This morning I was watching/listening to Crossroads 2007.
This dvd features THE guitar festival that Eric Clapton has staged three times
(2004, 2007, and 2010) to present some of the finest guitar players alive. All
proceeds for these events go to Crossroads Center, a drug treatment center
founded by Clapton. To paraphrase Sir Clapton, “cause is a simple one....people
who use to drink like me....alot of my heroes didn’t have that option….maybe
they wouldn’t have….” Watch the YouTube video and hear his statement in its entirety
(along with his take on Robert Johnson’s If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day).
This got me thinking about The List, the Greatest Guitarist
List put out by Rolling Stone Magazine, or I should say compiled by some pretty
impressive musicians gathered for this task by Rolling Stone Magazine. And I
thought, why does this society feel the need to rate everything under the sun?
You cannot say one guitarist is “better” than the next--can’t be done. I look at
the list as just that; a list. Just because one is rated number 12; well, that
doesn’t mean he is any better or any worse than number 13 or number 11. When I
make out my grocery list just because I may have listed apples first and
bananas second; okay let me do that over—I may list Milky Ways first and
Doritoes fifth but that doesn’t mean Milky Ways are better. It’s just a list
and next week Milky Ways may be replaced by Snickers, depending on my mood.
Maybe that’s just what it is, a list. But being the
competitive race we are we automatically assume those listed towards one end
are better or worse than those in between. Well, I say bullcrap. They are
all awesome and have interjected pieces of their souls through their
instrument. And god only knows, there may be some unknown guitar genius
somewhere in rural China right now as I write who could outplay them all and we
will never know about it; and therefore never make the list. “If a tree falls
in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
My introduction to the pop music scene of the early 60’s was thru my older sister, Dawn. The Beatles, Petula Clark, Dave Clarke Five, Roy Orbinson, Simon and Garfunkle and even that rockin’ mama, The Singing Nun, are just a few of the flood of artists, talented and not so talented, that serenaded me thru childhood. My cousin and next door neighbor Ann Marie and I dug up Jerry Lee Lewis’ Great Balls of Fire out of an attic trunk (remnant of my dad’s youngest brother, Roger) which we played over and over again on my sister’s little blue record player. Man, we rocked.
As I matured so did my tastes; Jim Morrison, Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Steppenwolf, Cream, Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix, ZZ Top, Bob Dylan (electric), et cetera. , I consider The Stones, Exile on Main Street, my favorite album, especially the double CD put out a few years ago. Within each track you can feel, even smell the wasted decadent strung out condition of the band and their entourage. If you have ever seen the dvd Exile on Main Street you will not only hear but see what I mean. Yet they record a magnificent LP; the instrumentals alone can blow your mind--the horns are amazing! Musicians who are willing and able to bare their souls to their listeners reveal pure genius in my book. Enough of this intro; I will attempt to convey what the blues mean to me.
In eighth grade I received for Christmas the greatest gift ever, a Magnavox hi fi stereo furnished with an AM/FM radio. At this time FM stations were beginning to generate a following for they could play the long versions of songs and entire albums without commercial interruption. While playing with the dial one night I hit upon KUNI out of Cedar Falls, IA. The most haunting, gut wrenching sounds flooded my room, raw guitar licks and harmonica solos that stroked my even then old soul, vocals that reverberated with a pain centuries old. I did not know that I was listening to authentic blues at the time--not the white boy British version, but the real deal. Through Bob Door I was initiated into the Blues Only Program and introduced to such raw genius as Lightnin Hopkins, Muddy Waters, Willy Dixon, Big Mama Thorton, T-Bone Walker, Robert Johnson, Buddy Guy, Koko Taylor, Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin’ Wolf, Albert King, BB King, Freddie King, and on and on and praise gawd on and on. Every week night at 9pm Bob would further my education for a half hour and on Saturday nights for a whole magnificent hour and a half. Nothing, not even god almighty and his chorus of angels, ever touched me like this “race” music born of spirituals sung by slaves down in the cotton fields of Dixie. Even to this day I get goosebumps listening to the haunting primitive sounds of Robert Johnson. Koko Taylor can rev me up like no other and Muddy Waters will titillate my soul till the day I die.
