko to the microphone and my bliss is rudely interrupted by the vocal shenanigans of Ms. Ono, who, with all due love and respect, cannot and should not sing on songs that feature John. So it's a true weeper, this song. The best and the worst of music. Oh, and the message. War is over, if you want it. It reminds us, as John frequently did so well, that the fates by which we believe we are pummeled are really in our hands, if we choose to take some action and shape the world the way we think it should be. 

And with that, have a fantastic day today. I hope you get all the things you want, material and spiritual, and that you have love right in front of your eyes the whole day and night through. 

Music Business:Happy Holidays, We Won't Sue

This just in:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/12/19/financial/f115719S10.DTL&tsp=1

"We're at a point where there's a sense of comfort that we can replace one form of deterrent with another form of deterrent," said RIAA Chairman and Chief Executive Mitch Bainwol. "Filing lawsuits as a strategy to deal with a big problem was not our first choice five years ago."

In an industry in its final death throes, it is astounding to me that the head of the organized crime, er, organized music business can make the above statement and not collapse from laughter. When you are literally starving for customers, the best you can offer them is one form of deterrent to another? Really? And this is your business plan. Ok, then.

I understand that downloading music online is seen by the industry, and by some musicians, as the equivalent of shoplifting. I get that. But here's the simple truth -- it's simply not. It's file sharing. If some kid sees a file online at a site which is perfectly legal to be on, and the file is offered for free, then how is that the same as taking something from a store? The problem is not the customer, the problem is the provider.

The music industry, in its ignornance and greed, completely ignored the digital age, except to harvest obscene amounts of money from CD sales. They make a CD for pennies and sell them for $15 each. When music became digital files, swappable through computers, the industry just didn't see it happening until it had become part of the culture. Once it had, oh my. Then the customers were bad. And liable. And subject to litigation, and in need of educating. 35,000 people, mostly kids, were sued by the record industry, for the crime of downloading files off of a computer.

Hey, record executives: we realize that ya'll don't have degrees from Harvard Business School, but here's a little newsflash for ya: people download files off the Internet every. single. day. For free. It's part of the culture, for goodness sake. You are the only industry (well, you and your moronic cousins in the movie industry) to make it a crime. You should have seen this coming many years ago, and invested some time, energy and brain power into designing a suitable model for this form of distribution. But, of course, you didn't. Because your distributors were busy explaining that they were still important. How's that working out for you these days?

Personally, as a professional songwriter/musician who stands to lose money from the taking of my intellectual property, I am all for marching these fools off to prison for instigating this legal form of terror on innocent people who were (gasp!) trying to enjoy some music. Yes, the old ways of doing things worked out very well for those musicians and songwriters lucky enough to sign with a label and get work. Hundreds of thousands of musicians and songwriters were left out of that loop, though. No longer. The wild west of the Internet has leveled the playing field, and the industry as we know it ceased to exist in actuality several years ago. It just doesn't know it yet. I celebrate that demise.

But far more importantly, I look forward to the new music business as it grows in front of our eyes. There are exciting opportunities everywhere right now, and we get to watch things take shape from the beginning. At the very least, we won't have to watch kids getting sued for the crime of enjoying the music.

Antidote to Holiday Music - Dark Ambient Sounds of Rapoon

Like many of my musical peers and colleagues, I am a Luddite when it comes to anything unfamiliar and even a little modern. I find that many of my blues musician buddies and sisters would rather hear nothing than the latest offering from Counting Crows or John Mayer. We're a cranky, crusty lot with a large thirst for old-school funk and rhythm; give us the big back-beat and a singer completely in the throes of a gospel-inspired love frenzy, frosted with soul horns, sweet guitar and a big, bold bass line, maybe a Leslie-speakered B3 organ, and we're home. Don't even speak to us when this music is playing -- there are few sounds more worth hearing to my tribe. But start in with the Dave Matthews-sounding quirky, breathy acoustic guitar driven introspective tales of who knows what, with just a touch of odd in the syncopation and perhaps some jazzy goings-on with the rest of the band, and that never-ending jam mentality, and off goes the radio/iPod/stereo, and on goes the TV.

This is most definitely NOT to say that any music is bad, or not worthy of listening to, or that the people who listen to music made in this decade or any other are somehow not cool or nice or smart, or that I'm somehow superior because I have a closed musical mind.  Music is the best, and all of it is worth a listen. If you have a pulse, however, you will respond to some music far more enthusiastically than another. Something will reverberate with your soul when you hear the music that truly speaks to you, and this perhaps is the very best thing music can do -- remind us that we have a soul by shaking it a little for us every now and then. 

I mean, it's almost embarrassing to play gigs these days anywhere that people under 50 congregate, simply because I have very few songs in my set list that go beyond 1973. I could, I suppose, brush off some Police and Bruce and Petty tunes that I used to play when I was trying to be modern, but jeez, that's already old people's music for anyone up to their early 30s.

Ok, this line of thought is getting me nowhere but sorely depressed, so let's get to the point before we start imbibing things that people shouldn't imbibe in the morning. 

I was goofing around the web a couple of years ago and came across an internet radio site/music store called Magnatune. It is an independent store selling music that you won't find elsewhere. One of the albums I downloaded was by a guy named Rapoon. The album was called "The Kirgitz Light," and the title comes from a portion of Russia featured briefly in my favorite novel of all time: "Gravity's Rainbow" by Thomas Pynchon. I will check out anything or anyone that references this remarkable novel, so I downloaded it, and played it a couple of times. I didn't hear much -- just some loops and strange, distant sounds sort of strung together. But then, last month, I played it again, and I guess this time I was ready. These sound sculptures really reached out to me, caused me to go places I truly needed to go. I don't need "smack you in the head" drama right now -- quite the contrary. And most of the music I play involves lyrical dramas of the highest order. Rapoon crafts these soundscapes that drift in and out and evoke remarkable internal worlds of dreams and reflections. It's impossible to explain with mere worlds, of course; any good music is. I guess what I'm saying is, if you're looking for a way to get away from the mind numbing holiday music growing like insidious barnacles out of every speaker in the land right now, I strongly recommend Rapoon's work. You can find some on iTunes, and some on Magnatunes.com, but for a complete list, check out rapoon.net, the artists' own Web site.

The latest work by him that I am listening to, even as I write this, is called Time Frost. What he's done is take samples (sound slices) of works by Strauss, particularly The Blue Danube, and rearranged them into frozen soundscapes. The idea behind this work, he says, is to evoke a frozen place where global warming has captured in ice everything, including musical sounds. And this, he says, is what that might sound like. 

Normally, experimental ambient woof woof stuff is not my cup of tea. It can sound pretentious and even silly to my untrained and blues-crusted ears. I don't have the patience, youth or wisdom to appreciate most music that goes too far beyond my very small circle of musical understanding. But somehow, for whatever reason, Rapoon has snuck in there and blown apart my assumptions about atmospheric, looping electronica. I have listened to little else for the past couple of months, much to the chagrin of my spouse, who has dubbed it "annoying." 

But then, Counting Crows is one of her favorite bands. So neener neener. How's that for maturity and healthy communication? 

You can find this column and a lot more on my blog: http://caroompaspick.blogspot.com.

No Longer the Soul Owner

Now this is a depressed and sad musician.

They say Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for becoming the very best musician ever. While I don't believe a word of that (because the man had the voice of an angel, even though it was haunted by demons, but they were earthly demons if you listen to his lyrics), at least that transaction had an understandable motivation. 

This guy was just looking for the highest bidder on ebay. 

Let's say he did sell his soul for money. What on earth (pardon the pun) do you spend that particular pile of cash on? I mean, once your soul is sold, what is the point of acquiring anything anyway? Don't you just kind of walk around like a flapping, empty puddle of flesh, waiting for your body to just sort of waste away, knowing that, at least in your case, that's really all there is? What do you buy in the meantime? 

Wouldn't it be easier and more spiritually safe to just do what so many others of us have done and get a day job? 

