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.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Take Note, Martinez for September 11, 2008
A Check-In with the Goings-On At Armando's
I enjoy pontificating, as faithful readers will attest. I can digress better than a drunken politician. I can be as pointless as an off-season election. And I am absolutely dying to weigh in on the next three weeks of the presidential contest (as a former political reporter, it's absolute torture to remain silent about this one), but they don't not pay me to write about national politics around here. They don't pay me to write, instead, about musical happenings, so with iron discipline and steely resolve, I will say only that if you're of the mind that voting is not cool, is for suckers and geeks and losers, then you need to vastly rethink your position. Not voting is actually what certain major parties in America are counting on, if you're a young person. By not voting, you are making some very powerful people very happy. Don't do that. Very powerful people are far more entertaining when they're unhappy.
So. . . Armando's. Let me mention something that's been going on for a while now, and I've kind of ignored writing about it. Every other Wednesday, Armando's is featuring a band called Super Chicken. It's made up of the guitar player and drummer from Tower of Power, the bass player from Cold Blood, and the singer is the son of a founding Tower of Power member. They play funk (obviously), but also pieces from the fuzzy vault of the 1960s and 1970s, and are well worth a trip downtown on a Wednesday night.
Also worth the trip, but this time on the second Monday of each month, is the Blue Monday jam. This is becoming quite the deal 'round these parts, and I'm proud to be a part of it. I will say that this past Monday night, things got more interesting than usual. A lot of regulars show up to jam at this event, and most are very good. Last Monday was no exception – our usual suspects came and did their various things, and it was great. Then this kid took the stage, name of Dallas. He was slinging a right fancy guitar, and there was a certain confidence he displayed when he plugged it in. When the playing started, it was easy to see why. The kid was great. His playing was solid, sweet, and full of fire. Then he sang. Oh. My. God. He sounded like a 50-year-old African American man, not the 20-something he obviously was. I had to get up right after his set, and it wasn't all that comfortable. I had to hit a few high gears just to not suck after the set he turned in. It was all quite wonderful, though, and it's that kind of experience that keeps the torch of faith burning. He said he'd be back, so come down next month and check out this Dallas kid.
On Saturday, you absolutely have to go see Le Jazz Hot. This is Gypsy Jazz dressed in its finest American garments, and features the remarkable Paul Mehling on lead guitar, the equally amazing Jeff Magidson on guitar, Elizabeth Magidson on guitar and vocals, and other great players on bass and violin. It's a night not to be missed, because Gypsy Jazz is, unlike more traditional styles, one that reaches out to the average listener, tickles and teasers and taunts, and then brings home a satisfying musical coda. If rock and roll had to be jazz, it would be Gypsy Jazz. It's full of fire and passion and speed and wicked intentions. Don't miss it, because these are some of the music's finest purveyors on these shores of ours.
So there you have it. All of this, and lots more, is going on under one humble roof in downtown Martinez. If that's not revitalization, I don't know what is. . .
Take Note, Martinez for September 11, 2008
A Check-In with the Goings-On At Armando's
I enjoy pontificating, as faithful readers will attest. I can digress better than a drunken politician. I can be as pointless as an off-season election. And I am absolutely dying to weigh in on the next three weeks of the presidential contest (as a former political reporter, it's absolute torture to remain silent about this one), but they don't not pay me to write about national politics around here. They don't pay me to write, instead, about musical happenings, so with iron discipline and steely resolve, I will say only that if you're of the mind that voting is not cool, is for suckers and geeks and losers, then you need to vastly rethink your position. Not voting is actually what certain major parties in America are counting on, if you're a young person. By not voting, you are making some very powerful people very happy. Don't do that. Very powerful people are far more entertaining when they're unhappy.
So. . . Armando's. Let me mention something that's been going on for a while now, and I've kind of ignored writing about it. Every other Wednesday, Armando's is featuring a band called Super Chicken. It's made up of the guitar player and drummer from Tower of Power, the bass player from Cold Blood, and the singer is the son of a founding Tower of Power member. They play funk (obviously), but also pieces from the fuzzy vault of the 1960s and 1970s, and are well worth a trip downtown on a Wednesday night.
Also worth the trip, but this time on the second Monday of each month, is the Blue Monday jam. This is becoming quite the deal 'round these parts, and I'm proud to be a part of it. I will say that this past Monday night, things got more interesting than usual. A lot of regulars show up to jam at this event, and most are very good. Last Monday was no exception – our usual suspects came and did their various things, and it was great. Then this kid took the stage, name of Dallas. He was slinging a right fancy guitar, and there was a certain confidence he displayed when he plugged it in. When the playing started, it was easy to see why. The kid was great. His playing was solid, sweet, and full of fire. Then he sang. Oh. My. God. He sounded like a 50-year-old African American man, not the 20-something he obviously was. I had to get up right after his set, and it wasn't all that comfortable. I had to hit a few high gears just to not suck after the set he turned in. It was all quite wonderful, though, and it's that kind of experience that keeps the torch of faith burning. He said he'd be back, so come down next month and check out this Dallas kid.
On Saturday, you absolutely have to go see Le Jazz Hot. This is Gypsy Jazz dressed in its finest American garments, and features the remarkable Paul Mehling on lead guitar, the equally amazing Jeff Magidson on guitar, Elizabeth Magidson on guitar and vocals, and other great players on bass and violin. It's a night not to be missed, because Gypsy Jazz is, unlike more traditional styles, one that reaches out to the average listener, tickles and teasers and taunts, and then brings home a satisfying musical coda. If rock and roll had to be jazz, it would be Gypsy Jazz. It's full of fire and passion and speed and wicked intentions. Don't miss it, because these are some of the music's finest purveyors on these shores of ours.
So there you have it. All of this, and lots more, is going on under one humble roof in downtown Martinez. If that's not revitalization, I don't know what is. . .
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Strings of Thought for September, 2008
Here's a little news flash for all you guitar players out there -- you're probably too loud.
"What," you ask with utter indignity? "I'm not too loud. The drummer is too loud, the bass player is too loud, the bartender is too loud, but certainly not ME."
And I understand. I've never been too loud, either, in the 40-plus years I've been playing guitar. Except that I have been, and it's too bad, because there are a lot of times I've been really good, and no one noticed. Why?
Because I was too loud.
Volume is a tricky thing, and a thing of much controversy. A band in balance is a band worth hearing. But volume creep usually sets in, and the second set sound levels that were so good become the fourth set mud festival, and that's why a lot of bodies have left the bar for the night. Just too damned loud, and the sonic irritation is no longer inviting. It's annoying at best, unbearable at worst.
Not long ago I was playing with a band I occasionally sit in with at a local venue, outside, but with an aluminum cover over the outdoor seating area. Apparently, though I thought the volume sounded great and balanced on stage, if you were sitting in the audience it was way too loud. We were really good that day, but most people didn't have a clue, because the volume destroyed whatever musical conversation we were having.
No one intends to be too loud, unless they're just obnoxious. But not enough of us (and I certainly include myself in this category) are aware of our own volume. It's not one of the onstage priorities. And it most certainly should be, because if one person in the band is too loud, it causes everyone else to turn up, and pretty soon the whole band is too loud, and there goes the neighborhood, as it were.
This is an ongoing debate with musicians everywhere, but it's a debate that will be settled ultimately by the audience.
So, here's the point. If you're a guitar player, you should take a look at the equipment you're using, particularly your amp. How many watts does it have? Where do you play mostly, and how many watts do you need? An appropriate analogy would be the guy who drives around in one of those giant pickup trucks with oversized tires to basically drive back and forth from work, and maybe just every now and then goes to the mountains for a little off-roading. If you have a 100-watt amp and play most of your gigs in bars and clubs, you (like our current administration) have far too much power. And you're carrying way too much weight.
These days, amps are being made that have severely slimmed-down wattage, but sound monsterous. They weigh next to nothing, but sound like the old Marshall stacks of yore. I had a Marshall stack, and can tell you without reservation that I wouldn't have one today. The weight, the space, and the volume are ridiculous. Today, I'm playing through an Epiphone 5-watt head and a one 12-inch speaker cabinet, and it's magnificent. I love it to death. The head cost under $200, and except for outdoors, where dispersal issues make it impractical, it is the nicest sounding amp I've ever owned. When The Very Bad Boys play at Armando's, this is the only amp I'll use any more. It's perfect.
So I strongly urge you axe men and women to take stock of your rig, and see if a little downsizing isn't just what you might need for tone joy, volume delight and far fewer back problems. If you need a place to start looking, you can't go wrong stopping in to Good Stuff Guitar Shop and asking the brilliant Danny White what's up. Tell him I sent you.
Stay tuned. . .
Strings of Thought for September, 2008
Here's a little news flash for all you guitar players out there -- you're probably too loud.
"What," you ask with utter indignity? "I'm not too loud. The drummer is too loud, the bass player is too loud, the bartender is too loud, but certainly not ME."
And I understand. I've never been too loud, either, in the 40-plus years I've been playing guitar. Except that I have been, and it's too bad, because there are a lot of times I've been really good, and no one noticed. Why?
Because I was too loud.
Volume is a tricky thing, and a thing of much controversy. A band in balance is a band worth hearing. But volume creep usually sets in, and the second set sound levels that were so good become the fourth set mud festival, and that's why a lot of bodies have left the bar for the night. Just too damned loud, and the sonic irritation is no longer inviting. It's annoying at best, unbearable at worst.
Not long ago I was playing with a band I occasionally sit in with at a local venue, outside, but with an aluminum cover over the outdoor seating area. Apparently, though I thought the volume sounded great and balanced on stage, if you were sitting in the audience it was way too loud. We were really good that day, but most people didn't have a clue, because the volume destroyed whatever musical conversation we were having.
No one intends to be too loud, unless they're just obnoxious. But not enough of us (and I certainly include myself in this category) are aware of our own volume. It's not one of the onstage priorities. And it most certainly should be, because if one person in the band is too loud, it causes everyone else to turn up, and pretty soon the whole band is too loud, and there goes the neighborhood, as it were.
