spacematic.net

I’m trying to keep my word that I’d put up creative stuff here. Here’s my first delivery. A piece of music called “A Midnight Fever Dream of His Most High Honor the Disconsolate General: A Heartworming Dirge of Unimaginable Melancholy For the Sake of Making You Feel Worse About Something Than You Probably Should.” There’s definitely some groovy moping potential to this piece.

So why do I write stuff like this? Well, it’s not all like this. I like all sorts of music, and when I set out to do this one, I decided to arrange for instruments I’ve never worked with before, with guitar eventually taking the spotlight, of course. But this was a fun musical exercise and an opportunity for me to try something odd and interesting. As a disclaimer: The music on this site is not necessarily written and posted for commercial appeal. If I were really serious about it all, I’d have this stuff tracked, mixed, utterly dominated and signed off on by professionals. Instead of all that, what you’ll see here are my favorite musical noodlings.

The term “High End Audio Artifacts” refers to the strangeness that creeps in when one compresses digital music files. All musical postings here will have a “High-End Audio Artifacts” title. Take a listen:

Click Here to Listen or Download!

And here’s the legal stuff:

A Midnight Fever Dream of His Most High Honor the Disconsolate General by Mike Griffin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at www.spacematic.net.

Freedom Fest @ the Land Trust

Where have I been all this time? Under a rock? So it would seem. I’ve been hearing about the Lake Claire Community Land Trust for some time now, and even the Navajo has threatened to take me up there to witness some drum circle craziness. Alas, whenever the opportunity presented itself in the past, potential takers for some lighthearted adventure ended up either too drunk, too distracted or too unwilling to make the walk down McLendon to Arizona Avenue to investigate.

So when I found out that my friend Andy was playing with his band Wade in the Rhythm for Freedom Fest on May 22nd, I had to keep the date in reserve. As the event rolled to the fore in my calendar, I couldn’t find anyone else to join me, so I decided to venture out alone and just see what this place was really all about. I have to say, this event was a great introduction.

The Land Trust is an expansive complex. Still, it’s easy to see how one could live in the neighborhood for six years and still not know it’s there. The entrance is tucked between houses in a cul-de-sac at the end of Arizona Avenue. But once inside, you’re in another world, far away from the city neighborhoods. There’s a lot to explore here, and I was taken aback by how friendly everyone was. With the profusion of equally-friendly dogs, I wished I had known exactly what I was in store for, as I would have brought my own Allie along with me. But it’s probably just as well; she would have been far too interested in all the sights, sounds and smells – not to mention all the people who were more than willing to scratch heads and give belly rubs to any critter gregarious enough to to make their petting needs known.

As far as music festivals go, Freedom Fest was pretty chill. This isn’t a knock, believe me. I’ve been to more than a few festivals in the past several years, and my chief complaint has always been the crowds. At most “fests,” people get far too drunk far too soon. Things get crazy and out of control, and folks just seem to forget how to get along in a “Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting” kinda way. Not such shenanigans at the Land Trust. The crowd here was respectably large, yet honestly respectful. The talent on the bill is something to be lauded, as well. In addition to Wade in the Rhythm, acts such as The Selmanaires, Carnivores, Charlie Wooton Project, The Nice Guise and Invisible Circus were all there for the crowd’s listening pleasure , which made for a great weekend, if you had the stamina to attend both the 21st and 22nd dates.

Something tells me that even though this introduction to the Lake Claire Community Land Trust was a great one, I didn’t get everything out of it that I could be. I’m thinking that now I need to coerce the Navajo to accompany me to the next available drum circle. It would be some fun to see the place in its “normal” mode of operation. That, and I really need to meet the resident emu. One reason I’m renewing my lease in this neighborhood is that I’m always pleasantly surprised by what’s hiding just around the corner. There’s a lot to love in Atlanta, and a lot of it isn’t glamorized or advertised. So be it… that’s just the way I like it.  –mike

If you’re familiar with spacematic.net’s previous entries, you’ll notice that this is a holdover from the old site. I thought that I’d re-introduce the archives a little bit at a time, only adding the entries that I like best. All such entries will be filed under appropriate ‘current’ categories, but they will also be classified under “Pre-2006 Archives”so you’ll know they’re re-runs.