I have lived thru my share of shitty times; the last two weeks have been a rough go. But when I feel overwhelmed I put in my earphones and sail away to a state of mind that no drug can imitate. There is a power, to me as powerful as another’s “holy spirit” that can lift me out of the ruts of this life and imbue in me the strength to go on. And if there is anything I am able to understand regarding the plight of the black man and woman in this country, well I know it was their ability to express their pain along with their pleasure thru the music that they were compelled to create to ease their troubled minds, bodies and souls. Long live Blues Power.
I
should be packing up the rest of my stuff; I made the big move last night and
am currently back at my old place (literally-- built in the 1870’s) gathering
all the little things that we were too tired to deal with last night. Also I
have a load of cleaning; underneath all the furniture subsisted whorls and swirls,
entire vortexes of cat hair. However, I find so many more fun things to do,
such as stuffing my face with last night’s pizza and going on YouTube. Mind
you, my initial purpose was to listen to some background music as I toiled over
my multitude of tasks, but my back badly needed a break. Tomorrow is another
day indeed.
I planned on having Buddy Guy distract me from my aches and pains. But
I struck gold and landed this version of Sweet Home Chicago, my favorite blues
tune. Now that Mr DaveyGie reads my blog I will add that every time I hear
this I think of James Kind cause he use to always play it for me whenever I
would catch his show (I do pander to my fan base except for those who refuse to
admit who the best guitar player ever was and IS). Within seconds of my viewing
pleasure all I could think is that when I die I hope this is what heaven is
like. Wow! Check out Johnny Winter, another favorite Texan geetar-player of mine.
I am moving next week so I awoke this morning at 6:30am to procure boxes. The last time I was conscious at that ungodly hour I was leaving work. I prefer that when I see the sun in the east I am heading for my bed rather than leaving it. So there I stood, at the customer service counter of the closest mega-mart at 8am talking to some bright-eyed and bushy-tailed clerk. She told me that I would have to come in earlier in order to obtain boxes; otherwise they are crushed. Earlier? So I hatched a plan. I will call the stock people tonight, long after the mainstream clerks have left, and make arrangements to pick up boxes before I go to bed, like at 3am. I even have a connection, Jason, a coworker’s son. Hey, my mama didn’t raise no fool.
After battling early morning traffic I find myself back home, copiously caffeinated, with nothing to do. I had planned on spending the morning packing, but now what? I usually don’t wake up till eleven so my most important email of the day hasn’t arrived yet. I send him one before going to bed in the wee hours and expect one in the morning before responding. Even though he awakes at the crack of dawn (yes, a day person) he knows he can wait till midmorning, but today is an unusual day for me so I am peeved that it is not there. Why did he have to be born in Oklahoma and me in Iowa? http://mapq.st/HLNloO Finally at 8:45 it arrives, allowing me now to put my mind to other matters. What men put us women through and visa versa.
I’ve pretty much retired from the cooking/baking scene. After twenty odd years of at least one big meal on the table each day and a never ending supply of homemade cookies, well I’ll just say it’s not an essential part of my day although I do spend considerable time leafing through culinary magazines; it’s in my blood. Nevertheless I am antsy so I decide to whip up a batch of pumpkin white chocolate muffins. I complete that task (yes, it was a task; I would rather have been packing). While waiting for them to bake I find myself on my laptop checking out my sister’s latest blog—“Damn Sixty.” Ha, I knew someday there would be more pros than cons to being the little sister. And then I make the mistake of clicking on the little “next blog” button. I have done this a few times in the past and usually end up totally bored by the antics of either christian moms and their unending pictorial plethora of their ever-proliferating progeny (don’t they know pedophiles cruise these sites?) or blogs of young self-absorbed women flaunting their latest make-up/hair/fashion techniques.
Before I continue I would like to add a “rider” to this commentary. When one puts something on the internet it becomes, in essence, public property. Therefore I have the right to quote, interpret, and/or make crap out of anything I peruse online; just as anyone has the right to quote, interpret and/or make crap out of anything I submit online. Fair is fair.