Ten pounds of bacon, Revel-ation and a Great Party

This morning my wife and I went to the local homeless shelter and cooked 150 eggs, ten pounds of bacon and countless pancakes for homeless families. She arranged for about 20 of her junior high students to act as wait persons, and they wore adorable reindeer antlers while they took orders and brought plates of steaming breakfast to hungry diners. Afterward, a very anorexic looking Santa (Santarexic?) who was also in the junior high class, delivered an enormous number of presents to the children in the room, and tears were plentiful as gift paper was eliminated and toys revealed to thrilled children. My wife, who organized this event, is a truly astounding person and I am very grateful to be in her life. She is determined to make a difference in her own little corner of the world, and does not permit or allow sloth, excuses, illness or any other obstacle to prohibit or slow down the work that needs doing.  She gave her students a much greater gift this morning than the ones the kids gave out -- she showed them that giving of oneself is a vastly more rewarding experience than getting an item on a wish list. It's a gift they will have with them in their hearts for the rest of their lives. And hopefully, they will teach other children similar lessons as they get older. 

Oh, by the way, I apparently have appendicitis, according to my physician. It's in the early stages, and he wants me to wait and see if I get more pain in my side, fever and vomiting, in which case I need to rush myself into the emergency room for a procedure. Meanwhile, I wait for all this to come on. Oh goodie. 

After the cooking, we met my brother Steve and his partner Melissa in downtown Martinez, to transfer some stuff from my car to his, had a nice chat, and then headed to Oakland for our annual trek to the Christmas Revels. This is another tradition for which I have to thank my wife. It's how she and her kids have beckoned in the Christmas season for years, and it is a delight. This  year, the theme was old England, and plenty of comedy and ancient music filled the hall all afternoon. There are parts that get slow, and some that don't quite work as well as others, but overall this is a great production, featuring adults and children, and the remarkable Geoff Hoyle, who oversees it, deserves major kudos, and ho ho ho's. 

After that is the annual party at Scott and Katy Williams' house in Martinez. Scott is the reason Carol began going to the Revels in the first place. He's a force of nature. One of the nicest, most intense, smart and energetic fellows you could hope to meet. And he cooks like a pro. His post-Revels party always includes blintzes, ham, and other goodies, and other folks bring dishes as well. It's quite a bash, and this year Scott and I, being old radicals, were once again celebrating the fact that we have a fellow named President Obama. It's hard for either of us to keep from crying tears of joy at the mention of the name. We're both adjusting to the very new reality of being proud of our country, proud to be Americans. It's a new day, and we're anxious to be part of it. Thanks for the party, as always, Scott and Katy. Sorry I left early, but I had to go home and monitor the pain in my side. If my appendix exploded, I didn't want it to be in a large, friendly gathering with great food and splendid wine. Better to be home alone on the couch with a dog, the Dish Network and carb-friendly ice cream.

Poles on the stage, blues in the night

A couple of weeks ago, The Very Bad Boys took to the road and wound up in Byron, CA, which is somewhere and/or nowhere out in the Delta. Our destination: The Wild Idol. It's a bar that caters to bikers out on a Delta cruise, and the surprising large number of locals who seem to frequent the place. 

On the inside, it's a typical bar catering to folks with pickups and Harleys -- wood paneled interior with a pool table, formica tables for groups and a fairly large and well-stocked bar. The stage is memorable because it's large, but mostly because it has: The Pole. Yep. There's a large brass pole right in the middle of the stage. And believe me, it gets used. Even on the quiet after-Thanksgiving Sunday that the Bad Boys played, this pole got itself quite a workout. 

My familiarity with poles in general, and places with poles, are strictly limited to the Bada Bing from the Sopranos. I've never been to a strip club, never intend to visit a strip club, would not enjoy myself if I did, and would immediately want a shower afterward. There is a lot of substance and reality to the phrase "objectification of women." While I enjoy a beautiful naked body as much as anyone, having a woman writhe around in simulated arousal for the entertainment of a room full of boozed up, leering jackoffs just doesn't get it for me. But don't get me wrong -- that's not the Wild Idol's pole. The Idol is no strip club, not at all. The Idol puts the pole on the stage for women who want to pretend, in drunken moments of uninhibited fantasy, that they are strippers who can win the eyeballs of all the guys in the room. That notion doesn't drive me wild, either, but it's not quite so perverted as the strip club pole. 

While we were there, a young woman came in and started in on the pole. She was pretty, thin, and amazingly agile. She twirled a couple of times and then shimmied right up to the top of the pole, where she hung by her thighs for a couple of seconds, then shimmied right back down and gyrated for the next couple of sets like that. It was a, um, unique experience for me. Especially for a Sunday afternoon. She was dressed like the other customers, and never did anything particularly sexual (well, until the end, when she sort of pulled her jeans down for her boyfriend's benefit), but the whole pole thing was, well, just strange. 

The Annual Martinez Music Society Gathering

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This town has something pretty rare and special: a community of musicians and their friends who actively get together now and then and celebrate the music, and the community. Thanks to the mighty Brian Walker and a band of cohorts, the MMS has been operating in one form or another for the past twenty years or so. Its purpose is to bring out local musicians to venues of comfort and safety. It has served its purpose well over the years. These days, it's really more of an excuse for friends to get together and play, and for many years now, John and Barbara (last names omitted because I haven't asked permission) have hosted the annual holiday get-together in their home. It's no small thing. At least thirty or so of us swarm on their home to eat, drink and play for hours. The food is always amazing. The company even more so.

One of the very cool things about the MMS bash is the variety of musical styles that tend to get perpetrated. I suspect that, in the beginning, the gathering had a bluegrass/country/Grateful Dead kind of feel to it, given the founders and their proclivities. But I also know that one of the co-founders, Robert Perry, has always leaned toward the funk and the R&B side of life, and brings his taste for tasty rhythms to the mix. So there is already a powerful Americana thing going on. Add to that some old Beatles songs, tunes by the Stones, Cat Stevens, (gulp) Christmas songs, and even standard from the Great American Songbook, and you have a very potent gumbo of music and fun for your singalong pleasure.

One of my favorite parts of this event is the effervescent Gigi Walker, who generally wears the appropriate Santa hat, sits in the middle of the room, and more or less attempts to direct the musical direction of the evening, at least for a couple of hours. She tries to make sure that there is order in the chaos, and that everyone gets a turn to select a tune and/or sing one. And she is adamant that whatever happens, the vast majority of the attendees can join in and sing along. This is important for when hamburgers like myself show up and attempt to show off by doing more of a show than a share. Gigi makes sure we all keep it real and down home, and brooks no nonsense. 

This year, the usual suspects were in full musical bloom by the afternoon, since this gathering fell on a Sunday, instead of the usual Saturday. That made for a more laid-back feel, and far less imbibing than I (sort of) recall in years past. But for the past two years, I have had with me my beautiful wife, and this year, we played a song together for the very first time at this event. Baby, It's Cold Outside was debuted at an Armando's Hoot Night earlier this year, but this past Sunday was the first time Carol and I did it without the use of words or music in front of us, and it was certainly a weather-appropriate tune. Also the remarkable Bruce Campbell was there, of the Alhambra Valley Band, as was founder Annette, who is learning the mandolin. That made for some bone-chilling bluegrass moments, and lovely harmonies. Mark Thompson was on keyboards, giving a solid foundation to the musical happenings, and Robert Perry brought in a cymbal and drum. At one point, I usually do Bruce Springsteen's 'Thunder Road,' because when there's a keyboard handy, it's the only song I really play well on that instrument. This year, I recall a shadow singer right behind me, singing along note for note, and I swear the shadow looked exactly like Roy Jeans, owner of Armando's. You just haven't lived until that has happened to you. And I'm not sure if anyone was checking to see if his decibel levels were legal or not. I'll get back to you on that. Hope Savage brought her little red guitar and her powerful pipes to sing a few country tunes. Again, chills. Danny White was in fine form, on guitar and mandolin, as well as harp, doing what he does so well. Brian had his guitar/mandolin thing happening, and the list just goes on and on, way beyond my capacity to remember names. For that, I'm sorry. But for the music, I'm so grateful. 

The food. . . well, it's pot luck, but emphasis on the word 'luck.' Someone keeps bringing, every year, these little pastries filled with cream next to a chocolate dipping sauce. Note to this person: why do you hate me so? This tasty little treat, which I cannot have, is a source of guilt for months after the party, because I manage to stop eating them after about ten or so.

All in all, another great year for the Martinez Music Society annual holiday gathering. It's part of what makes this town so remarkable, and I just want to thank everyone responsible for making it happen. It makes my life that much richer, and it's an honor to be part of it. 