What happened to the great stadium acts of Rock & Roll? I can count on one hand the bands who still draw a crowd large enough to sell out a bona fide stadium, and do it two days in a row! Let’s see here- The Rolling Stones, Rush, Pink Floyd- I’m sure I’m missing a few somewhere in the woodwork. U2 has the power to fill a stadium-sized crowd, but for some reason or another they’ve opted for a limited arena tour this time around. That’s fine by me, since there’s a better chance of actually being able to see the band when you’re in an arena as opposed to a mammoth outdoor sports venue. The sound is usually a lot better, too.

Unfortunately, one of the bands on my list will probably never reunite for another tour. Pink Floyd was a great act who knew how to entertain the masses. Many fans argue that the light show was always the focus and not the players. I agree to the extent that mere human beings are much smaller than giant inflatable pigs, and they’re slightly less luminous than humongous flowering mirrorballs. The only way a puny mortal could approximate the grandeur of a Floyd show would be if they covered themselves in hyper-reflective ballon mylar, taped lasers to their body, added a gallon of gasoline and struck a match. Then they would have to shoot themselves out of a cannon while being tracked with those giant police searchlights. Still, for the effect to even come close, the whole thing would have to be viewed on the Times Square Jumbotron. That’s the only way one person could ever hope to measure up.
If you were up close to the Floyd and weren’t a musician, you’d probably be disappointed since you wouldn’t be able to see all the pretty pretty lights. Fans claim that the show is best appreciated from a considerable distance. But I was (and still am) a musician and David Gilmour has been one of my idols since childhood. So when my time came to see the Pink Floyd, I tried to get as close as possible. I cared much more about the players than the spectacle. That’s what concert videos are for.
I was lucky enough to attend the Atlanta performance at Bobby Dodd Stadium, The Division Bell tour, 1994. I succeeded in getting eight tickets in the fifth row. God bless Turtle’s Records and Tapes. Their people knew how to freak the Ticketmaster computers right. My girlfriend, six giddy high school seniors and myself were wedged between Georgia Tech students and aging hippies, and we were all having the time of our lives. Throughout the crowd, there was a general consensus that it was quite possibly the last time we would ever see this band perform. Little did anyone know that Gilmour, Waters, Wright and Mason would decide to do a one-time-only reunion for “Live” in 2005. The 2005 London show was pretty cool, but the show I attended in 1994 was everything I hoped it would be and more. They played two sets of both new and classic material, followed by three encores. The second encore, “Wish You Were Here”was probably the largest sing-along I have ever taken part in.
If you put on the right music and drop me in the right situation, I’ll cry like a baby. We all held our lighters aloft, swayed back and forth and sang at the top of our lungs like we were in the world’s biggest pub – a pub with lasers and fog and weed. My girlfriend turned to me and saw tears streaming down my face. Her glee turned to concern. I simply smiled back at her and said “It’s okay.”Still, she was weirded out to see me openly weeping, since I’m usually not a “Kleenex Moment”kinda guy. Just to point out how silly she thought I was, she yelled into my ear, “I’m sorry. Did I miss something? Did he just propose to you?”
I havent’ done anything like that since. At all other rock shows that followed, I simply rocked. I didn’t cry at the KISS show in 1997, nor did I shed a tear over the Smashing Pumpkins. I’ve come pretty close whenever U2 play songs like “Bad”or “Walk On.”
I’m waiting for the next wave of great stadium bands. I fear they’re going extinct. I still like club shows and I appreciate the intimacy of a small venue, but there’s something really special about a stadium crowd enjoying a really big show. It’s little wonder that people who see their favorite band playing to a sold-out crowd often compare the experience to religious ecstacy. We’re social animals, and in the brief span of two hours we get to live the otherwise unattainable social dream in which everyone is gathered in common purpose and agree on at least one thing- the band we’re watching totally rawks. –mike

Just so I don’t look like a total ass for yesterday’s post, I have chosen to post some WORD FOR WORD excerpts from the iTunes Music Store’s customer review section. These nuggets of wisdom were written for David Gilmour’s newest album, “On An Island.” Enjoy yourselves as I exonerate myself from suspected hyperbole! I do this all in the name of linguistic integrity:

“all of the qualities we love about Gilmours musical genious.”

