DAYS WHEN WE LIVED CLOSE

“The greatest part of who we are comes from when we piled into one big car and rode together…”

It’s been a while, but I’m ready to stick my toe back in the bloggin’ waters. I spent the last several months home in San Anselmo, chasing after my future livelihood, intimidated and excited about the need to reinvent myself.  But I also had a great time firing up the song machine, going to Kerrville, Song School, and the Casey Jones Music festival. I’m ready to get back to the non-business of giving the songs away. I have my friend Ellis’ song in my head. “Start where you are…”

Where I am is back in Singapore, where our exit strategy is in full swing and every day is one more sweet good-bye. It’s been a good run. Sabrina and I are so grateful for having had this experience. It’s back home for the holidays in November and December. Then January and February is our final stint in Singapore.

Of course, what we’ve missed most here are family and friends. Also playing music with others as opposed to writing music in solitude.  This tune, “Days When We Lived Close” is a nod to that all-too-brief time that family gets to spend together. I wrote a whole blah-g for it last December, when we were with our boys in New Orleans.  But it was so close to the holidays, which is a rough time emotionally for so many friends, that I balked about putting this sentimental song out there.

Four brothers and Dad.

 Which brings me to the other misgiving about this song; the sentimentality.  I’ve always been prone to it. As one gets older I think it can be even more of a problem. Regarding art, sentiment is not necessarily a bad thing, but crossing the line into sentimentality? Kiss of dreck! Fortunately I’ve had some good role models. My songwriting guru, Steve Seskin, has been my champion of the tear-jerker. “I don’t know why they say grown men don’t cry…”

L to R: Youngest to Oldest

 So I’m still sussing out how much sugar is just enough. Sometimes what’s called for isn’t less sugar, but more salt. I like the way poet May Ruefle says it:

“If your teachers suggest that your poems are sentimental, that is only half of it. Your poems probably need to be even more sentimental. Don’t be less of a flower, but could you be more of a stone at the same time?” 
Mary Ruefle ―  , Madness, Rack, and Honey: Collected Lectures

Jimmy Webb is another songwriter that was a big influence. I basically learned to play guitar out of reading the chord boxes in a Jimmy Webb songbook:

A critic can call any poem ‘doggerel.' That is no more than a slur. ‘Doggerel' or ‘maudlin' or ‘sappy' or ‘sentimental' is in the ear of the listener. By the by, sentimental is okay as it is defined as ‘marked or governed by feeling, sensibility, or emotional idealism.' It is sentimentality that is to be avoided, like the fiddleback spider, being as it is ‘the quality or state of being sentimental to excess or in affectation.' Again we are faced with a judgement call and must keep a sharp eye on our outpourings to insure they are not overly gooey.

Jimmy Webb / Tunesmith

And one last quote, from Charles Bukowski.  The first poet I ever read that wasn’t part of some school assignment. We spotted him more than once after sneaking into the 9th race at Santa Anita. 

“I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.” 
― Charles Bukowski, Love Is A Dog From Hell

“Today was one of those days when we lived close…” New Orleans last December. Grateful.

(*** Days When We Lived Close was recorded and produced by Tom Prasada Rao at the Tofu Bar studio in Richardson, Texas. Tom played the piano and added the low-strung violin arrangement too. )

ROLLED UP HIS SLEEVES

Today is Bobby Kennedy’s birthday. If he were alive today he would turn 92.

I haven’t been blogging with much vigor lately, largely because world affairs seems to have put me more in listening mode. When I pay attention to the tenor and tone of my “newsfeed”, I hesitate to add to that noise. Especially where political things are concerned, I’ve been wanting my music do the talking. (at least in the public arena).

Bobby Kennedy was one of my heroes in my youth. Like so many idols, I eventually came to learn that he was no saint. But his particular feet of clay I continue to hold in high regard. He became an influential figure for me largely as a result of hearing him speak. Something about seeing our heroes in the flesh really helps seal the deal.

                                              Stood on his car for all to see...

Rolled Up His Sleeves is based on the true story of going with my friend Dennis to see Bobby Kennedy speak at the El Monte Mall. The song pretty much tells the story. About two weeks later my Mom woke me up to come to the television and watch the live feed from the Ambassador Hotel. Over and over I watched (and listened) to the gunshot replays of my newfound icon lying on the floor, head held by a busboy. Impressionable stuff. I was 11 years old at the time.

This makes me want to share this song on his birthday. I’d much rather celebrate his life. If I could, I’d just as soon forget the rest of it.

I do want to mention the part of the song that’s fictionalized.  I took liberties in making my friend Dennis a Republican. I thought it made for a better story. In truth, as 6th graders neither one of us were affiliated with any party in particular. I apologize to Dennis for any embarrassment this lie might cause. Please bear in mind that I wrote this song several years ago, before the Republican bar was lowered so extremely to its present standard. I’m not sure I would subject my friend to such cheap artistic liberties today.

Rolled Up His Sleeves was recorded with Tom Prasada-Rao in Richardson Texas. One of the things I love most about the track is that there’s no bass on it. Instead, Tom played the bass part on a low-tuned acoustic twelve string guitar. As I recall, this technique sprung from the mind of drum-master Jagoda while producing a different record. Jagoda also plays drums on this track. The twin slide guitars were later added by my friend Paul Robinson.