Just a New Guitar Ho (ho ho)

Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that my goal in life is to own every guitar ever made. There is nothing more luxurious to me than

1. A brand new unadulterated notebook, or;

2. A brand new unplayed guitar. 

Both have the advantage of being able to project multiple identities onto the shiny surfaces. 

The guitar in the picture is a cherry-red Firebird by Dillion, a great guitar maker. The person is Danny White, a Very Bad Boy (of The Very Bad Boys) and the owner of Good Stuff Guitar Stuff in Martinez, CA. I am hoping this guitar will be under the tree this year. Who can't love a three-pickup configuration?

Another interesting Dillion Danny had was a 12-string Les Paul copy. The reason for such a thing completely escapes me, but someone is coming in Monday to buy it. An interesting idea, but I can't think of a practical use for a 12-string Les Paul. 

Last week we did a gig where I used a cherry red Hamer ES-335 copy. Amazing guitar. The action and the tone were both remarkable, and it actually sounded better through my tiny Mesa Boogie amp than the actual Gibson ES-335 that my wife bought me last year. Now, that's not an easy thing to write, and hopefully Carol won't read this post. But it's a fact. It looks and feels very close to the real Gibson thing, and it's not even one of the top end Hamers. Great ax. 

At some point very soon, I'm going to post about the Wild Idol gig we did in Byron last Sunday. The gig with the pole on the stage. And the woman on that pole. Oy. 

But right now, it's dinner time and I've got a hungry family. So, as the resident chef, my duties in the kitchen and on the grill await. 

Stay tuned. 

Shopping Tips for Your Music Maker

And so it begins. . . the seasonal spending orgy, once a sacred connection to our shared humanity, and now a frenzy of shopping so intense that a person in Long Island was trampled to death by heedless Walmart customers anxious to get their chilly paws on the day's great bargains. A young man is dead now, his family has a permanent empty seat at the holiday table, because Walmart had some great prices on must-have items. This was bound to happen, and now it has. Merry Christmas, Walmart shoppers.

Still, life goes on, and you may have a musician in your household. If you do, here are some suggestions for stocking stuffers that may inadvertently get left off the list:

For guitarists, let me suggest the following (honey, are you listening?):

Strings. You can never have too many of these. Electric players tend to prefer Ernie Ball light gauge. Acoustic players tend toward heavier gauges, and Martin makes great acoustic strings, but so do many other makers. Actually, I think strings are all made in the same place, and sold under different names. 

Chords. These are the wires that connect the guitar to the amplifier. These days, it's as common for acoustic players as for electric ones. Chords are always nice to have, as they tend to get all funky and shorted out over time, and they are things that most of us just don't think about replacing, but would love to have replaced as a surprise. 

Straps. I can't tell you how many guitar straps I have, and all of them are dangerously close to the end of their lives. They wear out. And without them, you can't stand in front of the mirror, practicing your most awesome rock star poses. Straps these days are a cottage industry, and many makers are pretty clever when it comes to guitar strap themes. If one were being chosen for me, however, I would opt for a comfortable leather model with padding. Working players tend to wear their guitars for at least four hours, and comfort quickly supersedes fashion.

Picks. Oh yeah. Picks are essential to most guitarists of the rock/blues/R&B variety. Classical players use their fingers, as do folk pickers, but the rest of us use picks. And because they're small, plastic and relatively inexpensive, they tend to get stored in back pockets, etc., where they are vulnerable to things like washing machines. Picks also have an uncanny knack of winding up under furniture, between couch cushions, etc. I tend to carry at least 20 with me now at all times. You never know.

Polish and polishing cloth. Some guitarists are prone to polishing their instruments on a regular basis for some reason. As anyone can tell you, I am not one of these guitarists. If I have a great night, with lots of perspiration involved, I don't mind leaving the evidence there for the next time. I'm told this is wrong. I don't care. Rock on. 

Metronome. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, is good enough to stop practicing. And no one is good enough not to practice with a metronome. These little devices are now very inexpensive, and essential for musicians of all instruments (are you listening, drummers???) to learn to keep time without thinking about it. It's not the most popular thing, especially for musicians just starting out, because it's hard to stay within a particular beat, and metronomes, like mirrors, are merciless. But the effort pays off spectacularly when you can sit down with other players and confidently feel the tempo. 

Music stand. This one reminds me of the old joke: how do you make a guitar player turn down? Put a piece of sheet music in front of him. Music stands in my house are used for lyrics, chord charts, and sometimes even for slooooooowly picking my way through some notes. But music stands are always useful for musicians, and they are not that expensive.

Microphone stands. These are also essential, and always appreciated. Mike stands range from inexpensive to pretty complicated. I have a beautiful blue mike stand I bought many years ago, and still love very much. I've not since seen colored mike stands, and mine is kind of rusted and tired, but I'm looking at it right now, with fondness. Anyway, mike stands are important for professional players, not so much for beginners. But they're fun to play with, even if you're just pretending.

Microphones. Ok, this might start sounding scary to those who envision lots of amplified out of tune singing wafting through their evenings. But microphones can be used without being plugged in, so your budding musician can practice singing into one. Or you can plug them into most standard amplifiers if you want to hear what the real thing sounds like. These come in a wide variety of prices and quality. But I've never met a mike I didn't like. 

Reeds. If you know someone who plays the saxophone, reeds are lifeblood. Get them many, many reeds. Just make sure you know the right gauge.

Drum sticks. For drummers, sticks are essential. Some drummers are pickier about their sticks than they are about the time they keep, but still. . . if you know a drummer, he or she will probably want/need sticks. Do a little research to make sure you know what kind they use. They all look the same to us, but sticks are very different. 

Piano players. Ha ha. They get nothing. I mean, what does a piano player need, other than a piano? Maybe a gift certificate for a tuning? A lesson? A clue?

Harmonica players. How about music books teaching them to play a different instrument? Oh. Sorry. Is that cruel? Seriously, harmonicas are not the cheap little thingies they used to be. These days, they cost a fortune. To me, in the hands of most, they still sound the same as they always did. But apparently they cost a lot now. 

Look, there's an easy answer to all of this. Go to the Good Stuff Guitar Shop on the 500 block of Main Street, downtown Martinez, CA, ask for Danny White, and talk to him about your musician's needs. He can help you either purchase something from him, or point you gladly to a place where you can find it. Or give him a call at (925) 228-2500. 

In upcoming columns, let's talk about buying guitars and basses. Aside from breathing, this is probably my favorite topic. 

An Attitude of Gratitude, A Table Full of Turkeytude

It's a sign of the nature and spirit of Thanksgiving that musicians are not generally well-employed on this day. It is a day of celebration, to be sure, but the celebratory instincts tend to turn inward today, as we scan our internal landscapes to ponder and acknowledge what is good in our lives. No one needs music to engage on this particular journey, just close companions and a few hours of mastication. Which is good, because musicians, too, need a day off to be with loved ones, have a little protein and complex carbs, and veg out on the couch for a minute (no, musicians do not routinely veg out on the couch, despite popular perception -- and with any luck, my wife will not read these words and laugh).