This is an ongoing debate with musicians everywhere, but it's a debate that will be settled ultimately by the audience.
So, here's the point. If you're a guitar player, you should take a look at the equipment you're using, particularly your amp. How many watts does it have? Where do you play mostly, and how many watts do you need? An appropriate analogy would be the guy who drives around in one of those giant pickup trucks with oversized tires to basically drive back and forth from work, and maybe just every now and then goes to the mountains for a little off-roading. If you have a 100-watt amp and play most of your gigs in bars and clubs, you (like our current administration) have far too much power. And you're carrying way too much weight.
These days, amps are being made that have severely slimmed-down wattage, but sound monsterous. They weigh next to nothing, but sound like the old Marshall stacks of yore. I had a Marshall stack, and can tell you without reservation that I wouldn't have one today. The weight, the space, and the volume are ridiculous. Today, I'm playing through an Epiphone 5-watt head and a one 12-inch speaker cabinet, and it's magnificent. I love it to death. The head cost under $200, and except for outdoors, where dispersal issues make it impractical, it is the nicest sounding amp I've ever owned. When The Very Bad Boys play at Armando's, this is the only amp I'll use any more. It's perfect.
So I strongly urge you axe men and women to take stock of your rig, and see if a little downsizing isn't just what you might need for tone joy, volume delight and far fewer back problems. If you need a place to start looking, you can't go wrong stopping in to Good Stuff Guitar Shop and asking the brilliant Danny White what's up. Tell him I sent you.
Stay tuned. . .
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Take Note, Martinez for August 28, 2008
Taking (Wood)Stock of the Best Festival Movie Ever Made
"What we have here is breakfast in bed for 400,000. . ."
Wavy Gravy
Yes, I'm a boomer and yes, I'm sick to death of the whole boomer franchise, too. It doesn't help that the ads directed at people in my demographic now involve adult diapers, medical remedies for things you don't even want to know about, and bathtubs with doors so you don't fall and break your hip. I'm proud of the legacy of street demonstrations, cultural redefinition, and the embracing of tolerance and peace (radical notions back then, young ones). These things were, in my view, in the very best American traditions, particularly in light of the fact that they were so strongly opposed by those with the power and the weapons. But then there was the surplus of superficiality, that annoying sense of entitlement, and relentless marketing (which pursues us today – see above).
But one boomer product is definitely worth taking a look at: the movie Woodstock. Next year is the 40th anniversary of this festival, in which 500,000 young people gathered unexpectedly on a farm in upstate New York to see a three-day lineup of the day's biggest musical names. No, I wasn't at the festival, but when the movie came out, I was at the Orinda Theater 50 times (I counted) to see this astounding musical lineup. I remember getting into a pretty loud argument with the manager of the Walnut Creek multi-screen theater where 'Woodstock' was playing, along with 'Patton.' 'Woodstock' was rated R, for nudity and drug use, while 'Patton' was rated PG, for lots of scenes of death and destruction. Ah, those were the days. . .
Movie note: one of the cameramen and editors for this movie is a young Martin Scorsese. He would go on to make many other R rated movies.
So, the music:
The festival and the film gets kicked off by toothless guitarist Richie Havens, a percussive guitarist and folk singer in a dashiki, who turns in a great set, and chats to the crowd while changing a broken string. A great beginning.
Joan Baez, the queen of folk singers and former girlfriend to Bob Dylan, is six months pregnant at Woodstock, and her husband is in jail for draft evasion. She sings the union anthem Joe Hill, and a very unfortunate acapella version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
So much for the folkies -- bring on the rock. The Who storm the stage with a fury and frenzy you can only achieve when Keith Moon is your drummer and John Entwistle is your bass player. Pete Townsend is leaping and windmilling his guitar arm, Roger Daltrey is swinging his microphone and screaming deliciously about Tommy, and the kids (all 500,000 of 'em) are all right. Townsend hated playing at Woodstock, but you'd never know it from his performance. This is the first appearance, by the way, of a performer with long leather fringe, in the form of Daltrey's vest. This was a signature look in the early 70s, and Woodstock is the reason why.
Can I pass on Sha Na Na? 1969 was not the year for 50s nostalgia bands. They're ok, but fast forward to Joe Cocker singing the Beatle song "With A Little Help From My Friends." Not many Americans knew who Joe Cocker was in 1969, but when the film came out in 1970, this spasmodic Ray Charles sound-alike was among those who became quite famous as a result of his one performance here. And no one but Joe had the guts to take on a song from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band in 1969. The seminal album was only two years old at that point, and sacred.
Country Joe and the Fish lead everyone in the Fish Cheer, which involves spelling the F bomb and dropping it several times – nothing like half a million people all shouting it at once.
More folk songs in the form of the charming but very stoned Arlo Guthrie, the newly-formed Crosby, Stills and Nash, and the remarkable but out-of-it John Sebastian. All these performers are legendary, but these particular sets prove that drugs do not enhance talent.
Ah, but then. . . Ten Years After. Guitarist Alvin Lee lights up the night with his incendiary guitar work on "I'm Going Home," and for the rest of his career is known for nothing else. A young Bay Area band, Santana, turns in a fiery set that instantly makes Carlos Santana a star that continues rising to this day. And another Bay Area band, Sly and the Family Stone, are absolutely delightful, funky, scary and amazing at Woodstock, though Sly would not long afterward succumb to the ravages of hard drugs. But here he is at the top of his game, and few are able to touch him.
But the last performer in the film, as at the festival, stands on stage with a white Fender Stratocaster, and though there is a band with him, he seems alone. Jimi Hendrix says goodbye to us all, and to the era, with his Woodstock performance (he would die next year due to incompetent medical response, not, as the myth would have it, a drug overdose). Jimi jams for a while, then presents what has to be the most searing, heart wrenching version of the Star Spangled Banner ever performed. His guitar provides the rockets, the screams, and the passion of a great nation's history. It must be heard, it cannot be described.
So there it is, kids. Watch a very expensive home movie about your parents' generation, and enjoy some of their finest musical moments. Just try not to roll your eyes when your mom and dad tear up.
Take Note, Martinez for August 28, 2008
Taking (Wood)Stock of the Best Festival Movie Ever Made
"What we have here is breakfast in bed for 400,000. . ."
Wavy Gravy
Yes, I'm a boomer and yes, I'm sick to death of the whole boomer franchise, too. It doesn't help that the ads directed at people in my demographic now involve adult diapers, medical remedies for things you don't even want to know about, and bathtubs with doors so you don't fall and break your hip. I'm proud of the legacy of street demonstrations, cultural redefinition, and the embracing of tolerance and peace (radical notions back then, young ones). These things were, in my view, in the very best American traditions, particularly in light of the fact that they were so strongly opposed by those with the power and the weapons. But then there was the surplus of superficiality, that annoying sense of entitlement, and relentless marketing (which pursues us today – see above).
But one boomer product is definitely worth taking a look at: the movie Woodstock. Next year is the 40th anniversary of this festival, in which 500,000 young people gathered unexpectedly on a farm in upstate New York to see a three-day lineup of the day's biggest musical names. No, I wasn't at the festival, but when the movie came out, I was at the Orinda Theater 50 times (I counted) to see this astounding musical lineup. I remember getting into a pretty loud argument with the manager of the Walnut Creek multi-screen theater where 'Woodstock' was playing, along with 'Patton.' 'Woodstock' was rated R, for nudity and drug use, while 'Patton' was rated PG, for lots of scenes of death and destruction. Ah, those were the days. . .
Movie note: one of the cameramen and editors for this movie is a young Martin Scorsese. He would go on to make many other R rated movies.
So, the music:
The festival and the film gets kicked off by toothless guitarist Richie Havens, a percussive guitarist and folk singer in a dashiki, who turns in a great set, and chats to the crowd while changing a broken string. A great beginning.
Joan Baez, the queen of folk singers and former girlfriend to Bob Dylan, is six months pregnant at Woodstock, and her husband is in jail for draft evasion. She sings the union anthem Joe Hill, and a very unfortunate acapella version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
So much for the folkies -- bring on the rock. The Who storm the stage with a fury and frenzy you can only achieve when Keith Moon is your drummer and John Entwistle is your bass player. Pete Townsend is leaping and windmilling his guitar arm, Roger Daltrey is swinging his microphone and screaming deliciously about Tommy, and the kids (all 500,000 of 'em) are all right. Townsend hated playing at Woodstock, but you'd never know it from his performance. This is the first appearance, by the way, of a performer with long leather fringe, in the form of Daltrey's vest. This was a signature look in the early 70s, and Woodstock is the reason why.
Can I pass on Sha Na Na? 1969 was not the year for 50s nostalgia bands. They're ok, but fast forward to Joe Cocker singing the Beatle song "With A Little Help From My Friends." Not many Americans knew who Joe Cocker was in 1969, but when the film came out in 1970, this spasmodic Ray Charles sound-alike was among those who became quite famous as a result of his one performance here. And no one but Joe had the guts to take on a song from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band in 1969. The seminal album was only two years old at that point, and sacred.
Country Joe and the Fish lead everyone in the Fish Cheer, which involves spelling the F bomb and dropping it several times – nothing like half a million people all shouting it at once.
More folk songs in the form of the charming but very stoned Arlo Guthrie, the newly-formed Crosby, Stills and Nash, and the remarkable but out-of-it John Sebastian. All these performers are legendary, but these particular sets prove that drugs do not enhance talent.
Ah, but then. . . Ten Years After. Guitarist Alvin Lee lights up the night with his incendiary guitar work on "I'm Going Home," and for the rest of his career is known for nothing else. A young Bay Area band, Santana, turns in a fiery set that instantly makes Carlos Santana a star that continues rising to this day. And another Bay Area band, Sly and the Family Stone, are absolutely delightful, funky, scary and amazing at Woodstock, though Sly would not long afterward succumb to the ravages of hard drugs. But here he is at the top of his game, and few are able to touch him.
