In memory of the men and women who have served our country in war and peace, in times of disaster and disorder. I hope they will always be there, just as I hope we can call on them less and less often.
Face the Music
I went to two performances recently that I loved. Both were terrible.
First, we stood outside on a chilly evening to see the marching bands in town for the Vermont All-State Music Festival. We’re a small, rural state, and there’s a wide gulf between the can-it-be-real Asian drum corps videos you find on YouTube and these young stalwarts. But they shuffled and puffed and stomped through town in whatever uniform elements they had and they played their one or two songs. I bet (hope) many of the kids who complained the loudest to their teachers and parents made great memories that time they traveled to Brattleboro and played all weekend with all those other kids…
The next day, I went to the end-of-semester recital at the Vermont Jazz Center. Six ensembles, each did three tunes, ranging from kids who could mostly but not quite play the tunes to a couple of community adult groups who were really good. The Soubrette Jazz Choir was a highlight, although I can’t find any video to link to.
As I said, a lot of what I heard was terrible… and yet. They were up there, learning, working together, trying, and reminding cynical, Trump-freaked me why it just might be OK, at least for a while longer.
Happy Zombie Jesus Day
from the whole pride.
I really tried to come up with a way to turn “pride” into “parade” because then I could do something with “Easter Parade.” And with those oh-so-fabulous ears, I’ve got Pride in there too! Maybe it’s how Paula Deen pronounces both pride and parade, puh-ride?
But I couldn’t find it, the elusive thread to tie it all together. I still think it’s out there, and if I could call the Daily Show writers maybe we could find it together. What a proud moment if we caught that meme, the kind of wordplay to bring the whole post back to life, worthy of celebrating with a ticker tape…
Or else the joke wouldn’t work, it might really lay a big multicolored egg.
Boxer, motorcyclist, wordsmith, cartoonist, and entertainer
Another Hartford gem.
I didn’t know about this guy until walking by the plaque last night after work. What a great epitaph.
Kim and Bill’s Excellent Adventure
We’re in Houston for an interview, which gives us an unexpected chance for a little family visit.
On Saturday night, Brother Frank (there’s also an Uncle Frank, and somehow Brother Frank has always rolled easily off this only child’s tongue) surprised us with tickets to a jazz event. It was put on by Kim Prevost and Bill Solley, a couple he’s seen play lots of times and knows through a network of mutual friends.
Things started off with us having to find Lucky Run recording studio, around back in a building even a Realtor would describe as gray, anonymous and industrial.
But once we got inside, it started to look more like I expected… framed records on the wall, lots of name-checking (Solange! Lady Gaga!), and a young man behind the desk who clearly had other things to do.
I said ‘event’ on purpose, because this was a hybrid of concert and recording session. As VIP ticket holders, we got to sit in the master control room. Each musician was in a separate room (though all could see each other through windows). Here’s Bill in his room on the left, then Kim, then the background singers.
Drums, bass, and two keyboardists were off to the right. Because of that setup, each musician could be on their own track (or tracks: the drum kit had eight), while listening to while on headphones.
We got running commentary from the engineer, which was really interesting and all new to me. Most of the time he was just letting it run, but occasionally he would fiddle with something. He would turn players on and off on our monitors to explain how a recording gets made and edited. Lots of dials and switches.
Kim and Bill are from New Orleans, part of the great post-Katrina diaspora like Brattleboro’s own Samirah Evans (they’ve been on multiple festivals together back in the day). The music was great, soulful and jazzy, and complex enough to listen to way more than once. They did two complete shows, and will produce a DVD of the session and a fully edited recording.
Maybe this is a new performance concept or maybe not… but it was new to me. I thought it was a really cool way for them to pay for some studio time while cultivating a much deeper audience connection than in a regular lounge setting.
Thanks, Brother Frank!
Stella by Starlight
Followed immediately by A Sunday Kind of Love. With these historic chansons, my clarinet “playing out” cherry has been popped.
For the last few months I’ve been going sporadically to the Wednesday night open jam at the Vermont Jazz Center, trying to follow along in my own score. Last night I actually got the horn out of the case… and got up… and played a few numbers.
Astoundingly… I didn’t die! I mean, most fourth-graders could’ve done better, but in terms of actually physically dying, it didn’t happen. I hit more notes than I missed, and only squeaked a few times. I hit the pickup notes on Sunday Kind of Love sweet and clear, all by myself. I solo’ed.
There’s a whole A&E documentary series to be made about these Wednesday sessions and the people who show up. From working professional jazz men to the busboy at my local bar to the girl singer (sorry, my language-correct sisters… in this world you’re a girl singer until you’ve got grandkids and rehab on your CV) (and maybe more) whose pure voice seems ripe for coaching and more practice, everybody plays as well as they play, they all figure out each week how to make the available instruments work together, and they all have a good time doing it.
My debut was recognized warmly, particularly by the pianist, a retired psychotherapist, and so perhaps especially empathetic to my abject terror. This is an overtly, intentionally supportive environment, and I needed every bit of that support. Maybe it’s better to say they didn’t let me die, and thank you for that.
Whew! What a rush. Having now tasted the limelight… I’ll be back.