Is this cake for real or did someone spike my Coke
The first click brings me to “Posy Partycakes-- photos recipes and reviews by the cupcake cutie.” Wow. I gorge on Posy’s vivid photos of multihued gastronomic goo. Incredible. I click on my Favorites button and add it to my incessant list. My eyes feast particularly on the many photos devoted to Double Rainbow Cake. Regarding this cake that takes the cake she states, “Next time I'll pay attention to which way is up and hopefully won't end up with upside down rainbows! I don't think she noticed though” (she inserted pics of her young daughter-- no Posy, no). I don’t think anyone else noticed either; so screw it, Posy, and just relax. It's a party, have a few beers, or I suspect you prefer wine-- whatever. Damn it, I became so engrossed in the genius of Posy that I burned my first batch of muffins.
After that treat I click and honest to god, cross my heart and hope to die, stumble upon thewilliamsfamily5.blogspot.com entitled, Loving My Life. I shake my head and silently utter, “why me, lord?” as I read and process the title of the first post, “With My Hands Lifted High.” Ms. Williams (I presume) posts, “It has been a few weeks since I have gone to church and this morning I was wanting nothing more than to surrender myself during worship. And so”…I never find out anything more for I quickly click the next blog button. Praise the lord for high speed internet.
Next up is “Popular Enthusiast, Bringing tomorrow's ideas to the forefront of today's late afternoon.” I scroll down and read “I’m gone. Catch me at popularenthusiast.com. So I do and within a few seconds I am reading: “Roentgenizdat is the practice of imprinting an audio track on to discarded x-ray plates to then be played on a record player or gramophone, developed by underground music pirates in the Soviet Union during the 1950s until it was made illegal by the Kremlin in 1959. The name roentgenizdat comes from the combination of roentgen ray (another word for X-ray) and samizdat (“self-published”, or underground literature). As well as literature, much western music (including rock and jazz, etc.) was banned… X-ray records were of poor quality and seldom lasted for more than a few months, but they still contained the precious forbidden music, and as such were treasured by all who could get their hands on them”—Whoa! That’s pretty damn interesting. I dedicate this one to my Russian readers.
Bear with me, it does get better (well maybe; Posy is hard to beat). On to putumchas.blogspot.com who also must have had some hassles with blogspot because he launches off with: “Moving”-- No, its not the song. Today I am writing 'cos crazydrop's had some issues with blogger and is moving to wordpress (same name)." This sucks cause he had posted a youtube video of Led Zeppelin performing “Since I’ve Been Loving You” and when I click on it I receive the message: “This video is no longer available because the uploader has closed their YouTube account.” Bummer. Oh well, I go to his new blog address and sadly see that he has not included this particular oldie but goodie. However he does have many other artists so I click on “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus, thinking I’m going to sit back and see some good old kick ass Sid Vicious type punk. Wrong. Wheatus appears to be nothing but upper class white college kids spreading their wings. Maybe later I’ll spend some time perusing Zeppelin and Sid via YouTube. Ah, the good old days.
Now I’m getting a little excited for today’s blog search has been more interesting than usual (except for Ms. Williams, but that’ll happen). At my next click I come to, “Creation, Passion, Clarity, Serenity. . . I always wanted a blog...somewhere to release all the tension that people seem to accumulate on a daily basis. Writing is my release. Even if it's just for me, and no one else sees it, it's a need, not a want.Let's see where this goes...” I read her first post and as I come to, “Lately, I've been feeling so lost. I don't feel that I have any more direction or purpose, but the reasons behind my melancholy have become clear. I recently got a metaphoric slap in the face by the most unlikeliest of places. So I plan on making some changes, or at least traveling down the road of less negativity and more positivity. Let's see where this goes...” Scanning hurriedly down her blog I see such titles as “Emotionally Exhausted”, “Falling Off The Edge”, “Broken Heart”, “The Things That Hurt Me The Most.” Enough, I think, and by the way, acquirea sense of humor….pleeze. (or maybe a trip to the doc for antidepressants).
Which brings me to the blog, “My Little Notepad-- the musings of a nineteen year old with too much time and love of the written word,” She continues with “I have lived a sheltered life” and “everything is getting real now. I don’t like it.” All I can think about this is, welcome to planet earth and if you can’t handle your little pink cotton candy existence I would be happy to send you the means to end it all. God, I’m mean.