But the last performer in the film, as at the festival, stands on stage with a white Fender Stratocaster, and though there is a band with him, he seems alone. Jimi Hendrix says goodbye to us all, and to the era, with his Woodstock performance (he would die next year due to incompetent medical response, not, as the myth would have it, a drug overdose). Jimi jams for a while, then presents what has to be the most searing, heart wrenching version of the Star Spangled Banner ever performed. His guitar provides the rockets, the screams, and the passion of a great nation's history. It must be heard, it cannot be described.
So there it is, kids. Watch a very expensive home movie about your parents' generation, and enjoy some of their finest musical moments. Just try not to roll your eyes when your mom and dad tear up.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Take Note, Martinez for August 14, 2008
When There is No Pay to Play
(We interrupt this column for a cheap self-promotion opportunity – Jim Caroompas and the Very Bad Boys will be playing tomorrow, Friday, August 15, at Armando's, 707 Marina Vista, at 8 p.m. Joining the usual suspects on Friday will be the remarkable Greg Boudreaux ..boards, he of the former Jim Caroompas Band, and lately Loose Gravel Funk Band. He brings a new look and feel to the Bad Boys that will make you feel as though you're hearing them for the first time. We know, because we feel we're hearing us for the first time. Secondly, the same band, without Greg and with a different drummer, will perform the final set at Sunday's Art in the Park, about which more below. This concludes our cheap self-promotion portion of this column).
In some circles around town, I am known as something of a mercenary. This is because I am not inclined to play music for free, just because someone asks. Music is a skill one spends years to learn, and continues to learn one's entire life. Also, there is the very expensive equipment to purchase and maintain, the ever-rising cost of transportation to and from venues, and the overall sacrifice of leaving the nurture of hearth and home for environs that may or may not be musician-friendly. When myself and the boys do a gig, there is time and effort involved that no one else sees – rehearsal, set-up and tear-down, etc. So it's fair to charge a fee for playing. The sad part is, that fee is criminally low. A plumber, a carpenter, or even a handyman, charges far more for four hours of work than we do. So precious few of us can do what we are passionate about for our primary income. And that's ok, such as it is. This is not a mission of complaint.
Here is the point: myself and most of my brethren will gladly play for little or nothing, if the cause is right. And then there are those magical musical get-togethers known as jam sessions, for which there is never recompense in the monetary sense, but untold riches nevertheless.
To wit: not long ago there was a gathering of something like five bands at Armando's to play a benefit for a remodeled kitchen at the Martinez Adult School. A very worthy cause indeed, and it was our pleasure to join the other bands that day to play for about an hour and raise some cash for the kitchen. We also played a benefit last week for the Cancer Walk at Las Juntas Elementary School. We were, again, joining a pretty big lineup of local talent, none of whom got paid, and none of whom really had an audience, per se, but rather were entertaining the walkers who were bravely hiking around the field for a great cause.
And then there's Art in the Park, an annual event which benefits the Martinez Arts Association. I've played this venue every year for more than twenty years, and I plan to keep playing it each year until they 1) refuse to let me in, or 2) I am busy being buried. This year, my band is playing and we're closing the show. Now, to be precise, sometimes the musicians get paid to play this event. And sometimes they don't. Mostly they don't, and that's fine. It's a part of the Martinez DNA, and we're proud to take that stage each year. Don't miss this year, by the way. It's on Sunday, and it's always a great time.
Then there are the jams. Every second Monday at Armando's the Very Bad Boy Danny White, my harmonica/singer/guitarist colleague, who also owns Good Stuff Guitar Shop on Main Street (where I teach guitar – oops, another cheap promotion), sponsors the Blue Monday Jam, where musicians from all over the Bay Area gather to have their three songs/fifteen minutes of blues fame and fortune, minus, of course, the fortune. This is like a club of people who just get together, hang out and wail when the time comes. It's more fun with an audience, of course, so if you don't play the blues, come on down and hear them played. There are other blues jams around the area, and I will be filling you in on those as time goes by.
So don't think poorly of us if you're seeking a band to play for free and we ask for money. Bands need to eat, too. And there are plenty of times when bands play for nothing, because we believe in the cause and/or it's just so much fun to play. However, loving what you do that much should not be a reason for giving it away every time. If you're having a party, or an event, you're not getting it catered for nothing. You're not renting the hall for nothing. And you're not getting the photographer for nothing, unless it's your Uncle Preston, in which case don't hold your breath for great photos. So why expect to get the band for free? We're not mercenaries, we just want a little respect. In return, we'll make your gathering dance all night. How much is that worth?
For now, remember this:
Jim Caroompas and the Very Bad Boys:
Friday, 8 p.m. Armando's
Sunday, 3:30 p.m., Art in the Park, Susana and Estudillo streets
Take Note, Martinez for August 14, 2008
When There is No Pay to Play
(We interrupt this column for a cheap self-promotion opportunity – Jim Caroompas and the Very Bad Boys will be playing tomorrow, Friday, August 15, at Armando's, 707 Marina Vista, at 8 p.m. Joining the usual suspects on Friday will be the remarkable Greg Boudreaux ..boards, he of the former Jim Caroompas Band, and lately Loose Gravel Funk Band. He brings a new look and feel to the Bad Boys that will make you feel as though you're hearing them for the first time. We know, because we feel we're hearing us for the first time. Secondly, the same band, without Greg and with a different drummer, will perform the final set at Sunday's Art in the Park, about which more below. This concludes our cheap self-promotion portion of this column).
In some circles around town, I am known as something of a mercenary. This is because I am not inclined to play music for free, just because someone asks. Music is a skill one spends years to learn, and continues to learn one's entire life. Also, there is the very expensive equipment to purchase and maintain, the ever-rising cost of transportation to and from venues, and the overall sacrifice of leaving the nurture of hearth and home for environs that may or may not be musician-friendly. When myself and the boys do a gig, there is time and effort involved that no one else sees – rehearsal, set-up and tear-down, etc. So it's fair to charge a fee for playing. The sad part is, that fee is criminally low. A plumber, a carpenter, or even a handyman, charges far more for four hours of work than we do. So precious few of us can do what we are passionate about for our primary income. And that's ok, such as it is. This is not a mission of complaint.
Here is the point: myself and most of my brethren will gladly play for little or nothing, if the cause is right. And then there are those magical musical get-togethers known as jam sessions, for which there is never recompense in the monetary sense, but untold riches nevertheless.
To wit: not long ago there was a gathering of something like five bands at Armando's to play a benefit for a remodeled kitchen at the Martinez Adult School. A very worthy cause indeed, and it was our pleasure to join the other bands that day to play for about an hour and raise some cash for the kitchen. We also played a benefit last week for the Cancer Walk at Las Juntas Elementary School. We were, again, joining a pretty big lineup of local talent, none of whom got paid, and none of whom really had an audience, per se, but rather were entertaining the walkers who were bravely hiking around the field for a great cause.
And then there's Art in the Park, an annual event which benefits the Martinez Arts Association. I've played this venue every year for more than twenty years, and I plan to keep playing it each year until they 1) refuse to let me in, or 2) I am busy being buried. This year, my band is playing and we're closing the show. Now, to be precise, sometimes the musicians get paid to play this event. And sometimes they don't. Mostly they don't, and that's fine. It's a part of the Martinez DNA, and we're proud to take that stage each year. Don't miss this year, by the way. It's on Sunday, and it's always a great time.
Then there are the jams. Every second Monday at Armando's the Very Bad Boy Danny White, my harmonica/singer/guitarist colleague, who also owns Good Stuff Guitar Shop on Main Street (where I teach guitar – oops, another cheap promotion), sponsors the Blue Monday Jam, where musicians from all over the Bay Area gather to have their three songs/fifteen minutes of blues fame and fortune, minus, of course, the fortune. This is like a club of people who just get together, hang out and wail when the time comes. It's more fun with an audience, of course, so if you don't play the blues, come on down and hear them played. There are other blues jams around the area, and I will be filling you in on those as time goes by.
So don't think poorly of us if you're seeking a band to play for free and we ask for money. Bands need to eat, too. And there are plenty of times when bands play for nothing, because we believe in the cause and/or it's just so much fun to play. However, loving what you do that much should not be a reason for giving it away every time. If you're having a party, or an event, you're not getting it catered for nothing. You're not renting the hall for nothing. And you're not getting the photographer for nothing, unless it's your Uncle Preston, in which case don't hold your breath for great photos. So why expect to get the band for free? We're not mercenaries, we just want a little respect. In return, we'll make your gathering dance all night. How much is that worth?
For now, remember this:
Jim Caroompas and the Very Bad Boys:
Friday, 8 p.m. Armando's
Sunday, 3:30 p.m., Art in the Park, Susana and Estudillo streets
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Take Note, Martinez for August 7, 2008
You Should Be Dancing (Or Maybe Not)
Imagine, if you will, Pee Wee Herman having severe muscle spasms, downing a fifth of tequila in one gulp and prancing around barefoot on a bed of cactus. This is an approximation of what I resemble when I dance.
I love to dance. Being Greek, I'm pretty sure Greeks invented dancing. At least the whole hankerchief thing, and the table in the teeth. At any rate, dancing is fun when the band is sounding hot and the woman is looking hot (and these days, that woman is my wife, and she is always looking hot, so there's that). And I am inclined, under those conditions, to forget my own personal rule number one, which is: do not, under any circumstances, take to the dance floor; rather, cling like crazy to whatever tiny shred of dignity you have left, and enjoy the sight of all those other people dancing instead.
My wife is an excellent dancer, and I love to watch her move. Our neighbor down the street, Cindi, is also a great dancer, and it's very cool when she comes to my band's gigs, because she always inspires us to work a little harder. Dancers on the dance floor are the reason bands like mine exist. When the dance floor is full, the band will always kick into whatever gear they have left (and even gears they didn't know they had), because the exchange of energy is a gift from the gods -- dancers validate the band, and the band (usually starving for validation) wants more, and works harder to get it. It's a very fruitful bit of spiritual commerce for everyone involved, and no one loses. Except when certain conditions exist.