So, my list of gratitudes for this year, trying with all my might to focus on things musical, to stay within the spirit of this space:

• My wife of nearly two years -- a remarkable human being and much-beloved junior high school math teacher, who consistently inspires me to higher levels of functionality, kindness, compassion and overall humanity. She's also gorgeous and sings with the voice of an angel. On a road trip during our first out-of-town excursion, my iPod was on 'shuffle,' and it was playing my usual lineup of blues, r&b, reggae, etc. She wasn't paying much attention, as her tastes veer toward music made by people in this era. But on came "Sometime in the Morning," by the Monkees, and instead of turning it off, I let it play, and started to sing along. She joined right in, our faces lit up, and for the rest of the way, we sang the entire Monkees catalogue together. It was then and there I knew I had to marry this woman. And I did. And it's been a phenomenal journey ever since. I knew, as a child, that the Monkees would play a major role in my life. I had no idea how, but now I do.
• Danny White, harmonica player, local proprietor of the Good Stuff Guitar Shop, and a Very Bad Boy. Danny has a heart the size of Mt. Diablo. His store is constantly filled with people who are just hanging out, chatting and chewing the fat, tinkering with a guitar or other instrument, or waiting for their kid to emerge from lessons. All the while, he is the ringleader, answering musical questions, repairing and polishing someone's beloved guitar, or just watching with bemusement the parade of Martinez humanity traipsing through his humble and remarkable domain. On stage, he is poised and ready, though usually hiding behind whatever post or pole he can find (he's shy until it's time to play a solo, then he incinerates the room). And I don't know another adult male who has the courage to wear shorts the vast majority of the time.
• Scotty Riggs, bass player, human observer, and a Very Bad Boy. Scotty is, with Danny, the core of my band, the Very Bad Boys, and a fearless player of bass. Scotty will play a four-string, five-string, and even six-string bass, even though he can never quite explain to me why a bass needs more than four strings. Scotty and I have been playing together for years, and he is a monster at playing a song he's never heard before. I can call a tune he doesn't know, throw out the key (most of the time), and voila! He plays it as though he's been playing it his whole life. And lately, he's been doffing a sporty little hat, too. Style and talent. It doesn't get better. 
• Roy Jeans, Eloise Cotton, and the staff at Armando's deserve much gratitude from the people of Martinez, for creating something that no one else seems able to in this town: a viable business downtown that does not involve food or antiques. Of course Roy would know how to do that -- he's as much a part of this town as anything or anyone. Eloise does the booking, and brings her love of jazz and, um, quieter musical sensibilities to the lineup, while Roy runs the joint and provides the panache. Together they make an unbeatable force of local nature, and musicians throughout the Bay Area are thrilled to get a chance to take the stage at this miraculous venue. While I'm at it, a shout-out to Robert, Tom, and Joe, who take turns running the sound board at Armando's, and who took an inappropriate hit from me in this space earlier this year as I decided to publish a temper tantrum at the expense of the folks whose only mission is to make morons like me sound good. Sorry, guys, and thanks for your excellent efforts.
• The Martinez Arts Association, who each year put on a great show in the form of Art in the Park, and in the process present a great array of local music, something the folks at Martinez Main Street have never figured out how to do. It's great to have a venue for local performers of all ages, abilities and genres to play for their homies. There's a real resistance to this idea built into the DNA of this city, for some reason. I struggled with it years ago, and it remains a struggle to this day. But the talent is there, willing and waiting to be asked, so hopefully some day the powers that be will decide that local Martinez music is as good as anything else out there, and give them a chance to prove it. Until then, Art in the Park is a hot annual ticket, and it's free. 
• Gina Graziano, the music teacher at John Muir Elementary, for showing generations of kids year after year the joy of playing music just for the sheer fun of playing music. Gina takes even the shyest of children and urges them, cajoles them, sweetly on to the stage at her annual shows, where they become performers for the ages. This is a rare and remarkable talent, and one for which this city is extremely grateful. She has been recognized by her peers, parents and kids as a great musical amenity, lighting the spark of musicality in our kids that will burn long after they're out of school. Thanks, Ms. G, for that and your ongoing Hoot Nights at Armando's. 
• Hope Savage, my occasional musical partner in crime, who has a fearless talent, a great voice, and an unquenchable desire to write, sing and play. Hope embodies for me what makes making music so damned much fun -- she does it not for the money or the recognition, but because she just has to. And the results -- nights of friends gathering in darkened living rooms, singing and playing and laughing, with nary a television or other manufactured distraction in sight -- is exactly what the human experience was designed to be: participatory, a little awkward, harmonious, frivolous and fun. Within that template is an extremely serious communion; it's how we as people protect ourselves from a very scary world. 

There are countless other people who should be on this list, that space prohibits from being listed here, and for that I apologize. But let me close by saying this: I wish each and every one of you a fantastic, abundant and love-filled Thanksgiving. I hope your list of gratitudes is as endless as my own.

The Democracy of Digital

If you're 30 years old or younger, you don't remember what the entertainment business was like in the pre-digital years. It was vastly different, and in ways it was better, but in many more ways, it wasn't nearly as much fun. Let me try, for once, to be clear.

Digital technology has replaced analog technology. That means when you play music these days, it's not being played back using a spinning vinyl disk or a cassette (or 8-track) tape. Electronic pulses are not being translated by a needle or playback head and thrown out through the speakers. Now it's a collection of one's and zero's, a matrix, if you will, which is translated by a computer program and thrown out through the speakers. This has allowed all kinds of miraculous things to occur. 

When I was a young buck, back in the 1970s, the pinnacle of success was to enter some top-notch recording studio (like Wally Heider's in San Francisco, or the Record Factory in Marin, both long gone) and roll a reel of two-inch 24-track tape. An engineer would sit at a console and twirl dials while the artist(s) in the studio would perform, often in those days one track at a time. The sound that would then emerge from the very expensive studio monitors would make almost anyone sound good. It was paradise, the few times I was in studios like that. It was easy to see how bands would spend months putting an album together -- the studios were often set up so that when you weren't recording, you could hang out in the dimly-lit control room on overstuffed couches and chairs, doing things musicians did back then. I've forgotten what that was now, but it was probably fun and not very healthy.

The downside of that approach -- studio time even back then was $150 an hour for a major studio. You could, if you wanted, find lesser studios in people's garages, basements, or in-law units, but the results were not nearly as good, and the cost was still prohibitive, at $30 to $50 an hour. By the time you finished any kind of serious project, you and your band were out anywhere from $1,000 to $5,000, and then you had to transfer the music from master tape to vinyl or cassette, which was another major expense, and beyond the expertise of most musicians. And then you had to find a way to get the product into stores like Tower Records and the Warehouse (both long gone now).  And if you were not signed to a major record label, that just wasn't going to happen. The music industry kept itself zipped up pretty tight. Independent labels did manage now and then to break through the barriers, but it didn't take long for the majors to spot success and either buy those labels or shut them down. 

Getting yourself exposed on television took an act of God, or record sales of half a million or more. Again, making that happen required a major label deal. And let me be clear about major record label deals -- it sounded good then, but there are hundreds of tales of bands being signed and then shelved to prevent competition with other bands the labels were trying to promote. Or contracts that stipulated creative control by the label, which meant that some coked-up haircut got to decide what music your band could and could not record. Or contracts that said the label will front you money to record an album, but the money from sales of your record goes straight to the label until that upfront money is recouped. And it was unlikely that your band had the wherewithal to hire an accountant capable of watching that transaction in a way that put money in your pocket. Ask John Fogerty -- Credence Clearwater Revival Band's leader and songwriter had to call his mother from the Bahamas to ask for money to get home from a tour, because despite all those monster hits the band had, John came out with nothing thanks to a cunning little contract with Fantasy Records.

Fast forward to 2008. I'm on vacation this week. I'm spend my time in my little home studio, recording my next solo album. Oh, I'm doing all the tracks myself, thank you. I've got sampled drums at my fingertips, many different bass guitar sounds, strings and horns and what have you, plus I can record as many guitar and vocal tracks as I need to. No tape involved,  or expensive recording gear. Just the same computer I use to post this blog, send emails and check newspaper Web sites.

Oh, and I've also created three new music videos, which I've posted on YouTube. Same computer. No big deal.

This is nothing short of miraculous, if you grew up in a time when such creative control was impossible. When I finish with my recording project, I can post it on Myspace and Facebook, getting it into the hands of my friends, who may hopefully then spread the word to their friends, and on and on. It's called viral marketing (you may know it as word of mouth) and it's a very powerful way to market your stuff. And I don't need a single nod from a single record label to be in complete control of my music. And I'm an old guy. The amount of material out there today made by young enthusiastic artists who don't get their dreams squashed by morons in the music business is amazing. The sky is the limit, and the sky these days is digital. 

An Old Guy Celebrates A New Day

Tomorrow will mark, more or less, the 38th year of my professional music career. It's been quite a ride so far, but it just keeps getting better. I can't say I've made a lot of money (well, I could say that, but I'd be lying), and fame has eluded me as effectively as fortune, but I'm extremely grateful to have made some amazing friends, shared some extraordinary moments both musical and otherwise with phenomenal musicians, and grown up to be a Very Bad Boy.