So, Happy Birthday Bobby K! In the present climate, with so many of my male heroes falling off their pedestals, I need you now more than ever. You make me wanna roll up my sleeves every day.

                                                    ...left us here to roll up our sleeves.

SLEEPING WITH CLOWNS

As I write this in Singapore it is the day after Halloween. We saw a few costumes out and about, but it’s not a widely celebrated event here. Meanwhile, back home, the costumes have hit the street. I miss this time in the classroom: the parade, the books and songs, the trip to the pumpkin patch, and especially the mask making.

                                             After the kindergarten Mask Parade....

This seems like an opportune moment to post Sleeping With Clowns to the blog . I awakened this morning to find this photo of my son Matthew with dear friend Sunee in New Orleans, in full clown regalia. A chip off the ol’ block.

  Sunee and Matthew. Halloween in New    Orleans

In case you haven’t noticed, clowns are a big thing right now. The red nose is peaking. Especially the scary clown. Scary clowns have been walking the streets and lurking in the forest on the news lately. And more recently,  the movie adaptation of Steven King’s  “It” has gotten a lot of attention. Not to mention the endless depictions of the “president” as a clown. Clown bashing has seemingly joined baseball as a national pastime.

I love clowns, though I’m not a fan of the evil clown phenomenon. I get it though. Clowns are scary; the transformative power of the mask and all that. And I do remember being repulsed by clowns at our town parade as a kid. Getting too close and seeing how the white makeup highlighted the creepy wrinkles of the old weirdo underneath. 

At that same parade years later, when I was in 5th grade or so, my best friend and I  followed Ronald McDonald around making nasty comments until he finally snapped.

So I’ve seen the scary clown up close. Not pretty stuff.

Here’s a picture of me as a clown for Halloween, aged 4 or 5. All I remember is how itchy the ruffle was, and the smell of the slimy red lipstick my mom put on my face.

                Photo of a proper upbringing.

It’s hard to like clowns with memories like these. But I came around eventually.

I think I love clowns because they are iconic figures of kid world. I’ve spent so much time working and playing with kids (my livelihood), that I’ve grown fascinated and fond of most things that relate to the culture of childhood. One day I woke up loving clowns. People change.

Sleeping With Clowns, is one of my more popular novelty tunes. I want to offer it up for download before the big clown craze tanks. It’s bound to happen. Kinda like that big “folk music scare” of the early sixties. (sorry, I know how that music still  creeps some people out.) This tune has a sad vibe that works hand in hand with the humor. There’s a kind of tension created by mixing those emotional opposites.  There’s also a dash of bitterness, anger, regret. It’s a freakin’ clown cocktail. Who knew Bozo  could be so complicated?

                                  Epic clown fail. But I still scored with this cigarette girl. 

Sleeping With Clowns would never have come to be were it not for the influence of kindergartners. Kindergartners are very literal animals. Some examples: when one boy overheard me tell the principal that another child was having an “episode”, he came unglued. He thought I was talking about a cartoon. With tears in his eyes, he asked me, “Did I miss an episode???” Very upsetting. You have to be careful what you say. I had one little girl who refused to come to school on Martin Luther King Day, because she was so freaked out about having to “stand in someone elses’s shoes.”

Consequently, I’ve developed an ear for that kind of literal interpretation. I was in a coffee shop when I overheard two guys talking about their ex’s .  “So have you heard anything from Jenny?”…”Yeah, she’s sleeping with some clown…” BINGO! A song is born.

And if you happen to be starting your holiday shopping early, here’s some lovely clown gift ideas to get for that “someone special”.  I especially like this copulating-clowns Hawaiian shirt.

Or perhaps Smokey The  Clown is more to your liking.

And.... if you haven't seen enough, watch the video:

SHORT LIST

A few days ago our youngest son was robbed at gunpoint in New Orleans. Tonight we are just getting word of the  the mass shooting in Las Vegas. We are currently in Kyoto where it is already October 2nd, Mahatma Gandhi's birthday. I'm gonna shut my blog-hole. No words necessary.

TWISTED OPEN

It’s been a while since posting because I’ve been home for the last six weeks or so in California (and song camps in Colorado and Oregon.) I slept off the 16 hour flight upon arrival in Singapore yesterday, so today is like waking up to a blank page. It’s a little daunting.

Since I haven’t been at my desk recording, I’m sharing a song I recorded several years ago that’s never been released.  Twisted Open starts with a guy who’s conflicted about home:

            “Not my town, not my town

            Never felt at home here

            Got no friends to gather round

            Lonely to the bone here. “

It’s a little bit like the way I feel about living in Singapore, though a tad overly dramatic. Being a Cabana Boy is never really lonely. But truth be told, it was so great being home in America to see family and friends. It had been a long 7 month stretch in Singapore and I was ready to see my peeps. (There were a few I didn’t get to see but I’ll hopefully catch them next time.)

Mount Tam and Richardson Bay, taken from the Airporter window on my way out of Marin. See you in December!

The concept of “home” pops up in a lot of my songs. On my record Gravedigger’s Boy there is only one song that doesn’t have the word “home” in it. As much as I’m digging this traveling adventure, I’m extremely domestic at heart.