Let me elucidate.
This past weekend I was playing with a band in Vacaville, at a large venue called Stars (it's off Nut Tree Parkway -- look it up and go there, because it's got a bowling alley, giant video arcade, and restaurant/bar with music every weekend). The dance floor was a good size, and for much of the time, we had the crowd on their feet. But for a portion of Friday night, some guy from Alabama (he felt the need to show us his driver's license) decides to take the floor and writhe around in cowboy boots. After a few drinks, this guy was dancing alone, if you know what I mean. But he still was dancing, and the other people decided it was better to maybe just sit and enjoy their drink and stay out of boot range. He was a nice fellow, to be sure. And being raised in the South myself, I have nothing against folks from Alabama. But dancing like a cowboy, with all those swoops and jumps and turnarounds, just isn't safe without a modicum of sobriety, so take note, cowpokes. Be safe, be sober, or don't dance.
On Saturday night, a couple of oddly-dressed but decidedly cute blonds in their twenties decided to own the dance floor. They did this by twirling and genuflecting and kneeling and running around the perimeter of the dance floor, and chopping the air with their arms, and generally behaving as though they were Shamans performing a ritual involving the removal of nasty spirits. No one had the heart to ask them to please calm down, because of their age and cutness level. But also, no one had the desire to join them on the dance floor, because they were literally flailing around with no regard to other dancers. Sevearl couples gave it a brief try, but sat down right away. And these two danced all night long.
What's going on here? The need for attention, probably, and a perverse sense of performance quality. There are people who believe that they can do something well, just because they really, really want to do something well. I've had this illusion about rewiring a house, playing the drums, and writing a novel. These folks had it about performance dancing. No one thought they were any good at it, but that didn't stop them from thinking that that's what everyone thought.
I love to see people dance, so if you come to a performance of mine (next one is at Armando's on August 15, 8 p.m., and it promises to be very, very hot), please get up and express the absolute badness of your bad self. Just give other folks room to do the same.
Take Note, Martinez for August 7, 2008
You Should Be Dancing (Or Maybe Not)
Imagine, if you will, Pee Wee Herman having severe muscle spasms, downing a fifth of tequila in one gulp and prancing around barefoot on a bed of cactus. This is an approximation of what I resemble when I dance.
I love to dance. Being Greek, I'm pretty sure Greeks invented dancing. At least the whole hankerchief thing, and the table in the teeth. At any rate, dancing is fun when the band is sounding hot and the woman is looking hot (and these days, that woman is my wife, and she is always looking hot, so there's that). And I am inclined, under those conditions, to forget my own personal rule number one, which is: do not, under any circumstances, take to the dance floor; rather, cling like crazy to whatever tiny shred of dignity you have left, and enjoy the sight of all those other people dancing instead.
My wife is an excellent dancer, and I love to watch her move. Our neighbor down the street, Cindi, is also a great dancer, and it's very cool when she comes to my band's gigs, because she always inspires us to work a little harder. Dancers on the dance floor are the reason bands like mine exist. When the dance floor is full, the band will always kick into whatever gear they have left (and even gears they didn't know they had), because the exchange of energy is a gift from the gods -- dancers validate the band, and the band (usually starving for validation) wants more, and works harder to get it. It's a very fruitful bit of spiritual commerce for everyone involved, and no one loses. Except when certain conditions exist.
Let me elucidate.
This past weekend I was playing with a band in Vacaville, at a large venue called Stars (it's off Nut Tree Parkway -- look it up and go there, because it's got a bowling alley, giant video arcade, and restaurant/bar with music every weekend). The dance floor was a good size, and for much of the time, we had the crowd on their feet. But for a portion of Friday night, some guy from Alabama (he felt the need to show us his driver's license) decides to take the floor and writhe around in cowboy boots. After a few drinks, this guy was dancing alone, if you know what I mean. But he still was dancing, and the other people decided it was better to maybe just sit and enjoy their drink and stay out of boot range. He was a nice fellow, to be sure. And being raised in the South myself, I have nothing against folks from Alabama. But dancing like a cowboy, with all those swoops and jumps and turnarounds, just isn't safe without a modicum of sobriety, so take note, cowpokes. Be safe, be sober, or don't dance.
On Saturday night, a couple of oddly-dressed but decidedly cute blonds in their twenties decided to own the dance floor. They did this by twirling and genuflecting and kneeling and running around the perimeter of the dance floor, and chopping the air with their arms, and generally behaving as though they were Shamans performing a ritual involving the removal of nasty spirits. No one had the heart to ask them to please calm down, because of their age and cutness level. But also, no one had the desire to join them on the dance floor, because they were literally flailing around with no regard to other dancers. Sevearl couples gave it a brief try, but sat down right away. And these two danced all night long.
What's going on here? The need for attention, probably, and a perverse sense of performance quality. There are people who believe that they can do something well, just because they really, really want to do something well. I've had this illusion about rewiring a house, playing the drums, and writing a novel. These folks had it about performance dancing. No one thought they were any good at it, but that didn't stop them from thinking that that's what everyone thought.
I love to see people dance, so if you come to a performance of mine (next one is at Armando's on August 15, 8 p.m., and it promises to be very, very hot), please get up and express the absolute badness of your bad self. Just give other folks room to do the same.
Take Note, Martinez for July 31, 2008
Music's Magical Connections Through Space and Time
My oldest son got married this past weekend. The ceremony was lovely, featuring songs sung in Estonian. Most of us in attendance had no idea what in the world was being sung, but there was a mystical quality to the songs, performed by a six-person acapella group, that traversed the need to understand the words. It was pretty amazing music, probably written hundreds of years ago, and brought into the present to unleash the same unexpected chill in listeners in the year 2008 as it did when first performed.
I was asked to play a solo set during the reception, and the first song I chose to play was the first song my son Jeff ever recorded, when he was ten years old and carrying a huge crush on a girl in school. Back then, he was a Monkees fan (thanks in no small part to Nickelodeon and its reruns of the old TV series). He recorded the Davy Jones classic, "I Want To Be Free." If you remember it, you'll recall a big heaping helping of schmaltzy lyric and a decidedly late '60s philosophical bent to the lyrics: "I want to be free, like the bluebird flying by me/like the waves out on the blue sea/if your love has to tie me/don't try me/say goodbye. . .", etc. I dug deep this weekend and pulled out the tune for Jeff, who wept, and during the performance, I saw a number of women singing along. Women of all ages, young and old. Very surprising, but there it is. Music is the thing you take with you your whole life. How many speeches, or movies, or TV show moments do you remember from 20 years ago? Yet, if I were to put on a song from that period that you cherished, you would probably remember the words, the way you wore your hair back then, the person you loved, and various other details. Music is amazing that way.
My brother, who was also at the wedding, began remembering our father, who died in 1978. My dad once played sax on the radio, though none of us ever heard him. Mostly he sold cars, and in the end he owned a bar. I played at his bar a few times, as a young, rebellious kid, and when I performed the Stones tune Sister Morphine, he fired me. I did a great rendition of a junkie singing that song, and couldn't understand why that would infuriate a parent (something I completely understand today). My mom also fired me from HER bar for singing that same song. So it was something my mother and father agreed upon, probably the only thing in decades. So again, the magic of music.
I was telling my brother, who is ten years my junior, about the time in 1962 when I first held a guitar in my hand. I was 8 years old, and living with my dad and stepmom in Kennewick, Washington. My dad had just hired four African American guys to sing a song called 'I Want A Car Just Like The Car that Caravan Sold My Dad,' sung to the tune of 'I Want A Girl, Just Like the Girl that Married Dear Old Dad.' The vocal group who performed the tune were copying The Mills Brothers, and one of the guys had a shiny red Gibson ES335 (the same guitar made famous, in black, by BB King). I remember my dad having the band over for dinner one night, probably after the recording session, and during one point, I picked up the guitar. My father rushed over and ordered me to put it down, but the guy who owned it said it was fine, I could play it. But my dad insisted, and I vowed that night to own my own guitar someday, and show him a thing or two. Today, I own 12 guitars and I love each of them, which includes, by the way, a black ES335. But the thing that strikes me now about that dinner was the fact that my dad had four African American guys over to the house for dinner in 1962. It gives me a completely different view of my dad, and I realize that he was pretty cool for his time. And if it weren't for the musical connection, I would never have recalled that night.
And if you wind up this Friday at Armando's (714 Marina Vista) at 8 p.m., you'll see another example of how music travels across time and space, intact and amazing as ever. Because you'll be lucky enough to see a show by the amazing Duo Gadjo, consisting of Jeff and Isabel Magdison. These two excellent musicians both sing and play guitar, but with a decidedly French twist. And Jeff also will astound when he pulls out his slide guitar and gets all Delta blues on you, while Isabel straps on the washboard and you realize how cool percussion can be when someone is wearing tin thimbles. These two cover a gamut of material from a century of French and American songbooks, and each has their own stamp on it. But each has a tradition of respect and affection for the origins of the music that shines through and transports the audience to the magical world this pair creates on stage. Listen closely to Jeff's guitar work; the intricacy and emotional fluidity is that of a seasoned professional who has become one with his instrument. Isabel sings with an ease and passion that will make you smile.
Myself, I won't be there. One of the other aspects of music that transports one is the out of town gig. I will be playing with a band called Going Grey at a bar called Cheers in Vacaville. It should be a fun time, and we'll be there Friday and Saturday night, so if you're in that part of the world, come by and say hi. Otherwise, get thee to Armando's and transport thyself.
Music's Magical Connections Through Space and Time
My oldest son got married this past weekend. The ceremony was lovely, featuring songs sung in Estonian. Most of us in attendance had no idea what in the world was being sung, but there was a mystical quality to the songs, performed by a six-person acapella group, that traversed the need to understand the words. It was pretty amazing music, probably written hundreds of years ago, and brought into the present to unleash the same unexpected chill in listeners in the year 2008 as it did when first performed.