First, I want to say this: no matter what happens from today forward, we all live in a different country than the one we occupied on November 3, 2008. From this day forward, America has lived up to her promise that anyone can be the President of the United States. The one waiting to take his place on January 20 is perhaps one of the most qualified to ever take office, but also, given his name and his skin color, one of the least likely in this crazy time of ours. Eight years ago, and then four years ago, a tiny fraction over half of America decided George W. Bush was the guy who should lead us, and boy, did he ever. Right over the edge. The guy to get us back to reality, America decided, was Barack Hussein Obama. And that amazing night in Grant Park, Chicago, where 40 years ago the whole world was watching while the Chicago police unleashed their fury on thousands of people Sarah Palin would call domestic terrorists (and I was there in spirit, though too young to be there in person), before President Obama gave his remarks, there was a recording played of "Sweet Home Chicago," a song first written and performed by Robert Johnson, one of the greatest blues men who ever lived. Johnson, who thought Chicago was in California, because they didn't school black folks in the south too well back then, would be utterly amazed to see where we have come in the 70 short years since he wrote that song. Well done, President Obama. May you and Michelle prosper and thrive, and help all Americans to do the same. 

Another blues man who changed the world of that music was John Lee Hooker, the man who schooled me in the blues and gave me my first chance at really being professional. He came to my high school in 1970, kind of washed up in those days, hanging on to the fringes of his former popularity, and he played us a few tunes. Afterwards, I approached him and explained that I played guitar as well, and loved the blues. He was amused, and invited me to come to his house any time (he lived in East Oakland in those days) and jam. Well, it wasn't many days before I was knocking on his front door. After some back and forth, his manager, the dear Tex Coleman, who also owned Blues Boys Records on East 14th Street, signed me up and put me in the band, where I stayed off and on for the next four years. I got to meet other legends -- Brownie McGhee, Lightnin' Hopkins, Freddie King, and a lot of others -- as they came through town and stayed at John's house. I got to take the stage with one of the giants of the blues, plug in my guitar and, when he nodded in my direction, take solos. At first, of course, I was young and hungry and full of the notion that I would be a star, so I would flail and wail and trounce and bounce and do all kinds of stupid things, playing way more notes than fit into the song, and make these really pained faces. John would just look over at me, stoic and puzzled, never saying a word, but eventually I got it. Never play more than is in your heart. Everything else is a waste of time and energy. And it's not true to the music. He said all that without one word to me, and it remains one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. John never mentioned race, and I don't think he really thought about it much. He was far more interested in the women hanging around backstage, and the songs swirling around in his head. 

After all the years of music, I am still floored by the fact that people let me get on stage and make noise. John is gone, Tex is gone, and some of my very best friends are gone. But many of them remain, and still play with me, and it is a distinct honor each and every time. And it is even more of an honor to play for the people who come to hear the music. That is the most amazing thing, and for that I am truly grateful and humbled. 

The Amazing Grace of Two Great American Songs

This week I cannot bring myself to write about anything small. History is standing over us all, well-dressed and important, demanding that we bring ourselves to the party and offer something more that the usual. So this week, I offer a tale you may not know, a tale of two American songs. Both are iconic, and both are infused with the passion and spirit of an age charged with destiny, with danger and undeniable import. Not unlike our own age. 

Of course we all know that Frankie Scott Keyes stood on a ship a couple of hundred years ago and jotted down a little poem about a battle he was watching, which became the lyrics to our own national anthem. But Frankie was no Bob Dylan, or even Neil Sedaka, and the words to our national anthem are almost as difficult and obscure as the British drinking song from which the anthem takes its unfortunate melody -- a roller coaster ride of a tune, which has given far too many singers far too many show-off opportunities to pound hard on that money note at the end, while the rest of us pretend to sing it, grateful no one is really listening. One can understand why the melody is a drinking song -- a few stiff ones are necessary tackle that tune with anything like confidence.

But we have other tunes in the "let's celebrate America" songbook. And two of my favorites are "God Bless America," and "This Land Is Your Land." The stories behind these songs are as remarkable and American as the very songs themselves. And they are also, always and forever, joined at the hip, though most people don't know it.

Here's the deal. In the year 1918, a young man named Israel Baline lifted a melodic line from the vaudeville tune "Mose With His Nose Leads the Band" and put together a tune called "God Bless America," for a revue called "Yip, Yip Yaphank." It included the lyrics "stand beside her, and guide her, to the right, with a light from above." But the tune didn't really fit the show, so it got filed away. When Adolph Hitler and the Nazi party began its rise to infamy in 1938, the young man, who by now was named Irving Berlin, rewrote the tune (including the line "to the right," changing it to the less political "through the night"), and a great American anthem was born. To seal the deal, a singer named Kate Smith recorded it, and it became a huge national hit. It was played everywhere -- on the radio, at ballgames, in the newsreels before movies -- you couldn't get away from the song, or Kate Smith's very powerful (and, to some ears, highly annoying) vocal fireworks. A movement was born to make this song the national anthem.

Meanwhile, by the year 1940, a young songwriter/singer/all-around-troublemaker named Woody Guthrie decided he had heard quite enough of this song. He was not moved by the lyrics, thought them too passive and too religious. America, Guthrie believed, was a muscular land of people doing things, making things happen, not sitting around singing songs of gratitude for rights and blessings they passively received. So Woody, being Woody, sat down and wrote his own song about America. And unlike Irving Berlin, Woody didn't need a Kate Smith to take it on. He just strummed that guitar of his (with the sticker on it that said "this machine kills fascists"), and drawled out those words himself. It, too, became a huge hit, and another movement was born to make this song the national anthem. 

That these two songs were candidates for the new national anthem says quite a bit about both tunes, but it says even more about how distinctly unpopular our current national anthem is, and was, and probably shall always be. Can we find a way, somehow, some way, to change our national anthem? Just a thought. But it would be nice to have a song in which people remember all the words, and can actually sing the melody together. I've always felt "What's Going On" by Marvin Gaye would make a great national anthem. It's got great words, a great melody, and it's just funky enough to win crossover popularity. But I'm not holding my breath. 

Anyway, the point is this -- these two songs have come to symbolize a kind of divide in American culture. "God Bless America" is a great song -- it's got nice phrasing, and it's designed to inspire goosebumps in all the right places. It's kind of a march, and often you hear it with drums and horns and a kind of military feel to it. It's got the whole God thing in it, which carries a whole bunch of baggage in itself, depending on the listener. It's fun to sing, actually, and its sentiment is unhidden. 

"This Land Is Your Land," on the other hand, is a simple melody, borrowed from at least two other folk songs, and tells the tale of a country in which people are moving -- they're walking, they're on the ribbon of highway, they're looking around at the golden valleys, they're roaming and rambling. It is a song of rolling up the sleeves and taking stock of what's around, using the bounty before us for our own benefit. Oh, you bet there are political implications. Because Woody didn't write songs encouraging corporate CEOs to make use of the bounty before us. His song was for the folks on the lower ladder's rungs, the ones forced out of jobs and homes and anything like a decent life, because the banks and the bosses just couldn't use them anymore. It was 1940, pre-war, and a great deal of America was in bad trouble. Depression, droughts and gloom spread over the land like a blanket. One song offered hope in the night with a light from above, one song offered hope with feet walking on the ground. 

Both songs are treasures from two of the greatest American songwriters. And right now, in this moment in American history, they should both be shaken out and sung loudly by the great voices in this vast and amazing nation. Our voices. Yours and mine. We haven't been doing a lot of collective singing in this country over the past thirty years or so; we've let the pop stars do it for us. It's time we, as a nation, took the microphone away from the pop stars and chimed in ourselves, regardless of melodic ability. Singing isn't about being a good singer, it's about being sincere. To do that well, you need sincere material.

And these two songs are a great place to start.

Down to the Nightclub -- NOT

First off, a shout-out for my friend Kennan Shaw, one of the great bass players of America (the other one, of course, is Very Naughty Scotty Riggs, of the Very Bad Boys, but that's another column). Kennan teaches my son Max how to play bass, and Kennan and I have made some serious noise in various situations, including Blue Monday Jam at Armando's. Kennan is a master of the groove. He is no-nonsense when it comes to grooving. He is serious. He is scary. He is groovalicious.

That being said, check him and his band Wingnut Adams tonight at Armando's. They play blues and such, and are just a great heap of fun. And they have Kennan Shaw on bass. That's all you need to know. Now get down there. 707 Marina Vista in Martinez. 8 p.m. $5 at the door.