Am I having fun yet. . . yes indeed. Lizzyhizzy writes, “I write everything down. I make food to pay the bills (points in her favor). My kitty is the most loyal man I’ve ever met (many points in her favor). My favorite color will probably always be purple.” Give this girl an A+!I continue reading and all I can think is Janis Ian is alive and well. Enough said.
Last, but certainly not least on today’s journey thru blogland I stumble, rather click on Honorificebilitudinitatibus (well, as we use to say, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to you, young man) who tells us he is “putting this blog on indefinite hiatus until the semester is over.” I skim over his prose and am pretty impressed with the gist of his writing assignments he must work on. He leaves me with one little golden nugget, “I’ve been a big fan of the Tintin series for years, and I’ve been excited to see it come out for a long time." Tintin Rocks!
I spent my weekend off sick; never fails, the first beautiful weekend of Spring I get sick with a hell of a cold. I don’t know if this has something to do with the pollen carousing through the air in search of prime plants to fertilize and mistaking my moist nasal passages for stigma; flowers growing out of my nose, now that would be something to see. Whatever the reason I found myself weakened, therefore spending most my time prone on the couch.
Between catnaps with my cats I spent my time streaming Netflix and perusing youtube.The inane and insane antics of the cast of “The Office” took my mind off my misery for hours on end. In one of my more serious and able to focus modes, I watched a few movies, most notable, Goya’s Ghosts (can never get enough of Javier Bardem, damn you Penelope). At one point during my various youtube excursions I stumbled upon a gem: Jerry Lee Lewis along with Chuck Berry, Keith Richards, and my favorite guitar strummer of them all, Stevie Ray Vaughan; I thought for a moment I died and went to heaven. Watch Stevie in this, he's outplaying everyone of those cats (except for The Killer on the piano).Even ole Keith is looking at him for direction.
SRV never lived long enough to establish himself within the mainstream of guitar greats. If he had lived a few more years he most assuredly would have become a “big fish in a big pond”. At the time of his death (returning to his hotel in Chicago from a concert with guitar gods Eric Clapton and Buddy Guy in southeast Wisconsin, the helicopter he was riding in crashed against a hill within the Alpine Ski Resort) he stood on the verge of this. Being a humble man he would have most likely shirked this off and just played cause that’s what he was driven to do.
Stevie’s devoted followers consider him #1 within his sphere. I dare say so do many of the guitar greats alive today (Below a clip of Eric Clapton speaking of SRV and than playing Stevies Ain't Going To Give Up On Love at Stevie's memorial concert May 11, 1995). A day never passes for this blues- southern man lovin’ woman that does not include a bit of Stevie. His spirit resides forever within the scorching and riveting chords of his music.
I have inserted Stevie himself doing his take on the song he created just to make this point: truthfully, now Clapton fans, who is "God" when it comes to the guitar?
I have spent most of my nights this past week working the graveyard shift. Definitely not a problem for me for I was born under the sign of Cancer, hence a child of the moon. I bide my time until the dusk, knowing that once the sun descends to another land I and my fellow creatures of the night can enshroud ourselves within the soothing silence and blissful solitude bequeathed upon those who prefer the shadows to the light.
“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” Vincent Van Gogh
Curious to why this shift is called graveyard I did a quick search and found two points of view. The first site stated that years ago people could be mistakenly pronounced dead, resulting in their grave (pun intended) misfortune to find themselves buried alive. Someone came up with the brilliant idea to furnish caskets with bells so the horror- stricken hopefully temporary grave dwellers could alert those hired for this extremely vital duty to hastily dig them back up to the land of the living. They kept vigil day and night, working the graveyard shift. A more modern explanation of the term states that “your skin is clammy, there's sand behind your eyeballs, and the world is creepily silent, like the graveyard.” As one who has worked this shift off and on for years I prefer the former not only for its colorful slant and historical value but also because I don’t appreciate the latter’s view that my skin is clammy. So not true.