But here’s the weird thing. When I visit home it doesn’t really feel like home. Since I’m there to reconnect (but not to work) it feels more like being on vacation.  And after a while there’s a part of me that can’t wait to get “back home” to Singapore and start into work again. This topsy-turvy switcheroo turns the whole concept of home on it’s head. It makes me feel kind of jerked around; “twisted open” in a way.

                                                Deep into week one of rest and ruination.

Twisted Open was recorded with Tom Prasada Rao at the Tofu Recording Bar in Texas. Tom had an old tenor guitar on the wall that I started noodling with. Combined with the clawhammer uke, it gives the song a unique sound to my ears. And Jagoda on hand drums always makes a tune better.

For a while I thought I was going to release a “double record” with Twisted Open as the title. One cd would have the humorous “twisted” songs that I do, and the other cd , “Open”,  would feature more emotional,  “open-hearted” tunes. I love both ends of that spectrum, and I still think it’s a cool concept, but fatally flawed.  It’s hard nowadays to find anyone ready to listen to one cd, let alone two.  So that idea now sits in the maybe-one-day-prob’ly-never file.

                                 "Every time my feet get stuck, my heart gets twisted open."

So for now I’m releasing Twisted Open into the wide, swift-moving waters of the streaming inter-web. Setting free the song. (Strictly a catch and release man these days.)

Meanwhile, it’s great to be home after being HOME. It’s fun to get back to wrestling another blank page to the ground. And the day may not be too far off when I hang up my Cabana Wear and head home for good. That’s only a shame ‘cus I’ll miss the uniform. I’ve never looked better!

                       Someday  I'm really gonna miss the uniform.

lyrics

BODICE RIPPER MAN

I had a birthday a few days ago and happily chose to spend it going to the touring Downton Abbey Exhibition that made its first stop here in Singapore. It was a ton of fun geeking out on sets, costumes, props, ephemera, and all things related to the series.  It was beautifully presented and historically informative, with lots of high tech whistles and bells. I started to envision this tune some time before going.

                                              Just a small sample of Downtonpalooza.

 I’m the kind of person who would rather go to the Downton Exhibition than to Nascar or a 49er’s game.  I really enjoy historical fiction, costume dramas, and any take on things in the past.   And I would generally rather go to a “chick flick” than to some manly “action adventure”.  These are qualities I used to keep somewhat hidden from the world (kept my Jane Austen in a plain brown wrapper.) Now I’m trying to be more up front about it.  Frankly, I think world could use a little less testosterone. 

This presented some challenges for me in writing this tune.  The very term “bodice ripper” suggests a woman being forced against her will. In it’s strictest sense, bodice ripper refers to the romance genre of fiction that was very popular in the 1970s.  They typically featured virgin women, pure as the driven snow, and the rapist-turned truelove hero was a common stock character.  Contemporary romance novels have come a long way since then. Feminism is alive and kicking butt in much of the historical fiction written today.  (For a good article on the subject, read this piece by Jessica Luther in the Atlantic.)

                                        True bodice rippers in the classic sense. 

But I hope the listener understands that I don’t mean bodice ripper in this strictest sense. In fact, I’ve never read any of these novels. The term has come to be used in a much broader sense for any historical novel or drama (though some measure of romance and/or sex is seemingly required for anything to be called a bodice ripper.) 

As I was writing lyrics it began to nag at me that this might not be automatically understood. I began to worry a little about “what people might think”. Consequently, I wrote a “disclaimer” bridge that went like this~

I hope nobody judges me

For all my gothic fantasies

These silly dime store novelties

Are a harmless addiction,

Me rippin’ off a woman’s dress

Is just a load of PBS

Cu’s no no no cannot mean yes

In anything but fiction~

Thankfully, I came to my senses and the public service announcement wound up on the cutting room floor. The bridge stuck out like a sore thumb and robbed the song of its humor. I couldn’t go there. The song’s supposed to be kinda funny, or at least mildly amusing.

Unfortunately, when writing a humorous song you never really know if it’s funny until someone actually laughs at it. I’m throwing this out there untested, but keeping my fingers crossed.  I think it's more a smiler than a belly-laugher. The humor hinges upon incongruity; a somewhat swaggering manly bluster about a predilection that’s generally not perceived as manly at all. Consequently, I turned the letch-level up to eleven.  I trust the listener to know that I’m not really the old goat twisted up in petticoats that’s depicted. Anyone who knows me understands that I’ve been faithfully ripping on the same sweet bodice for more than 30 years.  That romance got written a long time ago. A great story but not really all that funny. Fiction was required for humor's sake.

         Rippin' on this same sweet bodice since the beginning of time (approximately)

And just so you know, I did dial it back a little. Some lyrics were too over the top to be included. The line about my codpiece got cut. You can thank me later.

                                                            I always insist on Twilfit~

HAW PAR VILLA

I tend to like stuff that’s related to kids and the culture of childhood. Consequently, I’m fond of amusements of all types: penny arcades, pinball parlors, roadside attractions, circuses, carnivals, fairs, and of course, amusement parks.