Speaking of clubs, I went to one a couple of weeks ago. It's called the Boom Boom Room, and it's in San Francisco. The club used to be partly owned by my old boss, John Lee Hooker, who's biggest hit was "Boom Boom." He invested in a little ratty club on Geary and Fillmore, and it was reinvented as a blues room. It's ok, as small bar/nightclubs go. We were there to see one of the best bands around these days -- Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen.

Chances are you've never heard of these guys, but you've probably heard Jon Cleary and just didn't know it. He's Bonnie Raitt's piano player, and has been for the past six or seven years. He's from England, but moved 25 years ago to New Orleans and never moved back. He has absorbed the heart and soul of the funkiest city in the world, and plays the music like he was born there. In the process of his success with Bonnie, he recruited the funkiest musicians he could find in the Big Easy, and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen were born. Google Jon Cleary and get thee to his Web site, where you can purchase his amazing albums.

Jon and the AMG come around here once a year, and I have attended every show but the ones last year. Usually I went to the Sweetwater in Mill Valley, a couple of blocks from Bonnie's house, becasue Bonnie would be there, and it was just sweet to sit a few feet from one of the badest slide players in the world and watch her be astounded by someone else for a change. I also had a major crush on Ms. Raitt before I got married. Now, of course, I have a major crush on my wife. But I still admire the heck out of Bonnie.

Anyway, the Sweetwater closed, so this year Jon was at the Boom Boom Room. I took my wife, Scott and his wife, and we felt so young and hip, traipsing all the way to the city to see a show, just like the old days. Scott and I, however, had just spent four hours playing in Healdsburg, which means four hours of driving in addition to that, so by the time we hit the club, we were exhausted. And the club was surprisingly full. That means nowhere to sit down. That means trouble for two old guys and their hecka young and vivacious wives. So we stood, resigned to the fact that the show would take a half hour to start.

And then the kids in front of us began to be annoying. They were smoking massive amounts of dope, which is fine and familiar to old hands in the music business, but they were also emanating some kind of hyper-vibe. When the music finally started, we thought they would settle down, but theyd didn't. One guy was describing something to his friend, waving his hands around, and smacked my wife very smartly in the nose. He was appropriately apologetic, so we let it go, but the urgency of their joy was suspicious. I couldn't see the band, because the moron in front of me kept leaning over to talk to his friend, and then returned to standing position, then leaned to talk again, then returned, over and over for nearly 30 minutes. Women kept squeezing through us, even though there was no room. It really seemed as though no one was there to hear the music but us, the old people and their wives.

But then I recalled being in a similar space when I was much younger. I've never liked to stand in crowds. It's just creepy for me. And those who are comfortable with it are far too comfortable with it, and move around as though there was no crowd at all.

If I have to be around a large crowd, please put me on a stage with a guitar. Then I'll be fine.

But the whole experience just made me appreciate Armando's all the more. Plenty of chairs, couches, and places to just listen.

Thanks again, Roy, for giving us that special gift.

My Proposed Bailout Plan - Economy of Scales

Hello, my friends. Today, America is in a financial crisis. It comes as a total surprise to each and every one of those people to whom we, as Americans, have placed our trust and confidence to keep such things from happening. They were just shocked, shocked, to discover that today, we're in a financial crisis. They had absolutely no idea. Really. But they do have the solution to solve the problem. Trust them. That's why we have our faith and confidence in these people. Because, unlike our motley little selves, these people know how to handle this kind of emergency. Really. They didn't see it coming, but now that it's here, they have a plan. And all it will cost us, the taxpayers, is a mere $700 billion.

I'll bet you $1 million you can't summon in your head what 700 billion one dollar bills looks like. Just try.

See? You can't. So you owe me $1 million. Just send me the check. (Wow, if all seven readers of this column sends me $1 million, that would be. . . let's see. . . um, well, it would be a lot).

But none of this is what I'm here to say today, my friends. Today, I'm here to propose an addendum to the bailout plan (since at least one of the presidential candidates has a new plan every day, I can propose at least an addendum and still be in bounds, right?). And here is my proposal, my friends.

Since we have $700 billion to play with, and since the people doing the playing are the very same people who didn't see this financial collapse coming, why not just set aside $1 billion of that money, a trifling little tiny percentage of the overall amount, barely a ripple, and give it to the musicians of America? And let the musicians have control over how it gets spent, too, please. No bald financial geniuses from Goldman Sachs who have presided over capitalism's demise because they either knew and didn't say or they just didn't know that their colleagues were also either crooked or stupid or both. No, let this special $1 billion go into a private, musicians-only account. Let the people who actually still have hair figure out how to spend this portion of the dough.

And here's how I would propose we spend it, my friends.

First, let's set aside $250 million for a special fund for jazz musicians. This would permit each and every jazz musician in America to supplement their present income of $548.35 annually. They could each get, say, $2,000 in tax free cash. Jazz musicians could live for many years on $2,000. They could finally get that oil change they've been needing for the last couple of years. And they could buy new reeds. Windfall city. Yeah, baby.

Let's give the blues players $500 million. This is because there are probably 10 blues players (or at least those who claim to be blues players) for every jazz cat. Like jazzers, blues players don't need a lot as individuals, since we're used to living on crumbs. But it would be nice to have a little bit of a supplement coming in for jam nights and stuff like that. For every shuffle in A that we have to play, we could get a $100 check from the fund.

Heavy metal players, who tend to a willingness to pay club owners to play, could also be required to pay into this special fund, to keep it going. We all thank you, metal players.

Punks can't get paid. They would be sellouts if they did. SHUT UP, PUNKS!!!

Singer songwriters could use the fund for therapy. Trust me, this would be a huge burden on the fund.

Opera singers should probably get paid, but if they did, it could cause serious shock and even heart attack. Let's discuss this later.

Classical players already get paid, but if you knew how much you would either laugh hysterically or cry pathetically. These folks work their whole lives, and practice eight hours every single day, to perform miracles of music. And they have a union. And despite all that, the money they get for all this dedication is. . . well, let's just say they should get a hefty hunk of this capital.

New hats and jeans and haircuts for the country artists. They're doing pretty well right now, so perhaps for these folks, we should let the market work its magic.

Hip hoppers and R&Bers, you folks have been riding the top of the chart wave for 20 years, and it doesn't look like you're coming down any time soon, so if you don't mind, we'll just leave you folks out of the free money fund for the time being. In fact, you and the country folks should hook up and have a giant party. Please invite me. I would love to be a fly on the wall at THAT party. Imagine a conversation between Kenny Chesney and Fifty Cent.

Anyway, I've probably left out lots of musicians, and if so I apologize. I'm writing this in a hurry. I'm waiting for a call from the Treasury Department. I've left several messages already, and frankly I'm shocked, shocked that they haven't yet returned my call. When I get the check for the musician's bailout plan, I'll let you know.

Meanwhile, keep playing, keep listening, and keep paying. Attention, that is.

The Economy of Scale(s)

Perhaps you've heard that we as a society are in a little bit of a quandry, cash-wise. Apparently, someone loaned someone like me enough money to buy a house, and I did buy the house, and even though I make my way-overinflated payment each month, it is not enough to keep the economic system from total collapse. So just let me say how sorry I am that I have ruined the economy, and I'll try to do better with my second home.

But really, isn't it kind of fun to watch capitalism as we know it come to a crashing and fiery end? And listen to the presidential contenders hue and cry about what to do? And listen to the endless list of pundits, who can't contain their own drool over a story this big? And watch as people in the money pits look more and more desperate when the DOW reaches a new low? 

Me, I have no idea what all this means, or how it relates to me, or otherwise I would also be afraid. Meanwhile, I'm going to trust that, like most everything else in life, this is a story that will one day be superseded by another story that seems newer and more important and we'll all forget this story until ten years from now, when it will be recalled in some "Ten Years Ago" news special. 

But then I wonder -- if this is truly an economic crisis, what does that mean for those of us on the fringes of the economy? And by that, I mean musicians? And those who cater to same? Is there any profession more poised for economic collapse than a working musician? If you make all your dollars playing music, then chances are this is a particularly scary time. Musicians live off the largesse of the elite. Such has it always been. While record companies may have replaced royalty as musical patrons, nevertheless musicians are as reliant as ever on the whims and desires of those who pick up the tab. The wealthy and the rich throw lavish parties. These parties are the source of significant crumbs thrown to fortunate musicians who are hired to play these parties. There are corporate gigs, weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs, birthday and anniversary bashes. . . the list goes on. These are the things that make up the primary income of most working musicians. And when the economy is not happy, these parties tend to shrink, if not evaporate all together. And when they shrink, the party planners of the world generally opt for the DJ over the live band (which, by the way, is always always always a horrible idea, and never ever make this mistake yourself, should you be a party planner). 