“A thoughtfull and pasion filled body of work.”

“This is now way a good album defently the worse music of pink sense Umaguma I can definataly see why this is bad because waters isn’t writting the music You’ll probably gana have too beg him after this”

“i deffinatly recomend “On an Island’”

“What would expect from David Gilmour?”

“Wow, this album sounds like David Gilmore or something.”

“David Gilmour is truely one of the greatest artisits”

“A ture master”

It is now clear to me that “definitely” is the single most-misspelled word in all the Web. If all these low-wattage keyboard cretins got together and wrote a Rolling Stone review, it would come out looking something like this:

David Gilmore is in now danger of falling out of favor with his fans, nor is he apt to fade from contemtpoary relevance any time soon. His trademark style and flare for enhanting mellodies comes through on his lastest offering, “On An Island.”
Fans of staight-up Gilmour our bound to hail this album as a ture work of genious, but there is a vocal cramp of Pink Floyd fans who will say that this is defently worse sense Waters had no hand in writting the music.
Gilmour doesn’t just dish out melodies this time. Instead, he exspearmints with them, but what else would expect? He is a ture artisit whose pasion, unencumbered by contributary sacrifice, exploids in anthemic magesty. Lush lead lines accenshuate suttel orcestrail arraignments that sounds like David Gilmour or something. This is deffinatly recomended listing. You’ll probably gana have to beg you’re record store to keep this one in stork.

“Roiling Stome”

God forbid.
If you’re interested in hearing what I have to say about “On An Island,” please keep reading. That is, if you weren’t blinded by the crap I just posted above.

The album begins with “Castellorizon,” a charming, yet obscure play of words on the Greek island of Castellorize and the word horizon. A dark, flanging foghorn-like sound reverberates against a gentle plucking of strings and it is immediately evident that Gilmour is going to craft not a song, but a soundscape. Within the first minute, you have a setting in mind.
Bells, rhythmic pulsing and sweeping orchestral lines all combine in what feels like an ethereal, brief homage to the storied career of Pink Floyd. By the two minute mark, Gilmour introduces himself with trademark bluesy charm. But something seems off-kilter here. “Castellorizon” isn’t so much a song as it is an incoherent passage that attempts to be an appetizer for the experience that ensues. Instead, it makes the listener hope the rest of the album isn’t crafted with similar quirk. On its own, “Castellorizon” merely confuses; but when taken into account with the tracks that follow, it is clear that it performs its duty and then quickly gets out of the way.
After “Catellorizon,” the listener is duely rewarded with standout track “On An Island.” For this first true song, Gilmour enlists the assistance of Dave Crosby and Graham Nash, who mix very well with the guitarist’s delicate vocals. If this song were performed a cappella, it would be a lullaby. Then again, the same can be said for most of the album, except for “Take A Breath” and “This Heaven.” Keep in mind, however, that these two tracks only seem heavy-handed by comparison, capping out at what feels like eighty or so beats-per-minute. Clearly, this album is not for those who want fierce, aggressive rock.
The majority of the work consists of what we’ve come to expect of solo David Gilmour. Most of the tracks are pretty, devoid of the dark tinges that haunt similar offerings by Pink Floyd proper. The maintenance of melodic purity is a distinguishing characteristic of Gilmour’s lone efforts, and some say that such maintenance is indicative of a lack of inspiration. But I believe that Gilmour’s music is very much thought-upon as it is being written. The only criticism I have of such music is that it feels “floaty,” and often devoid of conflict. When the majority of an album’s tracks play out in this fashion, it is almost too easy for many listeners to lose interest.
Of course, I am reviewing this album after only three listenings, and I believe that to pass judgment so early is unfair. There is a lot to like in this album, especially for the deep-cut fans of old Pink Floyd. These listeners will find much to enjoy and compare. That Gilmour can resurrect such sounds in a modern studio environment is a testament to his talents, and those of his engineering and production team.
If I were to be held to any comparisons of “On An Island” to a particular “Pink Floyd sound,” I would say that it feels as if Gilmour picked out the most musical sections of “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast” and expanded those vignettes into true songs. If you are a newcomer to Pink Floyd and have either not paid attention to such songs (or if you simply don’t like them), then you may have a hard time understanding why many fans of the band are lauding this album as a triumphant solo effort.
Such praise by old-guard fans is what prompted me snap to this album so quickly. I possess Gilmour’s previous solo albums “About Face” and “David Gilmour,” and never found much there to spark my interest. His first attempt seemed to contain matierial that was deliberately held back from “Animals,” and “About Face” felt like a desperate effort to set himself apart and prove that he had other ideas about style, more than merely what was expected of him with Pink Floyd. Even though neither album held my attention very long, it wasn’t for my lack of really trying to like them. And that’s where “On An Island” marks a departure in the solo career of David Gilmour, at least for me. Yes, the tracks are slow, and to put a visual spin on the sound, it feels more Monet and less Picasso. But that doesn’t mean it’s not inspired. It all comes down to a matter of personal taste. This isn’t music for regular rotation, and it certainly doesn’t belong in your “Wake Up” playlist. It is music for a certain time and place… perhaps when you are on an island, with some time to sit alone, ponder and simply enjoy. For the especially patient and imaginative, consider this album a budget-price ticket to just such place. –mike