I was asked to play a solo set during the reception, and the first song I chose to play was the first song my son Jeff ever recorded, when he was ten years old and carrying a huge crush on a girl in school. Back then, he was a Monkees fan (thanks in no small part to Nickelodeon and its reruns of the old TV series). He recorded the Davy Jones classic, "I Want To Be Free." If you remember it, you'll recall a big heaping helping of schmaltzy lyric and a decidedly late '60s philosophical bent to the lyrics: "I want to be free, like the bluebird flying by me/like the waves out on the blue sea/if your love has to tie me/don't try me/say goodbye. . .", etc. I dug deep this weekend and pulled out the tune for Jeff, who wept, and during the performance, I saw a number of women singing along. Women of all ages, young and old. Very surprising, but there it is. Music is the thing you take with you your whole life. How many speeches, or movies, or TV show moments do you remember from 20 years ago? Yet, if I were to put on a song from that period that you cherished, you would probably remember the words, the way you wore your hair back then, the person you loved, and various other details. Music is amazing that way.
My brother, who was also at the wedding, began remembering our father, who died in 1978. My dad once played sax on the radio, though none of us ever heard him. Mostly he sold cars, and in the end he owned a bar. I played at his bar a few times, as a young, rebellious kid, and when I performed the Stones tune Sister Morphine, he fired me. I did a great rendition of a junkie singing that song, and couldn't understand why that would infuriate a parent (something I completely understand today). My mom also fired me from HER bar for singing that same song. So it was something my mother and father agreed upon, probably the only thing in decades. So again, the magic of music.
I was telling my brother, who is ten years my junior, about the time in 1962 when I first held a guitar in my hand. I was 8 years old, and living with my dad and stepmom in Kennewick, Washington. My dad had just hired four African American guys to sing a song called 'I Want A Car Just Like The Car that Caravan Sold My Dad,' sung to the tune of 'I Want A Girl, Just Like the Girl that Married Dear Old Dad.' The vocal group who performed the tune were copying The Mills Brothers, and one of the guys had a shiny red Gibson ES335 (the same guitar made famous, in black, by BB King). I remember my dad having the band over for dinner one night, probably after the recording session, and during one point, I picked up the guitar. My father rushed over and ordered me to put it down, but the guy who owned it said it was fine, I could play it. But my dad insisted, and I vowed that night to own my own guitar someday, and show him a thing or two. Today, I own 12 guitars and I love each of them, which includes, by the way, a black ES335. But the thing that strikes me now about that dinner was the fact that my dad had four African American guys over to the house for dinner in 1962. It gives me a completely different view of my dad, and I realize that he was pretty cool for his time. And if it weren't for the musical connection, I would never have recalled that night.
And if you wind up this Friday at Armando's (714 Marina Vista) at 8 p.m., you'll see another example of how music travels across time and space, intact and amazing as ever. Because you'll be lucky enough to see a show by the amazing Duo Gadjo, consisting of Jeff and Isabel Magdison. These two excellent musicians both sing and play guitar, but with a decidedly French twist. And Jeff also will astound when he pulls out his slide guitar and gets all Delta blues on you, while Isabel straps on the washboard and you realize how cool percussion can be when someone is wearing tin thimbles. These two cover a gamut of material from a century of French and American songbooks, and each has their own stamp on it. But each has a tradition of respect and affection for the origins of the music that shines through and transports the audience to the magical world this pair creates on stage. Listen closely to Jeff's guitar work; the intricacy and emotional fluidity is that of a seasoned professional who has become one with his instrument. Isabel sings with an ease and passion that will make you smile.
Myself, I won't be there. One of the other aspects of music that transports one is the out of town gig. I will be playing with a band called Going Grey at a bar called Cheers in Vacaville. It should be a fun time, and we'll be there Friday and Saturday night, so if you're in that part of the world, come by and say hi. Otherwise, get thee to Armando's and transport thyself.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Take Note, Martinez for July 17, 2008
Since You're Staying Home, Why Not Go Out?
The unfortunate term "Staycation" was coined this year, in the face of extraordinary economic woes, humonguous gas prices, and the airline industry's seeming need to implode itself into extinction. So people are staying home this year in droves, forgoing those trips to exotic faraway lands where the odds are fairly good that the residents don't like Americans anyway.
It's good to stay home. Travel is certainly a fine thing, broadening one's outlook and endowing a sense of unity with the world at large. But it is possible to get a renewed sense of your own place in the world by looking at it through new eyes, new experiences. For instance, this year I plan to take my family to Alcatraz, because I've never been there, though it's just a few miles and a ferry ride away. And so is the bike excursion I also have planned for Angel Island. Having these experiences will give me a renewed sense of why I live in the Bay Area, and bestow, for a tiny price, lifetime memories every bit as valuable as a trip to France. Though make no mistake -- if and when I get the wherewithal to hit Paris, I'm there.
That said, since this is a musical space, I would like to suggest some good old fashioned summertime excursions for you and yours this weekend. These suggestions will require some travel time, and some cash, since dinner and a door charge is involved in all instances. But then, if you can't spend some extravagent money on yourself and your beloved, why work?
So, here are some suggestions for a Bluesical weekend:
Friday
Steve Freund at Cafe Van Kleef, 1621 Telegraph Avenue, Oakland
I can't say enough about Steve Freund. As a blues guitarist myself, I'm not inclined to be kind to other blues guitarists, because we're a catty lot, us guitar players. But no one who knows anything about Chicago blues can deny the fact that Vallejo resident Steve Freund is the real deal, and if you love blues, he's a must-see. He played with Chicago blues legend Sunnyland Slim and a wealth of other blues masters, so he has first-hand experience with this genre. When I first went to see Steve at a tiny little Albany club, I sat for the first hour thinking to myself "this guy is nothing. I can do this." But slowly, as I continued to watch and listen, I realized that it wasn't the ferocity or the speed with which he played and sang, but the subtle way he strung his notes together, the vast library of blues riffs he knows, and his unerring instinct for what comes next. Steve burns down the house when he plays, but you don't know it until the end. He doesn't stomp and scream and make funny faces -- he just plays elegant guitar straight out of Chicago road houses, and you can't go wrong at a Steve Freund show. As to the venue, I can't attest to it, because I haven't been there. But Oakland is still regenerating itself, and the place is located next to City Hall, in Oaksterdam, which is a pretty hip part of town. So take a chance this Friday and go see Steve Freund. You won't be sorry.
Saturday
Birdlegg at Dotha's Juke Joint, 2nd Street, Oakland
Dotha's Juke Joint is actually in the basement of Everett and Jones' barbeque joint at the corner of Broadway and 2nd Street, at the entrance to Jack London Square. If you like ribs authentically cooked and presented, then you can't do better than E&J's. The restaurant upstairs actually has tableclothes and cloth napkins, which makes it kind of unusual for a rib joint, but the meat is exquisite and the sauce is amazing. But go downstairs, pay the cover and sit down. They'll serve you dinner down there, but the atmosphere is one of a juke joint in the south, or the south side of Chicago. And then the music starts, and the amazing Birdlegg will take you on a unique musical journey. Birdlegg is a force of nature. He plays harmonica and sings, backed up by an always-great band (including, many Saturdays, Steve Freund, but not this Saturday). When Birdlegg first arrived in town, back in the tail end of the 1970s, he was part of my musical outfit, and we played a variety of styles, from raunchy blues to country and western to Reggae, and he always had a unique approach to all of it. But in the 1980s and ever since, he's been devoted to blues. But not the kind you're used to. Birdlegg is an old-school blues man, taking the stage and taking no prisoners. His is an upbeat, unrelenting show of force. He never stops moving, and never stops smiling, and at the end, you realize that you haven't, either. It's a show well worth attending, and if my band wasn't playing a block party this Saturday, I'd be there myself, chomping on a plate of ribs and watching my old musical compadre burning up the stage.
So there you have it. A couple of suggestions for excellent music this weekend, if you've a mind to get out of Martinez for a bit. If not, Armando's is always an excellent alternative.
Tonight:
Jerry Hannan Duo, featuring a singer/songwriter accompanied by a slide guitarist. A couple of his songs were featured in the film "Into the Wild." Sounds intriguing...
Friday: Post-bop jazz with Peter Anastos and Iter.
Saturday: Joint, old-school rhythm and blues, with horns.
Whichever you choose, have a fabulous time. You deserve it. It's been a long week.
Take Note, Martinez for July 17, 2008
Since You're Staying Home, Why Not Go Out?
The unfortunate term "Staycation" was coined this year, in the face of extraordinary economic woes, humonguous gas prices, and the airline industry's seeming need to implode itself into extinction. So people are staying home this year in droves, forgoing those trips to exotic faraway lands where the odds are fairly good that the residents don't like Americans anyway.
It's good to stay home. Travel is certainly a fine thing, broadening one's outlook and endowing a sense of unity with the world at large. But it is possible to get a renewed sense of your own place in the world by looking at it through new eyes, new experiences. For instance, this year I plan to take my family to Alcatraz, because I've never been there, though it's just a few miles and a ferry ride away. And so is the bike excursion I also have planned for Angel Island. Having these experiences will give me a renewed sense of why I live in the Bay Area, and bestow, for a tiny price, lifetime memories every bit as valuable as a trip to France. Though make no mistake -- if and when I get the wherewithal to hit Paris, I'm there.
That said, since this is a musical space, I would like to suggest some good old fashioned summertime excursions for you and yours this weekend. These suggestions will require some travel time, and some cash, since dinner and a door charge is involved in all instances. But then, if you can't spend some extravagent money on yourself and your beloved, why work?