Fewer dollars in an already lonely pocket mean fewer dollars to spend on guitar straps, guitar strings, guitar polish, or guitars. And of course amps. Cords. Picks. 

And it's not like the musical instrument business is roaring already. 

So when times get tough, they get tougher on those for whom it is generally tough. 

But here's the deal. You can't be involved in the music industry without a total sense of belief that it's going to somehow be all right. Because if you were a realist of any kind, you'd find yourself in another business, pronto. The music business doesn't make any sense, if you're providing the music, or even if you're selling the instruments to those that do. We take home pretty much the same rate of pay we did 30 years ago. It's a wretched business model. But we love to play so much that we have to have faith that it will somehow, some way, work out. And you know what? It does.

So while the ups and downs of Wall Street have been entertaining to some, and ulcer-inducing to others, those of us who play have been, um, playing. Because they may turn off the lights, but we can sing in the light or the dark.

Movie Review: The Other, Funkier Motown

Picture this: it’s 1962, and you’re a white guitar player for a spunky, up-and-coming instrumental band. You’re also connected to an upstart record label in downtown Memphis. Yours is literally the only business in Memphis in which you can legally and safely intermingle with people whose people were from Africa. A car pulls up containing a band that is supposed to be the Next Big Thing. The band gets out, swaggers into the studio looking all confident and important, and then the guy who is bringing in the band’s bags and equipment comes up to you and asks if you would hear him sing. He continues to do this throughout the recording session, and afterwards. Finally, you and your band relent. You sit him down in the studio, and he tells you to “play some of those church chords.” He begins to sing: “these arms of mine. . .” and his voice makes the hair on your arms stand up, and you know you’ve been introduced to destiny.

Your name would be Steve Cropper. You would be the guitarist for a little outfit called Booker T and the MGs. You would write many, many hit songs, tunes that have become a permanent part of the American music songbook, loved by young and old alike. Your band would be legendary, and would back up some of the greatest singers of all time. The best singer of all would be that guy who begged you to hear him sing that night. His name was Otis Redding. One of the songs you would help him write is “Sittin’ On the Dock of the Bay.”

This is one of dozens of great stories on “Respect Yourself: The Story of Stax Records.” It’s a journey that began accidentally, when a white fiddle player and his retired school teacher sister invested money into a broken-down movie house in the black section of Memphis to open a country music recording studio. This was in 1961, when virtually everything in the city was segregated. It’s not clear why and how they opened this place where they did, but they did. His name was Jim Stewart, and hers Estelle Axton. Put the first two letters of their last names together, and you get Stax. Voila, a label is born.

One of the first acts signed by this new label was Rufus and Carla Thomas. You may remember Rufus for his huge hit, Walkin’ the Dog. Bar bands play this tune to death. You may recall Carla Thomas from her work with “Tramp,” playing the foil to Otis Redding. “I don’t care what you say, Otis, you’re STILL a tramp.” In both cases, you need to be a little long of tooth to recall these tunes in their original format.

The label also signed one of the country’s first integrated bands, the Mar-Keys. This band featured the aforementioned Steve Cropper, drummer Al Jackson (RIP), and a horn section that would define horn sections for all time. This band released a huge hit, “Last Night,” which you will recognize when you hear it in the movie. The bass player, guitar player, and drummer later joined forces with Booker T to create Booker T and the Memphis Group (MGs). Legends were popping up all over the place.

Otis was signed, and began to make musical history, but he wasn’t the only one. Atlantic Records heard all this amazing music and signed a national distribution deal with Stax, so we could all hear and marvel at this scorching new sound.

You know the song Mustang Sally? Wilson Pickett. The bane of bar bands everywhere. The song you pretty much have to play each and every time you play somewhere. Well, the original is still a masterpiece, which is why everyone loves it so much. It’s a Stax record, with Booker T and the MGs, and that horn section, as the band. Oh my. Sam and Dave, who made “Soul Man” so good; they were Stax artists. Who wrote “Soul Man?” Oh, this team of writers, David Porter and some fellow named, um, Issac Hayes. The first African American to receive an Oscar for (“I’m just talkin’ ‘bout) Shaft.”

Anyway, all these stories, and many more, are told by those who lived it. Why did Stax records sound so different from Motown records? Why was this label so important to the civil rights movement? What hotel did Stax artists stay at when they needed a break, and a swimming pool (the answer will chill your bones)?

Get this movie, and enjoy some essential American history.

Here's An idea for Americans Tired of All That Gotcha Journalism

Hey Americans! Gosh darn it, are you tired of all that vitriol and, you know, (wink) meanness being spat out by that mainstream gotcha media all day and night? Especially when it comes to (wink) Sarah Palin, that mavericky wonder woman from Alaska? 

Here's one idea:

Quit following her around.

Her crowds are angry these days, because they sense defeat in the air. And they are going to lose to a black man. These aren't the kinds of people used to such things, and according to one press account, a speech she gave in Clearwater yesterday was followed by shouts of obscenities and threats to the media covering the event. 

So, on the one hand, how delightful it would be for her to lose those dreaded cameras and reporters who hound her so. Just quit covering her. Watch the magic just. . . die.

On the other hand, it would be nice to know what she's saying. And have someone on hand to try and translate for the rest of us.

Hey, Let's Bash the Media! It's Fun, and Distracting!

The focus of my career for the past twenty years has been either as a media person (newspaper reporter), or someone who interfaces with the media daily. As such, I have the opportunity to read many papers every day, large and small. Yes, because it's 2008, I read most of them online, but they are papers I wouldn't otherwise be able to subscribe to. I love reading newspapers. I admire the people who write and edit them. They are, to me, a sacrosanct bunch.

And oh, so disrespected. Like lawyers, people hate reporters, until they need one to tell their story. Then they reach out to them, and suddenly love that good ol' First Amendment that lets regular people with a gripe convey that gripe to the general population, without fear of retribution, criminal or otherwise. Reporters strive to make sense of the world around us, and while they're not always successful, they do a pretty good job. Remember, these are folks who start from scratch each day. 

But this election, like the previous two presidential elections, have had an unusual focus -- candidates from both sides, and their cohorts, are really tearing into the media, making the people who cover them the problem. The leaders in this endeavor happen to be on the right, because the myth of the liberal media elite plays well in places where folks can't get ahold of the Washington Post or the New York Times. But added to that roster is now all three major news networks (with the exception of Fox, of course, for obvious reasons), and just the media in general, as an entity. 

This is certainly nothing new -- people complain about their small-town papers all the time when they see something in it they don't agree with. It's part and parcel of the system of news. And that's ok.

But it's far more serious when our leaders use media-bashing as the basis of their appeal to voters. Think about this: they're using the media to bash the media. The irony is fun, sure. But since it happens over and over and over, people begin to absorb this bashing as truth. Lots of Americans now think there is such a thing as a liberal media elite. And that's absolute nonsense. If there were such a thing, this liberal elite media would not have capitulated to a White House intent on going to war in Iraq. They would not have permitted "embedded" reporters to cover a war. They would not have agreed to not showing the grim and gruesome side to the conflict. They would not have given the Bush Administration such a free ride, which ended after Hurricane Katrina exposed so obviously the results of incompetence, cronyism, and racism. 

No, the media is buffeted by winds of change, just like everyone else. And now there is a lot at stake, we have a very significant election at hand, and some interesting candidates to cover. The people of the press, and television, have decided to stake out some independence again, and they are asking questions. Now, it's not the media's fault if one of the candidates cannot answer softball questions. Believe me, if Sarah Palin was asked some "gotcha" questions, she would be engulfed in flames. Asking her for an example of Supreme Court decisions she disagrees with is the softest of softball questions. It's not intended to do anything but enlighten the populace as to her views about conservative issues, because she could very well be called upon to appoint a justice or two in her lifetime. The fact that she can't come up with any is not the media's fault. There is no conspiracy to bring her down. Any more than there is a conspiracy to bring down Obama, or McCain. These folks live or die by the answers they give and the statements they make. It's the job they took on themselves. Don't blame the media for providing the stage from which they make their observations and give their speeches.