The Emblem Museum
We went for an afternoon walk about town yesterday and chanced on a signboard that read “Emblem Museum.” Ok, I’ll bite…
It’s upstairs near Bhava Yoga on Elliot Street, and a beautiful space. It’s really two rooms full of paintings, which take their inspiration from Ethiopian scrolls and a Victorian travel book found in an attic.
Julia Zanes, the artist and proprietor, greeted us warmly. We learned that ‘museum’ might not be quite the right word, but ‘gallery’ sounded too commercial. She explained both the creative and physical processes behind the painting series, which resonated with me… finding this this old F. Hopkinson Smith book in the attic of her new home, connecting somehow with these old scrolls, hanging out with someone who just happens to do gold leaf… and a few hundred hours later you have Art. And art we liked, it would look good in this house.
As a side project she makes puppets and does puppetry, because why not, and hopes to put on shows for kids, but maybe with less disturbing puppets, so they don’t cry. Good idea, but as grown ups we thought the creepy puppets were really cool. And also creepy.
Can Brattleboro support another somewhat esoteric gallery/museum? One is hopeful, but… I’m glad we got to see it and meet her now.
Everett Raymond Kinstler
I was glad to see this interview with Kinstler flash across my news feed the other day.
I heard him speak at the Mark Twain Library in Redding, CT a dozen or so years ago, and got a couple signed copies of his book of portraits. Since then, it’s been fun to see some of his works around New York and DC.
Masque-ical mystery tour
Last night we hosted a murder mystery party. It’s something we’ve done a few times before, always a good way to tease a little theater out of people from whom you might not expect it. The pacing of this kit, which was all mingling and noshing, worked better than some others with a big elaborate meal.
Lee and Kim put in a ton of planning, and it all went off beautifully. We had a character named Gary played by a guy named Gary, an electrician played by an electrician, and I even got to play a sleazy, er, misunderstood, computer consultant. 
The theme was a masked ball in the castle. Everyone had a motive to kill the victim, who after being stabbed in the bathroom had to spend the rest of the evening in an orange vest and a lighted marabou-trimmed halo: a fate worse than death?? And everyone had a few drinks, including, naturally, Bloody Mary shots.
I’m the man in gray (bonus points for Specials fans who know the next line of that song). And technically Gary was in gray while I was in pewter…
And then, mystery solved, it was all over… if anybody wants to come by this weekend, there’s leftovers!
Five is old enough for cat videos
The blog turned five last month, which went unheralded at the time. But surely that’s a milestone, especially in Internet years, where it’s gotta be like a hundred.
To celebrate, I present my very first actual cat video. It’s not long, but there’s layers and nuance.
If I were terminally ill– which I’m not, but if I were — I think my make-a-wish might be to have Werner Herzog deconstruct this so we could understand it more fully.
Graffito
We found this particularly enigmatic note on the base of a lamppost the other evening. I’m convinced it’s an omen… my life has had more than the usual share of buffets, and now is about to acquire another.
Way way long ago, one of the first pieces of grownup furniture I ever bought was a mahogany buffet in an 18th century style. It was painted white at the time, and I got it for what seemed like a song. We kept it through several moves, eventually refinished it (so-so results) (don’t use a pressure washer), and finally traded it for a smaller hutch when we moved to a more constrained house in Alameda.
Under circumstances I don’t exactly remember, we acquired a print by depressive French artist Bernard Buffet, and then another and another.
Now, as it happens, I’m in the market for a clarinet, and it turns out that one of the brands to consider is a Buffet (actually it’s Buffet Crampon, but that sounds even less sexy in English than in its native French). Buffet clarinets are well-respected, but – new or used – they ain’t cheap, and so I’ve been hesitating… could a Yamaha or even some lesser marque sound as good for half the price?
The answer to that question is probably yes… especially in my inexperienced hand. But then again, if a man my age suddenly picks up the clarinet in the first place, surely it’s as much about the romance as the waveforms? Paris café bands in the 20s and 30s were playing Buffets, so why in the world wouldn’t I do the same?!
The universe has spoken!
Samirah Evans
On a recommendation from the guys at last Wednesda’s open jam at the VT Jazz Center, we went to Samirah Evans‘s autobiographical show last Friday at the library.
So how did a New Orleans jazz singer end up in Brattleboro? I appreciate a long story, and she told us one, but I’ll cut to the chase. She was flooded out by Hurricane Katrina.
Accompanied by piano and bass as she was, it might have been a nice evening of music, perhaps a little too low-key and heavy on the slow songs. The comically white, sporadically arrhythmic, but earnestly well-intentioned backup singers lent a whiff of farce.
Unfortunately, I thought the sharing of her personal stories went a bit far… more than I needed to know, and, I suppose like anybody’s unembellished personal story, without any discernible point or lesson. Good shit happens, and bad shit, and unexpected shit.
Someday I will go to a regular Samirah show for drinking and dancing, and I think it will be more fun.
Stuff I Missed
Nicole and Kevin’s Harry Potter party
The season’s first little snow
Guam-P
For the last 7 years, I’ve been keeping an eye on my pocket change for the Guam-P quarter, along with all the other state and territorial quarters issued from 1999-2009 that I’ve accumulated since they started the program in 2003. For about three years, the elusive Guam-P has been the only hole in my collection.
Finally complete, thanks to whatever chain of events led that quarter to end up in my pocket this week.
Brattleboro Adventure – the Auckland Edition 