In my childhood., Los Angeles had a great variety of amusments; big parks like Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm, and seedy little two-bit carnivals like Crawford’s Corner and Streamland Park. And even though I was afraid of the scary stuff, I loved them all. I still find myself defending Disneyland to the naysayers. I remember how it fired up my imagination as a kid. 

             The train at Streamline Park, Pico Rivera. (One of amusement's ugly ducklings.) 

But now, as an adult, it’s the shabby little carnivals I like best. The funkier the better. I like the vibe of that seedy underbelly. There’re no carnies at Disneyland. It’s strictly clean cut.

Here in Singapore, there’s a modern, sanitized, family-oriented amusement island called Sentosa. It has Universal Studios, Madame Tussauds, an aquarium, Adventure Cove Waterpark,  Dolphin Island, animal shows, insect kingdoms,  and way, way more. ..So I hear… I’ve never been. Why would I go there when I can go to Haw Par Villa?

                      Sentosa! A park so squeaky clean you can eat right off the sidewalk. 

Haw Par Villa is hands-down my favorite place in Singapore. It’s a theme park that was built in 1937 by brothers Aw Boon Haw and Aw Boon Par – the Tiger Balm Boys. They made a fortune in ointment. Clearly men with vision.

                                              Come smell the Tiger Balm~

The park is over 80 years old and much of it looks its age. It’s a mish-mash of statues and dioramas that feature scenes from Chinese mythology and folk tales. As a foreign visitor, I don’t begin to understand much of what’s depicted. But for me, that’s part of the fun. Basically I get to view it through the eyes of a child. And it hits a lot of buttons. It’s wonderful, colorful, fanciful, imaginative and beautiful on the one hand, and strange, morbid, violent, dark and grotesque on the other. It’s got that Grimm’s Fairy Tale vibe going for it. It’s difficult to sum it up. I just know it’s my kind of weird. And kids dig it too.

                                      Entrance to the Ten Courts of Hell

I read an interview with Jerry Garcia and David Grisman when they released their children’s record called Not For Kids Only. They spoke about not wanting to sanitize the old folk songs for modern ”family-friendly” ears. There’s a weirdness to those songs that they wanted to preserve. And Garcia spoke about a movie that had a deep, profound impact upon him as a child. That movie was Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. Garcia’s life long fascination of the bizarre came directly from viewing that film. (Here’s a video of Garcia talking about the movie.)

In a way, that’s how I feel about Haw Par Villa. I walk around the place feeling like I’m Jerry Garcia watching Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

This is Sabrina's brother Ben. After visiting us here in Singapore, he wrote a great article about  "Singapore's creepy wonderland"  for Collectors Weekly. You can read his piece here.

This is the first time I’ve written a song with the express intent of making it a video. I’ve taken a lot of photos at HP Villa that I’ve wanted to share, so the song is a vehicle for doing that.  And I think the song really needs those visuals for it to work.  My skills as a lyricist come nowhere close to describing the place. It has to be seen to be believed.

                                        A picture's worth a thousand words.

I also want to add a little disclaimer. When I gawk and squawk about the weirdness of the place, I mean no cultural disrespect. In my heart of hearts I feel quite the opposite. And also, when crafting the melody and arrangement I tried to hint at an Asian sound.  My recording software features a lot of world instrument sounds, so I may have over indulged on the Chinese cheese a little. Some may view this as cultural appropriation.  Again, I mean no disrespect. I’m just playing with my toys. 

(and... oh fiddlestix! Another disclaimer is in order. While singing this "rough draft" demo, my dyslexic-trickster muse inspired me to sing "Har Paw" Villa throughout. It's HAW PAR! When I was a kid and pronounced it "Dickeyland" everyone thought it was cute. Not so cute anymore. I'll fix it eventually~)

                                                           (lyrics here)

WHERE CAN THE DARKNESS BE DROWNED?

         A song should be able to stand on it’s own without any further explanation. So I’ve been a little ambivalent about this blogging-about –the-songs thing. Is it really necessary? Well in this case, I kind of think it is. Because I don’t want anyone to worry about me.

                This is a dark song. One might assume that the writer would have to be in a pretty dismal place to come up with it. Upon hearing this you might think I’m mildy depressed; that I’ve fallen into some deep, Southeast-Asian, Brando-in-Apocalypse jungle funk. Not the case.

                                                      Brando in a jungle funk. 

            I do like some dark stuff though, and I don’t just mean coffee and chocolate. For me it depends upon the form that the dark comes in. I’m not fond of murder mysteries, but I like murder ballads. I don’t care for Anne Rice’s vampires, but I love the gothic Bran Stoker Dracula. And I absolutely loathe the apocalyptic, dystopian sci-fi futuristic stuff. I much prefer my darkness rooted in the magic of the past; the stuff of myths, fairy tales, and the like. This musical character sketch is a stab  at fantasy. 

                                                             BIG sack 'o shadow.

         I pinched the title of this song from a C. S. Lewis quote. The entire quote reads, “Where, except in the uncreated light, can the darkness be drowned?” (from Letters to Malcolm.) Lewis basically answers his own question in the middle of asking it. I was drawn to the sound of the question without the answer, so I lifted the best bits. It’s called selective thievery.