You want the media around, even though you may get angry with it. You need the media, if you want your democracy to be functioning. Otherwise, you'd best be prepared to show up at each and every public hearing at the local, county, state and federal level, so you know what's going on. 

At least then you could put the blame where it belongs -- on the shoulders of those who make decisions that affect you.

Take Note, Martinez for October 2, 2008

October Armando's Roundup

October, it turns out, is more than a great month to watch vice presidential and presidential debates, and prepare for a historic election that each and every person 18 and over must absolutely have to participate in (young people, in particular, because if nothing else you can tell people later in your life that you voted in this election, and they will think you are even cooler than you obviously already are). 

October is also a great month to check out Armando's musical lineup. Sadly, my own Very Bad Boys are not back there until December (or is it January? I can't keep track), but oh my goodness there are some spectacular shows lined up this month, and you and yours should be down there, toes ready for tappin'. 

Tonight, for country fans, there is a country-tinged open mike, with Martha deWolfe in charge of the evening's events. Now, usually open mikes are great places to bring any and all kinds of music, but this one has a country flavor, so if you go to perform, bear that in mind. Try not to bring your rock ballad or a song you're just making up on the spot, unless it has a country flavor to it. Open mike begins at 8 p.m. You won't see me there, though. My Bad Boys will be rehearsing for our performance tomorrow night at Ferry Street Station, beginning at 9 a.m.

So, moving on. . . Friday night at Armando's is Gary King's Quartet, and this is definitely for those of you with eclectic tastes. Gary is a great singer/songwriter/guitarist, and has a unique twist on what those terms mean. If you're ready for some musical adventure, venture down for this show, which begins at 8 p.m.

Saturday is a must-see show, with Tre' Taylor and the Dangerous Martini Quartet. This is a great mix of cabaret, jazz, and R&B, all dressed up and ready to go out. And tonight the band features Doug Wendt on guitar. Doug is a great guitarist, and performs regularly at Haute Stuff on Thursday nights playing solo classical. If you've ever tried playing classical guitar, you know how much respect these players deserve. If you haven't, try this -- tie both your shoes at the same time while simultaneously making a chocolate souffle. That's a taste of what playing classical guitar is like. 

Friday the 10th is Wendy DeWitt. She is one of the Bay Area's best blues piano players, and a joy to watch perform. Wendy regularly plays in San Francisco blues clubs, and it's a rare treat to have her venture out to these parts for a show. This is the value of Armando's, folks. Players like Wendy won't come out for gig at a bar in these parts, but Roy Jeans has created a performance space that is being sought out by major performers from around the Bay Area, so we get to see people like Wendy DeWitt without paying a bridge toll and trying to find a parking place in North Beach on a Friday night. Thanks, Roy. Job well done. 

Saturday the 11th is Jimbo Trout, who's show is labeled intriguingly "hillbilly bebop boogie." Now, with that kind of description, I'm tempted to go, and you should be, too. There are a heck of a lot of movies out there that sound a lot less interesting, and cost more. 

Oh, Monday the 13th is Blues Jam. I'll be there with Danny White, one of the Very Bad Boys, and we'll host a host of bluesers from around the area. We'd love to play and sing the blues for you, and it's Monday night. What else you got going on Monday night? I thought so. Come on down.

Wednesday the 15th is Super Chicken, a funky collection of Tower of Power and Cold Blood alumni, fronted by a young singer who one day will get the words to the classics he sings correct. Until that time, it's still worthwhile to go check these guys out. The musicians are masters at their field, and it's a funky good time fo sho. 

Thursday the 16th it's Mal Sharpe's Big Money in Jazz Band. Mal is the guy who coined the phrase "if you don't like the news, go out and make some of your own." He fronts a fantastic Dixlieland Jazz band, and this is a phenomenal way to spend a Thursday night with your cuddle partner, nursing a brew or a glass of Zin, and taking in the flavor of New Orleans. 

On Saturay the 18th, it's George Cole and Vive Le Jazz. This is a group who bases its sound on Django Reinhardt and Gypsy Jazz, but they also sing and perform classic jazz from the Great American Songbook. This will be a night to remember.

There is a lot more music going on, more than I have time or space for here. But do get on the Armando's mailing list, and get yourself down there. It's a great space, full of great music, great people, and a spirit that this city lacked for a long time, until Roy made a space to bring it back. 

Until next week, then, dear readers, enjoy yourselves, keep a good beat, and hold out for the very best in all things. 

Take Note, Martinez
For September 25, 2008

Meditation on Perhaps the Most Popular Song in the Last 50 Years

“Hey, where did we go/days when the rains came/we were down in the hollow/playing a new game/laughing and runnin’, hey hey/skippin’ and jumpin’/in the misty morning fog with/our hearts a-thumpin’ and you/Brown Eyed Girl”

Music is like water – it travels over time and distance, and remains refreshing and surprising no matter how far it comes. There are songs from 200 years ago that still send shivers up the spine, and a Gregorian Chant from 650 years back can cast the same spell on the secular listener today as it did on the devout when it was but a few days old. So when I propose to you, dear reader, that ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ by Van Morrison is perhaps the most loved and endearing songs of the past 50 years, I’m not being age-centric, I’m just going by what I have observed in 40 years of performing for people.

I remember hearing this tune when it was released in June of 1967. Think of that month, and that year. June, 1967. It was a watershed year for music, my friends. Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Credence Clearwater Revival Band, the Mamas and Papas, the Turtles, the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, The Boxtops, the Young Rascals, Glen Campbell, Merle Haggard, Englebert Humperdink, Tom Jones. . . gives me shivers just thinking about how the radio sounded back then. It’s hard to know for those who don’t recall pop radio before 1966, when most of the tunes were about love, the loss of love, or the anticipation of love, with lots of horns and strings and syrupy voices, what the effect was of a song called “White Rabbit,” or “Manic Depression.”

Anyway, in the midst of all this phenomenal music, plus the social upheavals underway that year, a little ditty came along called “Brown Eyed Girl.” It was upbeat and perky, and featured a familiar-sounding voice, gravely but somehow also grasping, reaching for something beyond the standard “come-on-let’s-make-out” energy of songs in those days. It had a bass solo in the middle, which was new for pop music then (or even now, if you think about it).

“Whatever happened, Tuesday ends so slow/goin’ down the old mine with a/transistor radio/standin’ in the sunlight laughin’/hide behind a rainbow’s wall/slippin’ and a slidin’/all along the waterfall with you/Brown Eyed Girl”

Throughout the years, I’ve been playing lots of music by other people. I play in clubs, bars, restaurants, yacht clubs, weddings, reunions, birthday parties, service organizations. . . all over the place. In that business, you play what’s popular, and you know lots of tunes that once were popular. And I can play just about most every popular tune from 1920 through 1990, skip the decade, and take in 2000 to now. And the one single tune most all the women always wants to hear and sing along with is Brown Eyed Girl. When we hit that signature run, women and girls of all ages recognize it and hit the dance floor, faces lit with a very joyous smile. I played a block party not long ago where a seven-year-old girl came up and asked me if I knew that song. When we played it, she sang along as though she grew up with the tune, and she probably did.

Now there are other tunes people always request – Mustang Sally come to mind, sadly, as does Sweet Home Alabama. I’m not sure what the allure of Mustang Sally is, but I believe that Sweet Home Alabama has a lot of subconscious racial overtones that appeals to a lot people. And maybe folks just harbor a hidden resentment for Neil Young. I don’t know. But lots of bands hate both of those tunes, just because they have to play them all the time. But I don’t know any musician who dislikes or refuses to play Brown Eyed Girl. It’s just a pleasure to sing. And you don’t feel as thought you’re selling out or dumbing down. It’s just a great song, deep and wonderful and refreshing as a dark blue pool in a horrible desert. Van Morrison writes lots of songs like this, but this one has lived far longer than most, and I want to take this time to thank him profusely for what is, in my world, the best pop song ever written.

It’s so hard to find my way/now that I’m on my own/I saw you just the other day/My, how you had grown/Cast my memory back there, Lord/Sometimes a woman comes sneakin’ back/Makin’ love in the green grass/Behind the stadium with you/Brown Eyed Girl.