Señor Banapana and I often have discussions about things of little real-world importance, such as the declining flavor of lettuce, the significance of fever dreams and the ups-and-downs in the glamorous world of schizophrenic pigeon racing. I prefer their wings to be clipped. There’s always more drama when it’s a foot-race.
The model of our discussions is one of semi-clever argument tempered with heavy consideration on each word. Almost always, we agree to disagree. But we both come away with food for thought. If I engaged in such conversations with other people, I would probably end up hating them. Not so with the ‘Pana.
One discussion that really got me thinking was in regard to the Billboard Top 100 and what it says about the music we choose to listen to. He noted that Sir Fifty Cent…

You know what? Forget about this. I have a much better idea. Music is simply about what you like. Listen to what you want to listen to. The battle of the bands is NOT in your back yard. Rock will not die, Pop will not eat itself, Rap will not catch the last train for the coast. No musical genre will truly die.
We live in a country dominated by marketing, and we are very often led to believe that what’s loudest is what’s true. Hokum! Hogwash! Balderdash! The truth is what’s in your face. The truth is what you experience. The truth doesn’t come out of a box. You like square-dancing music? I don’t, but you can listen to it! You like Big Band Jazz? I do, but it doesn’t mean you have to. The grimy urban streets and the cushy sprawling cul-de-sacs of unending suburbia will ring with the music of the masses, the manufactured rebellion du jour. Last decade it was grunge, metal and gnu mating. This decade it’s hip hop, gangsta, skeet-skeet and twerkin’ yer gherkin.
Rebellion for one generation is an ad for Swiffer in the next. Examples? Plenty. 90’s: Nirvana, 80’s: Metallica, 70’s: Sabbath, 60’s: Beatles, 50’s: Elvis, 40’s: Swing, 30’s: Jazz, 20’s: Blues… and on and on. Most find it hard to believe, but at one time the Waltz was considered lewd and suggestive. I myself find it hard to believe. I’ve tried getting it on in 3/4 time and it’s anything but sexy.
Even though the eras in which they were created are no longer accessible to us, the music persists. No musical genre dies. There are no graves for a crowned successor to dance on. There are no prize fights, no heavyweight belts and no rewards for listening to one or the other, save one’s own enjoyment.
I admit that music is a distinct product of the times in which it is generated, but such can be said for any art form. We have words for the truly lasting works of art that transcend the mundane. We call such creations “classics” because sometimes an artist generates a work with remarkable and timeless appeal. The discovery of such classics is often as exciting as hearing that great new song. The music of today is built on the successes of yesterday. And even if hip-hop could weild a magic gat and send rock and roll to a watery grave, it would forever be sampling the precious booty of back-catalogue bullion, enabling the essence of the former to forever echo in the latter.
Good music finds success regardless of its form. Work hard, persevere, make it good and an audience will be found. We live in a world where we recognize differences and take sides. Must our entertainment also be used to divide us and sub-categorize us further? What good is that? And what’s good to that guy standing next to you might not be your taste. If that’s the case, just shut up and put on your headphones. We’ll all just listen to what we like. –Mike