So, here are some suggestions for a Bluesical weekend:
Friday
Steve Freund at Cafe Van Kleef, 1621 Telegraph Avenue, Oakland
I can't say enough about Steve Freund. As a blues guitarist myself, I'm not inclined to be kind to other blues guitarists, because we're a catty lot, us guitar players. But no one who knows anything about Chicago blues can deny the fact that Vallejo resident Steve Freund is the real deal, and if you love blues, he's a must-see. He played with Chicago blues legend Sunnyland Slim and a wealth of other blues masters, so he has first-hand experience with this genre. When I first went to see Steve at a tiny little Albany club, I sat for the first hour thinking to myself "this guy is nothing. I can do this." But slowly, as I continued to watch and listen, I realized that it wasn't the ferocity or the speed with which he played and sang, but the subtle way he strung his notes together, the vast library of blues riffs he knows, and his unerring instinct for what comes next. Steve burns down the house when he plays, but you don't know it until the end. He doesn't stomp and scream and make funny faces -- he just plays elegant guitar straight out of Chicago road houses, and you can't go wrong at a Steve Freund show. As to the venue, I can't attest to it, because I haven't been there. But Oakland is still regenerating itself, and the place is located next to City Hall, in Oaksterdam, which is a pretty hip part of town. So take a chance this Friday and go see Steve Freund. You won't be sorry.
Saturday
Birdlegg at Dotha's Juke Joint, 2nd Street, Oakland
Dotha's Juke Joint is actually in the basement of Everett and Jones' barbeque joint at the corner of Broadway and 2nd Street, at the entrance to Jack London Square. If you like ribs authentically cooked and presented, then you can't do better than E&J's. The restaurant upstairs actually has tableclothes and cloth napkins, which makes it kind of unusual for a rib joint, but the meat is exquisite and the sauce is amazing. But go downstairs, pay the cover and sit down. They'll serve you dinner down there, but the atmosphere is one of a juke joint in the south, or the south side of Chicago. And then the music starts, and the amazing Birdlegg will take you on a unique musical journey. Birdlegg is a force of nature. He plays harmonica and sings, backed up by an always-great band (including, many Saturdays, Steve Freund, but not this Saturday). When Birdlegg first arrived in town, back in the tail end of the 1970s, he was part of my musical outfit, and we played a variety of styles, from raunchy blues to country and western to Reggae, and he always had a unique approach to all of it. But in the 1980s and ever since, he's been devoted to blues. But not the kind you're used to. Birdlegg is an old-school blues man, taking the stage and taking no prisoners. His is an upbeat, unrelenting show of force. He never stops moving, and never stops smiling, and at the end, you realize that you haven't, either. It's a show well worth attending, and if my band wasn't playing a block party this Saturday, I'd be there myself, chomping on a plate of ribs and watching my old musical compadre burning up the stage.
So there you have it. A couple of suggestions for excellent music this weekend, if you've a mind to get out of Martinez for a bit. If not, Armando's is always an excellent alternative.
Tonight:
Jerry Hannan Duo, featuring a singer/songwriter accompanied by a slide guitarist. A couple of his songs were featured in the film "Into the Wild." Sounds intriguing...
Friday: Post-bop jazz with Peter Anastos and Iter.
Saturday: Joint, old-school rhythm and blues, with horns.
Whichever you choose, have a fabulous time. You deserve it. It's been a long week.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Take Note, Martinez July 10, 2008
People of the Sound, Part II
The last time I weighed in here, we talked about People of the Sound, those wonderful men and women (though mostly men, for some reason) who toil tirelessly and invisibly behind the mixing board at live performances. Now, there was some talk that I was a little, um, harsh on the People of the Sound, that perhaps the column was seen as an attack on sound people. Well, hardly. No, my point was only that sometimes the elaborate and oh-so-precise adjustments some of these folks make in what are, after all, small and funky rooms, seems a little silly to me sometimes. But gas prices, real estate and the present administration also seem silly to me, so what the heck do I know? I'm a guitar player, not a sound scholar. And I have nothing but appreciation for the folks who run sound at any of my gigs. And I thank them.
Now, while we're on the subject of sound, there are folks around here who do tremendous work with sound, and often do it for free. When an event happens, and music or speeches are involved, you need a sound person. And most of the time, when that happens in Martinez, that sound person is photographer extraordinaire Robert Perry. This guy is selfless to a fault. When he was in my band, I used to lecture him about not taking every benefit gig that came our way, because unlike Robert, I am not selfless and giving to an extreme. He so believes in this town and its people that he thinks nothing of setting up and running sound for just about any major (or minor) event, for gratis. I don't know that he ever gets the proper recognition for that, so I'd like to thank him for the countless times he's done that for my band.
Now, let's take a look at People of the Sound on a global basis. If you have Nexfilx (and if you don't, you should), there are a couple of documentaries about music and sound and their pioneers that you should see.
The first is 'Tom Dowd and the Language of Music.' Odds are you've never heard of Tom Dowd, but you have heard what Tom Dowd has done, of that there is no question. This gentleman was originally involved in developing the atomic bomb, and when he saw what his work had done, he dropped it and became instead a sound engineer. But to call him that is to hardly give him the credit he so justly deserves. Tom Dowd was the engineer for generations of musical legends, and he helped them shape their sound and their legacies. Let's give a 'for instance'; in the movie "Ray," which is about Ray Charles and definitely a movie you should see at least three times, Ray is a young man recording in a small studio for Atlantic Records. There is a young guy in the studio named Tom who is telling Ray about the latest thing in recording -- eight separate tracks that you can record on individually, one at a time, allowing for the ability to sing harmony with yourself, or whatever else you can imagine. That Tom character referred to is none other than Tom Dowd, who in fact did record much of the Ray Charles Atlantic period, which is, for my money, his finest work. Tom talks about that in his documentary, as well as recording Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gilespie, Thelonious Monk, Lynryd Skynryd, Booker T and the MGs and the Allman Brothers. He produced a lot of those sessions. But what brings the tears to my particular eyes are the sections in which he describes recording a new band named Cream, with a very young Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce. In this three piece band, the musicians are trying to figure out how to get the rhythm right for a tune called "Sunshine of Your Love." Despite the fact that none of the three stars really care what a lowly engineer has to say about music, he suggests trying a Native American tom-tom feel. It's a ridiculous suggestion, but if you listen to the recording, that's what you'll hear. A lot of the documentary is devoted to Tom's production of an album that I personally feel is one of the finest albums ever made by anyone, anywhere -- Layla, by Derek and the Dominos. Derek, by the way, was also Eric Clapton. He was making his love offering to Patty Boyd Harrison, Beatle George Harrison's wife, with whom he had fallen in love. The double album features searing vocals, lead guitar work the likes of which has never been replicated, and some amazing slide from Dwayne Allman. Tom Down produced it, a feat of strength and focus, given the fact that the entire band was well on its way to serious heroin addiction. A must-see for music lovers.
The other film is "Les Paul, Chasing Sound." It's about another innovator, a man who not only invented the eight-track tape recorder, but overdubbing, solid body guitars, and music that startled a lot of people in the 1950s. The film is short on clips from the old days, and features a lot of modern talking heads saying how much they love Les Paul and his music, but there is enough archival material in there to give you a sense of just how important this man was to the way we listen to and enjoy music today. One part that is missing is the fact that he created the finest solid body guitar ever made, which still bears his name, and one of which you will see me play at most of my gigs.
Ok, that's it for this week. Next week, we go into the field and see who's playing where.
Take Note, Martinez July 10, 2008
People of the Sound, Part II
The last time I weighed in here, we talked about People of the Sound, those wonderful men and women (though mostly men, for some reason) who toil tirelessly and invisibly behind the mixing board at live performances. Now, there was some talk that I was a little, um, harsh on the People of the Sound, that perhaps the column was seen as an attack on sound people. Well, hardly. No, my point was only that sometimes the elaborate and oh-so-precise adjustments some of these folks make in what are, after all, small and funky rooms, seems a little silly to me sometimes. But gas prices, real estate and the present administration also seem silly to me, so what the heck do I know? I'm a guitar player, not a sound scholar. And I have nothing but appreciation for the folks who run sound at any of my gigs. And I thank them.
Now, while we're on the subject of sound, there are folks around here who do tremendous work with sound, and often do it for free. When an event happens, and music or speeches are involved, you need a sound person. And most of the time, when that happens in Martinez, that sound person is photographer extraordinaire Robert Perry. This guy is selfless to a fault. When he was in my band, I used to lecture him about not taking every benefit gig that came our way, because unlike Robert, I am not selfless and giving to an extreme. He so believes in this town and its people that he thinks nothing of setting up and running sound for just about any major (or minor) event, for gratis. I don't know that he ever gets the proper recognition for that, so I'd like to thank him for the countless times he's done that for my band.
Now, let's take a look at People of the Sound on a global basis. If you have Nexfilx (and if you don't, you should), there are a couple of documentaries about music and sound and their pioneers that you should see.
The first is 'Tom Dowd and the Language of Music.' Odds are you've never heard of Tom Dowd, but you have heard what Tom Dowd has done, of that there is no question. This gentleman was originally involved in developing the atomic bomb, and when he saw what his work had done, he dropped it and became instead a sound engineer. But to call him that is to hardly give him the credit he so justly deserves. Tom Dowd was the engineer for generations of musical legends, and he helped them shape their sound and their legacies. Let's give a 'for instance'; in the movie "Ray," which is about Ray Charles and definitely a movie you should see at least three times, Ray is a young man recording in a small studio for Atlantic Records. There is a young guy in the studio named Tom who is telling Ray about the latest thing in recording -- eight separate tracks that you can record on individually, one at a time, allowing for the ability to sing harmony with yourself, or whatever else you can imagine. That Tom character referred to is none other than Tom Dowd, who in fact did record much of the Ray Charles Atlantic period, which is, for my money, his finest work. Tom talks about that in his documentary, as well as recording Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gilespie, Thelonious Monk, Lynryd Skynryd, Booker T and the MGs and the Allman Brothers. He produced a lot of those sessions. But what brings the tears to my particular eyes are the sections in which he describes recording a new band named Cream, with a very young Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce. In this three piece band, the musicians are trying to figure out how to get the rhythm right for a tune called "Sunshine of Your Love." Despite the fact that none of the three stars really care what a lowly engineer has to say about music, he suggests trying a Native American tom-tom feel. It's a ridiculous suggestion, but if you listen to the recording, that's what you'll hear. A lot of the documentary is devoted to Tom's production of an album that I personally feel is one of the finest albums ever made by anyone, anywhere -- Layla, by Derek and the Dominos. Derek, by the way, was also Eric Clapton. He was making his love offering to Patty Boyd Harrison, Beatle George Harrison's wife, with whom he had fallen in love. The double album features searing vocals, lead guitar work the likes of which has never been replicated, and some amazing slide from Dwayne Allman. Tom Down produced it, a feat of strength and focus, given the fact that the entire band was well on its way to serious heroin addiction. A must-see for music lovers.