C. S. Lewis asked, "Where, except in the uncreated light, can the darkness be drowned?"

             I tried to make the song more complex than pure good vs. evil. . Clearly the narrator has his own demons to contend with. They’re not just in the bag. And that gets to the heart of what this is about.

             It seems like many of us are somewhat overwhelmed by the sense that we are living in a dark time. I know I feel that way. And there’s this cumulative effect going on. Things seem to get stormier by the day, and with every new tweet of destruction I wish we could just throw Sauron’s cell phone into the Crack of Doom and be done with him. Deep down inside I’m aware of the faint impulse to want to kill the evil that he represents. In other words, what I perceive as the external shadow triggers my own internal shadow. This is the kind of thing that inspires Kathy Griffin to make poor artistic choices. It’s not who I wanna be, but it is who I am.

         The Dali Lama recently gave some advice on the subject. He suggested that we answer the contempt of others with “warm heartedness.”  I’m not there yet, and neither is the guy in this song. He makes no apologies for his murderous impulses. He doesn’t even want any help with doing the deed. He’s just asking for simple directions. Simple indeed.

               Meanwhile, I will try to follow the Dali Lama’s directions. I’m looking for some big ocean of warm-heartedness where we can put that shadow out if its misery. If you find that on Google Maps could you let me know?

                                                          ( lyrics here)

GHOST OF FAIRFAX

It’s been longer between song posts than I’d anticipated, mostly because I had vowed that my next post would be new music. It’s so much easier to dust off an old tune, especially when they’ve been engineered by first-rate knob twiddlers. While recording rough demos of new tunes at my desk in the Singapore Woodshed, I must admit I’m sheepish about posting the warts-and-all results.  So much of it turns into what I call “Halloween salad” – a mix so overly dressed in ear candy it makes me wanna puke. I hope to record better versions down the road. Meanwhile, as my brother Smitmon likes to say, “Nature in the raw is seldom mild.” 

When I sat down to write the Ghost of Fairfax, I thought it was going to be a song about the town. The Fairfax Festival took place a couple of weeks ago and I was seeing several posts about it on Facebook. This is a favorite time of year for me in Marin, the beginning of summer and the outdoor music season. I was experiencing epic FOMO. The Fairfax Festival induces an especially potent strain of homesickness.

Bolinas Road. Home to the original Sleeping Lady Cafe, River City and Caledonia Records. 

In case you don’t know, I’m referring to Fairfax California. (Not the 20 other American towns named Fairfax). This is the cool one. The Fairfax where the Grateful Dead played softball with the Jefferson Airplane, and where you bought your records from Van Morrison’s dad. Yeah, that Fairfax.

Destination for bohemians of all stripes for well over a hundred years,  Fairfax was founded in 1865 by Lord Charles Snowdon Fairfax, tenth Baron of Cameron, Scotland. He named his estate Birds Nest Glen. Garden-variety hedonists from San Francisco have been visiting ever since. They used to chill their champagne in the creek. Who wouldn’t wanna party there???

          Bonnie Charlie of Birds Nest Glen. 

Well, my Grandma Gertie for one. My family is from the more respectable neighboring town of San Anselmo. Fairfax had all the bars, all the music, all the fun! In quieter, more buttoned-down San Anselmo, folks stayed home to drank. (when they weren’t sneaking out to Matteucci’s.) And these small-town class distinctions are still very much alive today. So even as a little kid I loved Fairfax. It had the irresistible appeal of forbidden fruit and old time debauchery.

But what started as a song about Fairfax turned into a tribute to my late friend, Gordy Hall. In a town full of characters, Gordy was one of the greats. When I first met him he seemed straight out of a Zap Comic, a Furry Freak Brother brought to life. (But that’s an all too stereotypical, one-dimensional description.) He knew everybody in town and was beloved by the multitudes. He had a great handshake that started from high and behind, and swooped in like a red tailed hawk-- always genuinely happy to see you.

Gordy used to video the Festival Parade every year. You can still check his videos out at the library. 

Truth be told, he was a man of many friends, and I wasn’t one of his closest. Our friendship was mostly centered around music. We went to shows together, jams, parties, and local bars. We took many road trips to Yosemite for the Strawberry Music Festival. But best of all I spent time with Gordy in his home, where I was frequently invited to come over and make music. Gordy was a human jukebox, and what he lacked in raw talent he mad up for in joyful enthusiasm.  Jamming with Gordy was always an exercise in free play. I was encouraged to play any tune, any instrument, any clam. He was everybody’s biggest fan. When you forgot the words to your own song, Gordy would tell you what they were.  He also got me a bunch of gigs. My best gig ever, (over 20 years of Sundays at Book Passage in Corte Madera) was thanks to Gordy. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who had anything unkind to say about the guy, with one small exception… there were a few who wished that he’d tune his guitar a smidge more carefully.  But I’d give anything to play with him now, in-or-out of tune. I miss him like the dickens.

                                I enjoyed a bunch of shows with Gordy at the Pavilion.

There were others in that regular circle of jammers that followed Gordy into the great beyond soon after he left us. His dear friend Steven Balick. His lovely wife Brilla.  And if songwriting were not about “taking a small idea and making it smaller”, I would have included them also. They were very present when I wrote it and it brings me joy to remember them too.

                   The roadside Jerry memorial. My sentiments exactly.