Oh my. Good buddy Jarhead sent me the link for this New Zealand solo act. The Kiwi nation has been a powerhouse for entertainment as of late, and this wonder now joins the ranks of such luminaries as Peter Jackson, Sam Neill and Split Enz. It’s becoming quite a Crowded House over there. Sorry.
Never before have I been able to say that someone’s music has “assaulted” my senses. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the One, the Only, WING. Let her lilting voice croon you a reassuring lullaby in this hectic world filled with cacophonous rock and gangsta rap. I suggest sampling “Dancing Queen,” “I Want To Hold Your Hand” and “Do-Re-Mi.” I’d really like to get my hands on “Dream Lover.” Too bad I already spent all my music money for today on Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey. –Mike

As I posted yesterday, I’m off to the little beach house in Sunnyside to do research on the book. The new iBook will be coming along with me. I was itching for something new ever since Strong Bad got his new Lappy 486. I was jealous. This was my first big Apple Store retail purchase, so I entered the boutique looking like a vagrant. I was unshaven, untucked and slack-jawed. For the first few minutes, nobody bothered me. Exactly what I wanted. Then I lingered by the product I was ready to buy. Two or three sales people passed by, probably assuming that I was a tire-kicking XP junkie looking for a benchmark performance debate.
After about ten more minutes surfing the MacWorld website, a curious sales associate approached me. I don’t know, maybe he thought I was a secret shopper, or something worse. He asked if I needed anything in an offhand ‘working my way around the store’ patrolling way.
“Yeah. Since these were most recently revised in mid-October, is there any chance that Jobs will release a new version with a discernable speed bump next week at the Expo?”
“Well sir, I’m not allowed to comment on that, although what you say certainly sounds as though it comes from some experience with the product line.”
Apple has their associates trained well, that’s for sure. With all the lawsuits over trade secrets what-not, I don’t really blame them. The associate looked like he smelled a fish.
“Okay, I’ll buy this then.” I knew it was what I wanted. I only went into the boutique because I didn’t want to wait the two days for it to ship to my door. I wanted my new little traveling companion immediately. The associate’s eyes bugged at my declaration. Then he bit his lip and held up a finger. He sold me the Apple Care package to go with it and then hopped into the back to get my prize. Probably his easiest sale that day.
Mom got the old clamshell G3 with the permadead battery. Computer newbies like her seem to be more keen on trackpads than mice. For some reason, they seem friendlier. Perhaps they’re more intuitive. She had my old PowerMac 6400 desktop with a dusty one-button mouse for years. It just sat there in all its beige sadness, wondering if anyone was ever going to turn it on again. No one ever did.
So on the road I go, with my first functional laptop in years. I’ll try blogging from the road, if I can find free WiFi. Of course, there’s always Starbucks. There’s just something slightly glossy and ripoff-ish about that whole T-Mobile pay service they have. Atlanta’s pretty good when it comes to Wi-Fi. They have a slew of free hotspots in neighborhood coffee shops and other businesses.
The weather in Florida looks like it might be nice. Pity I’ll be in a library for most of Tuesday. Then I’m off to a historical society or two, followed by a visit to Grayton Beach State Park late Wednesday. Thursday afternoon, I’ll be in a tiny town called Bonifay to visit my grandmother. There is a Scrabble grudge that must be settled. This time around, she will attempt to upset my previous three game winning streak. Thursday and Friday, expect nothing from the blog.
For those of you who bookmark the blog only, I have a special treat. If you click “Back To Spacematic” in the sidebar, you will notice that I published some tunes to the front page. Listening to them and grabbing them for your own clandestine auditory habits is as easy as following the instructions next to the file links. Right-Click to “Save As.” In the case of the AAC file formats, they will download as .sit (Stuffit) files. Browsers have difficulty recognizing AAC and M4a formats. Both MSIE and Safari tried to render the files as html pages, and they weren’t pretty. So stuffing them was the best option. The mp3’s are pretty straightforward and should play in the browser if you fail to right-click and save.
Wow. New music on spacematic.net. What’s this world coming to? I’ll try to figure that out on the drive to and fro. If you don’t hear from me for the remainder of the week, have a good one. Enjoy the tunes. –Mike