I stand watch while my residents sleep. I “work” alone and welcome this respite from the hustle and bustle of my usual 2pm to 10pm shift. I keep busy with various tasks, but at a much slower pace for my physiology has naturally slowed down its pace. And when I start to feel confined I step outside and find solace in the grandeur of Father Sky and bathe in the restorative power of Mother Earth. During Tuesday’s wee hours I was gifted with a frozen concoction that hung from the trees like dazzling crystals. Wednesday early morn brought me teeny tiny snowballs from the Sky that settled on the Earth like tiny individual pearls (not hard like ice pellets but soft as snow). Thursday arrived sprinkling the black pavement with glittering specks of diamond dust along with the eerie keening/barking of a pack of coyotes in the distant hills. Tonight I sit at home enjoying a wondrous spectacle of soft snow tumbling from the Sky, blanketing everything in a velvety cloak of pristine white. Tomorrow it will become sullied by cars and snow blowers but I will remember tonight.
As wejourneyed along a southwestern Wisconsin highway amidst brown lifeless fieldsone chilly, bleak and foggy January day a few years back, my niece Sarah, a Floridian, looked at me through her designer sunglasses (despite the gray skies) and asked dubiously, “How can you stand living up here?” I don’t recall my answer; I probably mumbled something profound such as, “I don’t know, it’s what I’m used to."
As I become older I have pondered this question many times, particularly this time of year. I answer thus: I choose to remain in a land that encompasses the four seasons. Each season possesses its own unique enchantments. Winter, in my mind, expresses itself with austerity along with majesty. The sunsets are nothing less than majestic; gazing at the bare black tree branches silhouetted against a sky adorned in glowing oranges, pinks, and lavenders has mesmerized me to the extent that I seek out that time of day. And it blesses me. The Wisconsin countryside we viewed that gray January day, well, I have seen that same countryside cloaked in a glistening mantle of snow, displaying hues of blue under a full winter moon. I am humbled by the sight. The sight of snow descending from the sky, whether tumbling playfully or dangerously plummeting, always excites me on some level even though I know treacherous driving and strenuous shoveling will follow. It’s so worth it for the sight of fresh fallen snow reposing on the ground and blanketing pine trees, along with the fresh crispness of the air, does certainly take one’s breath away while renewing one’s spirit.
By the time February rolls around most of us are longing for spring; cabin fever has set in along with a yearning to catch a glimpse of green. February can fool us, giving us a brief respite from the biting winds and freezing temps, a fickle month that we know well. It won’t be until we are into March that we will finally sight the purple and golden crocuses peeking from the snow. And as the days march towards April milder air prevails and the sight of tiny buds emerging like pimples on the branches of trees gives us confidence that spring has finally arrived. With the appearance of hearty tulips and genial daffodils we know the days are dutifully numbered until fragrant and luscious lilacs abound. And that assuredly proclaims spring. The scents and warmer temps seduces even the most hardened Midwesterner to ease up and smile for no particular reason other than it’s just great to be alive.
These past years spring has hurled into summer. These are lazy hazy days where the sun doesn’t set till it has kissed each and every living thing. Kids rule during this season; from sunup to sundown they chase everything from toads to fireflies. Rules are lifted for both young and old; vacations rule. The trees stand sentry dressed in their green garb, giving sanctuary to squirrels, birds and any creature weary from the heat of the day. People up here spend days and nights relishing the river; boating, fishing, or just watching it roll on by. And smack dab in the middle of the season many gather on the north side of town to observe a spectacular display of fireworks. Some party a bit too much, but then they play as hard as they work. And towards the end of July we begin to notice that the sun does not hang around as long as it did just a few weeks before. And too soon the stores are plied with school supplies and aisles of fresh off the truck back to school garb.
Even though the days can still emit heat hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, the nights start to cool down and we smell fall in the air. The aroma of the earth along with overripe produce and flora arouse in us instinctively the surge towards this season. Our bodies and minds begin to wind down; we go back to school or buckle down to a more arduous work mode. Amidst this internal change we are given a spectacular external display as the trees burst into specters of gold, red and yellow. Pumpkin along with various other squash dishes appear on tables and us cooks search for new hearty soup recipes. And as the days grow shorter and cooler we savor the crisp morning air and at night gaze at star studded skies. We have gorged on summer and now, like all of nature we are slowing down, and are glad for it. We hunker down and look forward to the hoopla of the ensuing holidays and know that they will pass too quickly and the cycle will begin again.