The other film is "Les Paul, Chasing Sound." It's about another innovator, a man who not only invented the eight-track tape recorder, but overdubbing, solid body guitars, and music that startled a lot of people in the 1950s. The film is short on clips from the old days, and features a lot of modern talking heads saying how much they love Les Paul and his music, but there is enough archival material in there to give you a sense of just how important this man was to the way we listen to and enjoy music today. One part that is missing is the fact that he created the finest solid body guitar ever made, which still bears his name, and one of which you will see me play at most of my gigs.
Ok, that's it for this week. Next week, we go into the field and see who's playing where.
Take Note, Martinez for July 3, 2008
No Holding Forth on the Fourth of July?
I, for one, am glad we are not having a Fourth of July party at Waterfront Park this year. Our leaders -- the City Council, Chamber of Commerce and Main Street Martinez -- are showing their usual insight and intelligence in keeping us safe from terrorism in a post-911 world.
Think about it, folks. What better time for the terrorists to strike than at a celebration of our freedom? The kids, the parents, the grandparents, the nephews and cousins and kin are all having a fine time at the dunk tank, the beer booth, the meat stick vendor. . . and what better target for terrorism than that? What better way for the evildoers to show how much they hate our freedom than to strike at a celebration of that very freedom?
Yes, it's a canny and brilliant move. Take away that celebration, and you take away the opportunity to strike terror into the hearts of freedom-loving Martinez people everywhere. We stay safe, and the terrorists lose. Take that, Osama bin Laden.
Back in the pre-911 world, when it was safe to celebrate the Fourth of July, one of the things the Waterfront party did provide was a number of stages for bands to play all day long. There were country bands, blues bands, rock bands. . . it was one big cacophony, and most of the band were from around these parts. Imagine that -- the promoters of this event managed to fill an entire day with bands from around here, without having to reach out to DVC for entertainment. Ah, those were the days. These days, apparently, there are no local bands, but that's another story.
The first year I worked for the Martinez News Gazette, 1984, the City Council decided to have a song contest, because at that time San Francisco was having one. And the contest would be held at -- the Fourth of July. Now, lest you think the City Council was at that time a bastion of tax and spend liberals, we had on board a newly-elected Mike Menesini, Gary Hernandez, and Bill Polleck, who is now the county Tax Collector, and who was then the proud bearer of the Republican banner (and he still is, make no mistake). And they had no problem with a Fourth of July party. Still, they had this song contest -- write a song about Martinez and win a prize. I can't remember the prize, because I didn't win. I did go on TV, on one of those morning shows, and sing my entry. I still have the tape. But I didn't win. A woman from Antioch won, with her entry "Martinez by the Old Carquinez." You remember that song, right? Hey, Mr. Menesini, you voted for that song, care to sing us a few bars? No, I'm not bitter about losing the song contest. I had years to beat up on all of them afterwards as a reporter. So it worked out. And now, I have a forum in which to print the lyrics to my song, which didn't win, called "The Lights of Martinez."
I love the lights of Martinez
I love the lay of the land
And just as a secret between us
Life here is awfully grand.
Stars always shine in Martinez
right through the cloudiest sky, so
if you should come to Martinez
I know you won't say goodbye.
Where the bocce balls roll
through the light and the dark
and the couples stroll by arm in arm
heart in heart,
look for me down in Waterfront Park
alive and well in Martinez
(repeat chorus)
There are other verses, of course, but the ravages of time have claimed them.
Then there was the time that various council members decided to use my band's time to make speeches about stuff. Hahahahahaha. We would play a song, and Menesini or Polleck or Hernandez would take the stage and stand in front of a mike and try to say something. They were unaware of the power of the power chord. Guitarists and drummers like to make little noises between songs. But those little noises, up on the stage, are pretty big noises. Bigger than, say, a person trying to talk.
One of the last Fourth of July events I played featured the newly-formed Jim Caroompas Band (Cary Griffin, RIP), and we were just rocking along. It was very hot outside, and my ex-wife was hanging around for some reason. Out in the crowd, a woman in a purple belly-dancing outfit was walking around, looking very strange. After the gig was over, I was talking to my ex-wife, and she was just obsessed with the girl in purple out in the crowd. "Do you see that woman? Jeez, what is wrong with her? She looks so strange in that outfit on a day like this."
My look told her everything.
"That is not your new girlfriend. Is it?"
Well, it wasn't for long, not after that. But the point is, those kinds of special moments can only happen at a Fourth of July party at the Waterfront. And now the party is over. Long live the party. And have a happy, and safe (and if you live in Martinez, boring) Fourth of July, everyone...
No Holding Forth on the Fourth of July?
I, for one, am glad we are not having a Fourth of July party at Waterfront Park this year. Our leaders -- the City Council, Chamber of Commerce and Main Street Martinez -- are showing their usual insight and intelligence in keeping us safe from terrorism in a post-911 world.
Think about it, folks. What better time for the terrorists to strike than at a celebration of our freedom? The kids, the parents, the grandparents, the nephews and cousins and kin are all having a fine time at the dunk tank, the beer booth, the meat stick vendor. . . and what better target for terrorism than that? What better way for the evildoers to show how much they hate our freedom than to strike at a celebration of that very freedom?
Yes, it's a canny and brilliant move. Take away that celebration, and you take away the opportunity to strike terror into the hearts of freedom-loving Martinez people everywhere. We stay safe, and the terrorists lose. Take that, Osama bin Laden.
Back in the pre-911 world, when it was safe to celebrate the Fourth of July, one of the things the Waterfront party did provide was a number of stages for bands to play all day long. There were country bands, blues bands, rock bands. . . it was one big cacophony, and most of the band were from around these parts. Imagine that -- the promoters of this event managed to fill an entire day with bands from around here, without having to reach out to DVC for entertainment. Ah, those were the days. These days, apparently, there are no local bands, but that's another story.
The first year I worked for the Martinez News Gazette, 1984, the City Council decided to have a song contest, because at that time San Francisco was having one. And the contest would be held at -- the Fourth of July. Now, lest you think the City Council was at that time a bastion of tax and spend liberals, we had on board a newly-elected Mike Menesini, Gary Hernandez, and Bill Polleck, who is now the county Tax Collector, and who was then the proud bearer of the Republican banner (and he still is, make no mistake). And they had no problem with a Fourth of July party. Still, they had this song contest -- write a song about Martinez and win a prize. I can't remember the prize, because I didn't win. I did go on TV, on one of those morning shows, and sing my entry. I still have the tape. But I didn't win. A woman from Antioch won, with her entry "Martinez by the Old Carquinez." You remember that song, right? Hey, Mr. Menesini, you voted for that song, care to sing us a few bars? No, I'm not bitter about losing the song contest. I had years to beat up on all of them afterwards as a reporter. So it worked out. And now, I have a forum in which to print the lyrics to my song, which didn't win, called "The Lights of Martinez."
I love the lights of Martinez
I love the lay of the land
And just as a secret between us
Life here is awfully grand.
Stars always shine in Martinez
right through the cloudiest sky, so
if you should come to Martinez
I know you won't say goodbye.
Where the bocce balls roll
through the light and the dark
and the couples stroll by arm in arm
heart in heart,
look for me down in Waterfront Park
alive and well in Martinez
(repeat chorus)
There are other verses, of course, but the ravages of time have claimed them.
Then there was the time that various council members decided to use my band's time to make speeches about stuff. Hahahahahaha. We would play a song, and Menesini or Polleck or Hernandez would take the stage and stand in front of a mike and try to say something. They were unaware of the power of the power chord. Guitarists and drummers like to make little noises between songs. But those little noises, up on the stage, are pretty big noises. Bigger than, say, a person trying to talk.
One of the last Fourth of July events I played featured the newly-formed Jim Caroompas Band (Cary Griffin, RIP), and we were just rocking along. It was very hot outside, and my ex-wife was hanging around for some reason. Out in the crowd, a woman in a purple belly-dancing outfit was walking around, looking very strange. After the gig was over, I was talking to my ex-wife, and she was just obsessed with the girl in purple out in the crowd. "Do you see that woman? Jeez, what is wrong with her? She looks so strange in that outfit on a day like this."
My look told her everything.
"That is not your new girlfriend. Is it?"
Well, it wasn't for long, not after that. But the point is, those kinds of special moments can only happen at a Fourth of July party at the Waterfront. And now the party is over. Long live the party. And have a happy, and safe (and if you live in Martinez, boring) Fourth of July, everyone...
Take Note, Martinez June 19, 2008
Behind the Stage: The Sound and Sometimes the Fury
Just about any concert you attend has a major element you may not even be aware of: there is generally a sound system, and where there is a sound system, there is a person who is tasked with running that sound system. Now, this may seem like a simple enough task -- plug in the microphones, the instruments, turn up the volume to an appropriate level, and let the show begin. And in a vastly simpler world, such would certainly be the case. But that's not the world we live in. Not at all.