I first heard about this bill at SuicideGirls, and I could hardly believe my eyes. So I went over to Cnet and Wired and even to the Senate homepage to do a little research of my own. As I continued to read and get more information, the more incredulous and pissed-off I became. Here’s the skinny: the IICA is a proposed bill that would shut down Peer-to-Peer file sharing services for inducing illegal activity. That’s right. By virtue (or vice) of their existence, P2P software constitutes a threat to copyright, so a reactionary Senate and recording industry wish to wipe these communications portals from the face of the earth.
The IICA has gained support from the Recording Industry Association of America, who states that the bill “places the spotlight squarely on the bad actors who have hijacked a promising technology for illicit means and ignoble profits.” The recent fights for copyright protection have tended to impact specific individuals who illegally copy audio files and movies. This recently constructed bill bypasses those who commit the crimes and takes the fight directly to the vehicles by which they download the material. This is a dangerous step in the wrong direction.
Current law states that companies that create file-sharing software are not responsible for “vicarious copyright infringement,” meaning that the end user is responsible for any laws broken through the improper or criminal use of the software. So why flip-flop now and punish the companies? Simple. The number of downloaders far outweighs the number of attorneys needed to attack the problem. When the suits cry havoc, the rights of respectable users who employ this software to share non-copyrighted files or shareware are punished. Let slip the dogs of legislation. Destroy the technology and the crime won’t occur. It’s the dream of bully giants, behaving as impulsive thought-cops. They ignore the possibility that these technologies can be and are frequently used for legitimate file-sharing purposes.
Many P2P advocates and civil liberties groups fear that if the bill is implemented, the attack upon file-sharing services will spread to a host of other devices that can be used to infringe copyright and commit crime. MP3 players, VCR’s, TiVo’s, Replay TV and other recording devices would easily fall into the category of technologies that could be used in the commission of copyright crimes. This path of legislation is a dangerous one. Taking responsibility from an end user and placing it on a provider of neutral services that could be used for good or ill is not the domain of government. It is preemptive, demeaning and dangerous to the survival of our basic rights.
In a day and age when high-schoolers can be expelled for carrying anything from tire-irons to eight-inch replica baseball bats in their cars, it’s not surprising that government spreads its inappropriately long-arm to the tech sector. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t want my senators dictating what I can and cannot own simply because it may serve an illegal function in the wrong hands. As one observant comment post on Suicide Girls stated, maybe we should take pen and paper away from the legislators. God knows, they could use them to commit crimes against the very people they’re in office to represent. –Mike