And even though Fairfax will never be the same without Gordy and the Sleeping Lady, that vibrant, colorful community lives on. You should come visit. Go to the Bicycle Museum. Pay your respects at the Jerry Memorial. And by all means, go to Peri’s, or 19 Broadway, or Iron Springs, or any of the other watering holes and raise a glass to Gordy Hall. I’ll drink to that.                                                                          

                                                                      lyrics

BAREFOOT IN L.A.

I have a lot of teacher friends. People who’ve devoted the bulk of their lives to teaching, guiding, and most importantly, loving and caring for, young people. Right now many of these friends are extremely exhausted. These are primary, middle and high school teachers who are coming down to the wire, wrapping up another school year, letting go of their little lambs, sending them down the hall or out into the world. And in the coming days these teachers will get a little break from the classroom, recharge their batteries and tend to the care and feeding of their own education.

This is what it looks like on the last day of school, waiting for the bell to ring. 

 I also have other teacher friends who won’t be taking any breaks. These are largely daycare workers, many of whom will face longer days as the sun spends more time in the sky. These year-round caregivers (and, YES, educators) routinely make-do with less: less money, less respect, less vacation, less nap time. I’ve worked as both public school teacher and daycare worker. These jobs are not as different as one might think.

But teacher or daycare worker, both are on the brink of a new day. The floodgates will open. School’s out. Let the high holy days of summer begin!

Even as a child, the only thing I loved more than going to school was NOT going to school.  I’ve always treasured the alternative education that summer provides. A different kind of learning; less structured, more self-directed. There was more creativity and play, more risk-taking, more boredom, and more time. So as an educator I was always out of step with the constant pressure to make summer shorter and the school year longer. I understand the concern over summer learning loss (AKA the “summer slide”) and the detrimental effect this especially has on children from low-income families. But I think that there are other ways to meet the needs of students without tacking on more school days and longer school hours. The negative side of a long summer is easily measured. The positive side, on the other hand, is immeasurable and seldom acknowledged. 

So summer, for me, has always been sacred ground. The song Barefoot in L.A. is my homage to the golden days of June, July and August. I lament the fact that kids don’t get to run as freely as they used to. But as adults we can do a lot more toward providing safe environments where kids can sow their wild oats. It starts with valuing play.

I’ve posted Barefoot in L.A. in the past on my YouTube channel. It was one of my first attempts at playing with music video. The music on the video is a home demo that I put together myself. The song download is a completely different version. It features the low-strung violin stylings of Tom Prasada Rao. Such a cool sound. Sometimes it almost sounds like an oboe to my ears. Drum master Jagoda is laying down the rhythm, and I'm frailing on the uke. 

As I write this from my Singapore hideaway, Sabrina is back in California for a taste of the first days of summer. And though it’s always summery hot here, it’s not quite the same. I’m looking forward to going home in August, when my summer will begin in earnest. Until then, I hope we all enjoy and appreciate this wonderful time of year. Now go outside and play~

lyrics

DRIFTWOOD WAY

Out the train window between Edinburgh and Newcastle

Once again, I’m writing from a train. This time if feels good to be heading home; to Sabrina, my bed, my pillows, my guitars. We’ve just left Edinburgh for London, where I catch my flight back to Singapore this evening. I’ve been gone about four weeks and I’m especially looking forward to brewing my own  Peets coffee again.

I come from provincial people. My Grandma Mac (Gertrude Cappuro) was born on Telegraph Hill in San Francisco and never left the state of California. My mom left California for the first time when she was 80 years old. I don’t remember my dad or his mom ever leaving California either.  We traveled by car from L.A. to San Francisco every summer. That was as far from home as we ever got.

Homebodies of NorCal: (seated) My grandma Gertrude Capurro, grandpa Alfred McKnew at the piano, and my mom Marijane McKnew standing to his right. Behind are best family friends, Fred, Velma and Jane Tavoni. 

I used to think that this was because my Dad had served in Okinawa in WWII. I figured that cured him of wanting to go anywhere. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that my parents lived from paycheck to paycheck. I’m certain now that they never really had the means to take us anywhere but up north to visit the grandparents. This serves as an ever-present reminder to me, what a privilege it is to have the opportunity to get out and see the world a little bit.

It wasn’t until I started high school that I became aware of wanting to travel. The Let’s Go Europe, backpacking-on-a-shoestring thing was in full swing. I read about it and talked to people who had been, and started saving for it. My first trip out of state was to Colorado, my second trip landed me in Paris (1976). Despite camping in the Bois de Boulogne for 4 weeks, I found that I was burning through my nest egg way too quickly, so I headed east toward cheaper adventures. I traveled overland through Austria, Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan, to India. When I reached Varanasi I hunkered down and stayed for 6 months (leaving once to go to Nepal to renew my visa).  I stayed in India until I ran out of money. My parent’s had a yard sale in L.A. to help pay my ticket home. Altogether, I was gone for about 9 months. It was enough to feel bit by the travel bug for life.