You see, there are entire schools of sound. There are people who are pro-rolloff, and those who are opposed to rolloff beyond a certain frequency. There are those who feel like a high-end boost for the singer would be more out of line than offering tea to Osama Bin Laden. And others who see a low-end tendency as the direct work of the devil. Take a look at the modern sound board, and check out buttons and knobs and other thingies, and you'll see that these things were not designed for working musicians, but rather for sound people. People of the Sound, as I've come to call them.
Let me try to break it down. For nearly four decades, I've been the guy who has owned and operated the PA (public address) system, the heavy, obtrusive and essential collection of speakers, amplifiers and mixing boards that make up a typical sound system. This is largely due to the fact that 1) I've owned the PA system, and 2) owned the van large enough to carry said PA system. My technique for sculpting the sound in a typical band situation goes like this: plug in the mikes for the singers, turn me down more than the others (I sing with, um, gusto), put a little more treble on the mix than bass, turn up the volume until it feeds back, then turn down the volume about two notches, and walk away. Done. Sound is set up and ready to go.
But every now and then, we'd play a job where there was a sound system installed, and a person to run it. At that point, we would do something called a "sound check." This consists of standing in front of each and every mike, and going "test, test" for about ten minutes each, until the sound person nods and we move on to the next mike. And then, lo and behold, the instruments would also get miked. Drums would get miked, amplifiers would get miked, everything. Even in small clubs. Why go to all that trouble to mike everything in a small club, when you already have enough amplifiers and drums to carry the day unmiked?
Well, turns out that's not a question you want to ask a sound person. I've asked on a number of occasions, and I get a look like I'm a total moron. And ok, maybe I am a total moron. But why mike drums in a room the size of an average living room? Do we think the drums won't get heard? And why would you mike my guitar amp in a room that size? Is there a danger that I will be drowned out by the miked drums?
Well, the answer, as it was offered to me, is this. Apparently there is a theory that the drum sound won't carry over the frequencies of the other sounds -- bass guitar and regular guitar -- so you mike the drums and poof! out comes clear, pure drum sounds. And then why mike the guitar amp? Well, never got an answer on that one, but here's my theory -- sound people like to be in charge. Sound people are very, very territorial about the air space they are in charge of, and that means no tin-eared musician is going to decide what the audience gets to hear, and how the audience gets to hear it. No, no. The sound person is in charge of that.
Not long ago, I was playing at a local nightspot, and the sound person wanted to mike my guitar amp. Well, I'm old and grizzly enough now to refuse the offer with impunity. So I do, and halfway through the night, the sound person whispers into the monitors that I need to turn down my amp, which is not up all that high (because, folks, believe me, I KNOW how to play loud, and I know when it's not that loud). So I do turn it down, and now the band can't hear me. As the primary rhythm instrument, I need to be heard, so I turn back up. And then I do the worst thing a musician can do in this situation -- I ask the audience if I'm too loud. They all come back with a very loud "No!" and the show continues. But it was clear from that point on that I am not a favorite person of the sound guy. Why? Because I took control of the air space, and the performance. The nerve.
This is not to say that sound persons aren't welcome fixtures at a performance. They certainly are. But my goodness, many do tend to take the whole thing to a level of seriousness that seems rather over the top. This is undoubtedly in the name of wanting the best results for the band in question, and I will probably reap the results of this column at future shows with sound persons who read this space.
Nevertheless, let me say that, when it comes to running sound, thank you to all those brave sound persons who endure not only way too much volume from the out of control musicians, but who also brave the abuse of said musicians later, who vent their puny frustrations in local publications. To you I say, roll off the 80 hertz frequency and turn up the reverb!
Behind the Stage: The Sound and Sometimes the Fury
Just about any concert you attend has a major element you may not even be aware of: there is generally a sound system, and where there is a sound system, there is a person who is tasked with running that sound system. Now, this may seem like a simple enough task -- plug in the microphones, the instruments, turn up the volume to an appropriate level, and let the show begin. And in a vastly simpler world, such would certainly be the case. But that's not the world we live in. Not at all.
You see, there are entire schools of sound. There are people who are pro-rolloff, and those who are opposed to rolloff beyond a certain frequency. There are those who feel like a high-end boost for the singer would be more out of line than offering tea to Osama Bin Laden. And others who see a low-end tendency as the direct work of the devil. Take a look at the modern sound board, and check out buttons and knobs and other thingies, and you'll see that these things were not designed for working musicians, but rather for sound people. People of the Sound, as I've come to call them.
Let me try to break it down. For nearly four decades, I've been the guy who has owned and operated the PA (public address) system, the heavy, obtrusive and essential collection of speakers, amplifiers and mixing boards that make up a typical sound system. This is largely due to the fact that 1) I've owned the PA system, and 2) owned the van large enough to carry said PA system. My technique for sculpting the sound in a typical band situation goes like this: plug in the mikes for the singers, turn me down more than the others (I sing with, um, gusto), put a little more treble on the mix than bass, turn up the volume until it feeds back, then turn down the volume about two notches, and walk away. Done. Sound is set up and ready to go.
But every now and then, we'd play a job where there was a sound system installed, and a person to run it. At that point, we would do something called a "sound check." This consists of standing in front of each and every mike, and going "test, test" for about ten minutes each, until the sound person nods and we move on to the next mike. And then, lo and behold, the instruments would also get miked. Drums would get miked, amplifiers would get miked, everything. Even in small clubs. Why go to all that trouble to mike everything in a small club, when you already have enough amplifiers and drums to carry the day unmiked?
Well, turns out that's not a question you want to ask a sound person. I've asked on a number of occasions, and I get a look like I'm a total moron. And ok, maybe I am a total moron. But why mike drums in a room the size of an average living room? Do we think the drums won't get heard? And why would you mike my guitar amp in a room that size? Is there a danger that I will be drowned out by the miked drums?
Well, the answer, as it was offered to me, is this. Apparently there is a theory that the drum sound won't carry over the frequencies of the other sounds -- bass guitar and regular guitar -- so you mike the drums and poof! out comes clear, pure drum sounds. And then why mike the guitar amp? Well, never got an answer on that one, but here's my theory -- sound people like to be in charge. Sound people are very, very territorial about the air space they are in charge of, and that means no tin-eared musician is going to decide what the audience gets to hear, and how the audience gets to hear it. No, no. The sound person is in charge of that.
Not long ago, I was playing at a local nightspot, and the sound person wanted to mike my guitar amp. Well, I'm old and grizzly enough now to refuse the offer with impunity. So I do, and halfway through the night, the sound person whispers into the monitors that I need to turn down my amp, which is not up all that high (because, folks, believe me, I KNOW how to play loud, and I know when it's not that loud). So I do turn it down, and now the band can't hear me. As the primary rhythm instrument, I need to be heard, so I turn back up. And then I do the worst thing a musician can do in this situation -- I ask the audience if I'm too loud. They all come back with a very loud "No!" and the show continues. But it was clear from that point on that I am not a favorite person of the sound guy. Why? Because I took control of the air space, and the performance. The nerve.
This is not to say that sound persons aren't welcome fixtures at a performance. They certainly are. But my goodness, many do tend to take the whole thing to a level of seriousness that seems rather over the top. This is undoubtedly in the name of wanting the best results for the band in question, and I will probably reap the results of this column at future shows with sound persons who read this space.
Nevertheless, let me say that, when it comes to running sound, thank you to all those brave sound persons who endure not only way too much volume from the out of control musicians, but who also brave the abuse of said musicians later, who vent their puny frustrations in local publications. To you I say, roll off the 80 hertz frequency and turn up the reverb!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A Musical Weekend - September 4, 2006
On Saturday, my good friends Bill Horton and Mike Maxwell, along with new friend Greg Kelly, played a private party at the Point Marina Yacht Club. This is always a fun group of folks who like to dance and they like our band, so what's not to like? There's a pretty big room where we play, and a separate room with a bar for folks to get away from the music and talk if they want, so no one resents the music. Barbara was there, and good thing, too, because my new Fender Deluxe amp blew a fuse during the fourth song, so while Bill and Mike went to Mike's house for a replacement, Barb, Kelly and I did some acoustic tunes. Whew.
The next day was the final Sunset By the Lake concert in Pleasant Hill. Same group, same songs -- a couple of Who tunes, a Jim Reeves, blues (of course), just a wide variety of stuff. The crowd was huge, and the response was great. Of course, the incredible Frankie G came and dazzled everyone with his astounding fireworks. And Lesley and her family were also there, so it was a pretty special evening for us.
Finally, yesterday, Labor Day, was a Mojo Madness gig at noon at the Del Rio Hotel in Isleton. What a place. Fortunately, Lesley and her friend Shelly came and that made it pretty all right. But the town and the bar are just weird. Kind of old and unkept. Not very healthy or vital, just sort of laid back and strange, in a toothless kind of way.
So today I'm going to deal with the amp situation. I defintely want a new one, and not one he thinks he's going to fix and return. In all the time I've played music, I've never had a fuse blow on me. This sucks.
But it's a small thing in light of all the great opportunities I got to play with some amazing people for three days in a row. Really spectacular, and I'm so grateful.
The next day was the final Sunset By the Lake concert in Pleasant Hill. Same group, same songs -- a couple of Who tunes, a Jim Reeves, blues (of course), just a wide variety of stuff. The crowd was huge, and the response was great. Of course, the incredible Frankie G came and dazzled everyone with his astounding fireworks. And Lesley and her family were also there, so it was a pretty special evening for us.
Finally, yesterday, Labor Day, was a Mojo Madness gig at noon at the Del Rio Hotel in Isleton. What a place. Fortunately, Lesley and her friend Shelly came and that made it pretty all right. But the town and the bar are just weird. Kind of old and unkept. Not very healthy or vital, just sort of laid back and strange, in a toothless kind of way.
So today I'm going to deal with the amp situation. I defintely want a new one, and not one he thinks he's going to fix and return. In all the time I've played music, I've never had a fuse blow on me. This sucks.
But it's a small thing in light of all the great opportunities I got to play with some amazing people for three days in a row. Really spectacular, and I'm so grateful.
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