I’ve been living across the street from the Five Spot for about four months now, and I’ve been there to take advantage of afternoon beers and occassional bites to eat. The art gallery is an interesting diversion and the low-light ambiance and cool bar staff make it a very laid back and welcoming joint. That said, I know the Five Spot gets hoppin’ around 10:00 PM or so every night. Music from all over the spectrum pours out those doors: Jazz, Dub, Reggae, Folksy, weird fusions and world beat music. What has kept me from showing up on these nights? I don’t know. I’ve been intrigued for a while. Hell, I walk by the place so much that the music might as well be my strolling sountrack. I always liked what I heard, only laziness I suppose kept me from checking it out.
My first evening trip over to the club was with Dave. He was heading up a two-night promotion for McKenzie River Brewing Co. Both nights were equally entertaining, but I spent almost all of each outside, from the smoker’s door. I did a lot of talking and got a lot of interesting conversation. In the span of a half-hour, I got a Haitian truck driver’s view of race relations in America, a Dave Chappelle apologist’s (what’s there to apologize for?) tips on datin’ ladies and a rousing story from two guys who claimed to be best friends, yet tried to end each other’s lives the week before. The head gash was exhibit A for the listeners. You don’t get that kind of mix just anywhere. The friendly factor has a lot to do with the Five Spot’s appeal. Strangers don’t have a problem talking with other strangers. It’s temporary relief from the urban plague of social insecurity.
So about a week and a half later, a guy calls out to me from a stoop across the street. “Hey there, young man!” He didn’t seem so old as to call me “young man,” but then again, this town can be known for introductory flattery, not as a means to coerce green from the back pocket — that’s just the code. People do this in the South. They try to be nice when they get your attention. He was smiling broadly.
“I’m not gonna pretend to be anything I’m not, and I don’t know you…” He got my attention.
I sat down next to him and he brought out a pair of drum sticks and what seemed to be a ream of paper barely stapled together.
“These are my credentials… I’m a jazz drummer. Been doing it for almost thirty years.” Okay, so his visage was deceiving, this guy had more years on him than I thought. “I even played with Ibrahim Wagdi and Sun Ra.” As I scanned the paper, I heard his voice emphasize what was in bold print on the page. Hell, I’d be proud too. “The name’s Don. I need a little help.”
“Well, what can I do for ya, Don?” I’m not one to pass up good stories. You seldom find them on the street, where social aversion is thought the key to safety. But sometimes people can surprise you, or at least inspire you to think about things. I’m always trying to tie new people and circumstances to fiction I write, and this guy just sounded like he had a different enough life that I could really build a character around him. Sometimes, all you need is just a spark. Don was well-dressed, well-spoken and very well-documented. I sat and listened.
“Man, we played that spot across the street last week. The kids there are good, they got a great idea goin’. But sometimes this music stuff just doesn’t pay. Last time, I came out of there with five dollars.”
“Maybe that’s why they call it the Five Spot?” I considered out loud.
“Maybe it is…” Don chuckled out of obligation at my dumb quip, then quickly got to the point. “Like I said, I’m not gonna try to blow a smoke screen over you and pretend to be your buddy. I don’t know you. But if you could help a man out. And I know it sounds like a lot, but could you spare ten?”
“Ten?” I knew accusation rang in my tone like a fire alarm. “I don’t know, Don.”
“Well, whatever you can spare.” The way he presented himself, I almost wished I had ten dollars. I mean, here was a man who had a past, and as a good drummer he had a future – he just didn’t have a Right Now. How the hell was I gonna miss a few bucks? But for him, it may just mean the difference between a comfortable night and all the horrors a city has to offer after the sun goes down.
“Don, I don’t have ten bucks. But you can take my last six, and I don’t think you want my pennies.”
“Man, that’s more than I had and you’ve done me a favor.” He seemed genuinely appreciative of my offer. “Tell you what, you come back up here Sunday night and you can watch me play. We’re the first act.”
And that’s how I was lured back to the Five Spot.
The opener was not Don. It was, in fact, Kelly Love Jones. She’s a solo act with a classical guitar and a voice that loves to pace the verses of her songs like a beat poet on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her choruses are soulful and charming and the two aspects of her style join together well with her finger-picked riffs. I was sad to find out she was only performing five songs. I got a CD.
“Well, they must have bumped Don’s act up to headliner” I thought to myself. I had a notebook and a camera with me and I was all ready to take down the particulars of his life. I really thought I could develop a good character out of him down the line. We all sometimes meet people in passing we just don’t want to forget about, but it’s especially so when you write.
Next act, Eastern Standard. No Don. This is a top-notch reggae act with the lead singer on acoustic, followed by a minimalist drummer with a great sense of the beat, a spot-on bassist, electric guitar and a keyboardist wth a Korg MS-2000. What really got to me was that the guitarist had an Eddie Van Halen-era Kramer Striker, but got really nice clear tones out of it. Best damn Kramer I ever heard.
The message of their music was fitting for Reggae and goes something like this… “Our modern global political climate is of two extremes. On one side you have emotion and on the other you have stark, frightening reality. Why can’t our decision makers, indeed the whole world, see with different eyes? Why can’t love take on reality?” That’s the message. Sounds childish when stated, but Reggae makes it magic. These guys had no trouble channelling Bob Marley and I learned that time travel was possible. It starts with Eastern Standard and works it way back from there.
I never saw Don. Was I duped? I don’t know. Maybe. But I had a great time last night in an energetic and fun crowd. The possible exploits of Don will pester me though, made even worse by me not knowing his last name. No web searches. I’m gonna keep my eyes out for him, though. I’ll get his damn story. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to hear him play drums. –Mike