Varanasi, February 1978. Max from Sweden, me, Raj Bhan Singh (sitar instructor at Benares Hindu University) 

Meanwhile, around the time I was off on this overland jaunt, Sabrina was having travel adventures of her own. When we met she had recently wrapped up working on a NOAA ship for two years, taking core samples in the icy waters between Seattle and Alaska. So she had this wanderlust thing too, and it was one of the things we immediately connected about when we met. We’ve been ready to go at the drop of a hat ever since. Our current life in Singapore is the result of always wanting to live overseas for a time.

Rowing the boss around the lake, Pokhara, Nepal, 1985. (honeymooners)

But we are also people who enjoy putting down roots. We so look forward to returning to our home and family in California. And we realize that this addiction for planes, trains and automobiles is not everyone’s cup of tea. I have some dear friends who have little to no desire to leave home, despite having the means to do so. And I don’t chalk this up to living in the Golden State (a great place to never leave, IMHO.)  Though I don’t entirely understand this way of thinking, I do respect it. I especially enjoy those local village characters who know everybody, are seen often, and really have no desire to be anywhere else.

Which brings me to this song, Driftwood Way. It’s about a guy whose roots keep him from going anyplace else. He loves his home. He could never leave. And he’s mostly okay with that, though it’s clearly a mixed bag as he sits by the fire. This tune has kind of a retro-folk sound to my ears. It sounds a little to me like it could have come out of Greenwich Village in the 60s. But it’s another one recorded with Tom Prasada Rao in Texas, (in this present century.)

To wrap up I want to circle back around to what a privilege it is to have these travel opportunities. It’s something that I’m constantly aware of, but some things really drive it home. Sabrina’s work in Singapore has her traveling home to California about 4 times a year. We can’t really afford to fly Cabana Boy home that often, so I go twice a year. When I get left behind in Singapore, sometimes I go on a shorter, cheaper, jaunt in Asia. About a year ago I was able to return to Varanasi to reconnect with that first exotic trip abroad in my youth.

Return to Varanasi, 2016

On this recent trip, I met a young man by the river and we chatted often over the 10 days I was there. He was what’s often referred to as a “tout”; someone who makes his living hitting on tourists to act as a guide and take them to various shops where he makes a commission. He came from a small village about 40 kilometers away. His would go home once every couple of weeks to visit his family and share his earnings. His family didn’t really approve of his lifestyle, and a lot of burned out tourists treated him poorly, but he enjoyed the hustle and was just trying to make an honest buck on his own terms.

My friend by the river. 

But what I remember most about him was his curiosity about my travel experience. He had never been on an airplane, and had only trained out of the state of Uttar Pradesh a couple of times in his life. He asked about what they fed me on the plane. (I didn’t have the heart to call it crap) if I drank alcohol on the plane (a resounding YES, which delighted him), and how BIG was the plane? (about from here to that cow way over there.) It was clearly not his Driftwood Way-like  roots that prevented him from flying. So we both wished he’d get to go on a plane one day.  We’re probably both gonna wish that for a long, long time. That conversation really stuck with me. I try to never take it for granted.

"From here to that cow way over there..."

lyric here

STILL MY GUITAR

Right now we're enjoying that magical feeling of being on a train. This is a high speed roller, not a clickity-clacker, heading towards Vienna after leaving Prague. There are mustard fields and wooded hillsides, a lot of trees in blossom and quiet looking villages.

The food has been great, and the beer even greater.  But I’ve also been fasting. Not a food fast. I’m on a guitar fast, and it really makes me uneasy. I’m starving for some string cheese. 

 Usually when I go somewhere, I always take an instrument. If I don’t feel like lugging a guitar, I at least schlepp a little uke. But on this trip we were committed to traveling light. I mean really light. I’ll be gone 4 weeks with a carry on bag and a computer bag.  And it’s been great so far, except for the guitar cravings.

Little Vanna posing with the teeny-tiny Samsonite. 

 While traveling with an instrument, the truth is I hardly ever play it.  So much time and energy goes into being out and about that I rarely feel the urge to work on a song or play for hours. But I underestimated the value of checking in with the strings and making a joyous noise, even if it’s just for a few minutes. It’s like making a phone call back home. It’s kind of grounding that way.

This song I’m posting for download is called Still My Guitar. I wrote it for my beloved Alvarez Yairi, which sits patiently waiting for me back home in the Bay Area. I kept it at the Singapore love nest for a while, but I began to worry about the effects of heat and humidity, so I took her home last Christmas for safe keeping. I have a utilitarian beater waiting for me when I get back to Singapore in another couple of weeks, and I will be thrilled to see her. But she’s not my main squeeze.

Sabrina surprised me with the Alvarez after watching me drool over it at Bananas At Large in San Rafael (back when it was still on the corner of 4th and Lincoln.) That was about 35 years ago. They’ve both been with me ever since. I know a good thing…

 For several years after that Sabrina worked for Acoustic Guitar Magazine in our hometown of San Anselmo. At that time I got to play a lot of amazing, one-of-a-kind handmade acoustics. But I never did play anything that drove me to replace her. We are just plain happy together.

So the song speaks to that loyalty and longevity. When I wrote the song I tried to give it an element of surprise;  to make the first verse sound like I was talking about a woman. But the title is one big spoiler alert. (So is blogging. )

This is another one recorded with Tom Prasada Rao at the Tofu Bar in Richardson, Texas. Instead of a bass, we used a twelve string. (Which, if I recall, was a trick learned from Drum Master Jagoda.) I love that sound. The Wilbury-esque slide guitar was added later by my dear friend Paul Robinson.