I have a friend that enjoys making conversations from lists. He’ll ask “Name your top three funniest movies of all time,” or “name five people who you think have changed the world.” You never know what he’s going to ask next. I guess it’s a good barometer of what your friends are thinking. It catches on pretty quick, and before you know it, all my friends start doing this. It’s particularly useful when everyone’s done talking about their personal news, just before the topic shifts to weather. Weather is the death-knell of polite conversation. Well, weather and politics. Everyone talks about both and does nothing about either.
Jarred raised the question “What public figure or celebrities’ deaths would be most significant to you? Who would you miss most?” He asked it just a week or two ago. I think one of my answers was comic genius Phil Hartman, and one or two others who now I can’t remember. Guess they weren’t so important to me, or I was just rounding out the list with random dead celebrities to keep up with the growing number of responses from my other friends. I was drinking that night. I miss the brain cells that used to keep track of dead celebrities.
Well, given yesterday’s sad news, I will have to belatedly amend my list to include the great Ray Charles.
It’s difficult for people today to appreciate the greats of old. We are constantly bombarded by new music, and on the balance sheet of artistic discovery, that’s a good thing. But Ray’s vocals and tunes are sounds that transcend the mundane and processed perfection of digitally-altered performers of late. Ray needed no gizmos to help him sing in key on his albums. He was what he was. He was the genuine article. When he was born, they broke the mold he was cast from, and now we have lost the only Ray Charles the world will ever know. There won’t be another, there can’t be. And yet I wish there could.
The man sang with soul, wisdom woe and joy. This emotional spectrum of performing brilliance was genuine, the product of a hard-earned success and the unique perspective of a man who fought against tough odds to pursue a labor of love. Millions of people identified with his dream and lived to a soundtrack crafted by a master performer and recording artist.
“Music was one of my parts… Like my blood. It was a force already with me when I arrived on the scene. It was a necessity for me – like food or water. Music is nothing separate from me. It is me… You’d have to remove the music surgically.”
Born in the storm of the Great Depression in Albany, Ga., Ray grew up in a world of poverty and prejudice. But he was encouraged at school to develop his musical talent. In early adulthood, he traveled the Florida performing circuit, nearly starving to death at times, until all possibilities for success were exhausted. His move from Florida came when he requested a friend to choose the farthest possible point from Florida in the U.S. Somewhat spontaneously, the choice of relocation was Seattle, WA. Long before the advent of grunge, Charles would inject life into the now prestigious list of artists who have found success and fame in that state. He was the original “Seattle Sound.”
From Seattle to New York and then the rest of the world, he forged a musical career by sheer will and gleaming talent. By the early 1960’s, Ray Charles was a household name. Life’s rules and society’s prejudice held no sway over his determination to live life on his terms.
“Now, I could have been a doctor, helping the sick
and I could have been a lawyer, but you know that ain’t my schtick
‘coz I feel so bad, if a patient didn’t do well
and I feel just as bad, to leave a client in jail.
And that’s why I chose to sing the blues.”