May everyone be so lucky as to find a guitar they can love deeply and never let go of.  Some players find several.  Who am I to judge?

From the Museum of Musical Instruments in Vienna. 

lyrics here

THE CLOSER YOU ARE

            One of the perks of being a cabana boy is that I get to provide poolside service anywhere the boss happens to be. Right now Sabrina is attending a conference in Vienna, so I am duty bound to tag along. Today she’s at the conference, so I am blah blah blogging in a park recovering from my museum hangover. It’s a beautiful day and I can smell both sausage and flowers,  which go surprisingly well together. They say "danke schoen" here, so I have this wicked Wayne Newton ear worm I can't seem to get rid of.

If I may ask a personal question...

Would you dance with this guy?        

        Don’t let the facial hair fool you. This is the Gene Kelly of the Blue Danube himself. Pretty bohemian looking for a waltzer, don’t you think? My favorite version of his greatest waltz hit is “The Danube Isn’t Blue, It’s Green” by the legendary Spike Jones and his City Slickers. I had some of his stuff on 78s when I was a kid, and I’m still a big fan. All wild, cartoonish parodies; Weird Al meets Bugs Bunny. Here’s another takeoff, The Black and Blue Danube from Spike’s TV show. Great stuff.

         When I wrote about Gravedigger’s Boy, I mentioned my love of composing in ¾ time and waltzing too. What better place to share a waltz than Vienna? Of course, the Viennese waltz is a lot faster and way out of my league. I prefer the big, slow, Titanic-nautical-roll. It suits my body type. Besides, I don’t have the duds to dance like an Austrian.

         So this waltz I’m posting is called The Closer You Are. I wrote it a while ago while Cabana Boss was off on a work trip. Sometimes we travel together and sometimes we travel separately. We give each other room to move around that way. So I was missing her when this song popped out. And the bridge, “Sometimes we fight…” is just a big fat lie.

        This tune is a lot different from the Americana style downloads I’ve posted so far. It was recorded with Tom Prasada Rao at his Tofu Bar in Richardson, Texas several years back. At the time I was writing more singer/songwriter type stuff. I got hung up on the post production (developed a bad case of self-produced paralysis) and never commited these tunes to CD. So I plan to share a lot of them in their not-quite-finished-in-my-mind form. “Nature in the raw is seldom mild.”

         I love all the players on this cut. Tom PR played that vibe-y tremolo electric guitar. Cary Cooper sang the background vocals. Jagoda played drums. And my Browngrass brother Bill Kahler played the sax solo. You should grab your sweetie and dance to this one. 

MY NEW LEMONADE STAND

              Once I made a lemonade stand. I painted the signs and my mom helped me make the lemonade. As will happen, I pretty much drank it all myself.  When I set up shop out at the curb it was dead as a door nail;  no foot traffic, no cars coming to a screeching halt. My mom came out and bought a glass. That was my only sale. This prepared me for the folk business.

              It was fun anyway. Painting the signs. Making the product with Mom. Doing commerce with my one loyal customer. Watching the cars go by... drinkin’... and that was enough. So I’ll never be Minutemaid.

          Today I’m opening a new lemonade stand. It’s called setting free the songs dot com. The only difference is this time I’m not trying to sell anything. It’s more like a lemonade soup kitchen for parched ears.

              These days I’m writing my little tunes while living in Singapore. My wife Sabrina took a job here and I tagged along as full time Cabana Boy. There’s no question of doing any music business here. It’s pretty much pop only. There are no venues for the kind of folksy, lyric-heavy, story-driven stuff I do. They'd look at me like Farmer John just stepped out of his time machine.

               But oddly enough, that’s been very freeing. I get to woodshed and work on craft. My Cabana Boy workload is a actually quite light. So my mind is off-leash, taking the long walk in the tropical heat. I'm thinking of new stuff to say, so I'm building a place to say it.

              Consequently I’ve had sort of a Jedi mind shift regarding this website stuff. My old website was a dead letter office. I avoided it like the plague, because the pretense of doing business and the charade of sounding professional didn't resonate with me. It felt inauthentic. . Now that I'm in a situation where business isn't an option, a website becomes something I wanna make. Like painting the signs and squeezing the lemons, just building it has been fun. And I'm exited about building a home to put my stuff in, instead of just pouring it down the Facebook hole. 

                    So here's what I plan to do here. First, I'm giving away the tunes from my first two records. You can freely download them from these links (Sweet River Grace, Gravedigger's Boy). Having lived with these songs for a while, I used them as jumping off points for blogging, so there is a short blog attached to each of the songs (if you're into this reading thing.) From here I plan to post once or twice a week with quick sketches of new tunes and lots of older unreleased stuff as well. Any music will be available for download, no strings attached. I am removing my major stumbling block -- the burden of perfection. I just wanna share this stuff warts-and-all, with the understanding that I may record a better "definitive version" down the road. If you want to know when I post stuff, sign up here. If you hear anything you like, help yourself. If it's not your cup 'o tea, no problem. There's a 24 hour Jiffy Mart right up the street. Go buy yourself some Minutemaid.