I spent about 6 hours nominating my mom for the Lawrence and Eula Hagie Heritage Award from the Iowa Natural Heritage Foundation , after a tip about the award from my cousin Jennifer.  The INHF is a conservation foundation, not unlike the Sierra Club, that protects the quality of land and wildlife in Iowa from greedy corporate interests and short-sighted ignorant people.  Enough said!  We needed two nominating letters from non family members, and within 24 hours we had 4 letters from accomplished conservation practitioners.   That says a lot about what my mom stands for. 

My mom is an activist who has dedicated her life to protecting the interests of the underprivileged, the disenfranchised and especially air and water quality issues that effect s all.  Yeah, she is a liberal from way back (peace!).  I remember her working for Hubert Humphrey in the 70’s, and a lot of other lost causes.  I decided to nominate her because she really does work her ass off and I am proud of her.  When she isn’t out in the fields actually planting trees, burning stands of prairie, or mowing fields of weeds, she is engaging friends and family on a range of political topics.  She is an Irish-Catholic farm girl who isn’t afraid to take anyone on, right up to Governors and Senators, she has bent a lot of ears.  

Although it might sound like it, she is not one of these feisty, cute grandmotherly types.  She is in such good shape for her age that she appears to be anything but grandmotherly, and she is a quiet polemicist, not a curmudgeonly, cranky type.  Plus, she talks the talk, but walks the walk too – from the farm to the statehouse, she is equally at ease. 

She deserves to win, because she is passionate about the environment and conservation, and because she works damn hard, reclaiming timber, restoring farmland to natural prairie, and educating anyone who will listen.  A recent project to restore and old river oxbow into habitat for the endangered Topeka Shiner earned her a U.S. Fisheries award.  Mom is 100 percent organic and always has dirt under her nails, but has taken on the suits and changed policy. 

Will she win the award? If she doesn’t, someone really good better win.  If she wins the award, what will it mean?  To her, will it be $1000 and a hand-carved acorn plaque, or will it be a motivator, or a milestone achievement?  I’m not sure, but my best guess is she will be in the garden either way and the cabbages won’t care one little bit.

 

Things to do List #489

What to do, what to do. Lately I’ve been in a creative purgatory.  After 15 years in the band, and an impending nervous breakdown, I put music in park and shut off the engine. As per usual, I’m driven to inaction by the thought of doing something wholeheartedly or not at all.  I feel I am at yet another imaginary crossroads.  Here is what has been on my mind lately…..

#1.  Road Kill Coffee Table Book.  I got a nice camera for my birthday(thanks Rachael!), and have been trying to take some wildlife photos.  Birds, animals, scenery, and the like.  But what I really  am fascinated with is the carnage I meet on the country roads on my daily drive to work.  It’s a Dante-esque scene of massacred raccoons, deer, skunks, cats, pheasants, birds, possums and every mammal and reptile you can imagine.  To me it is a flagrant display of our de-sensitized dominion over the beasts of this world.  Plus, they look really cool, all squished and I could even do a time-lapse deal.  You know, taking a picture every day for a week, while the ashes become ashes and the dust becomes dust.

#2.  Internet Radio Station.  I started a station on Live 365 (www.live365.com/salamagundi).  It is really more like listening to my Ipod playlist, except, I tried to do some intros and information to some of the songs.  I have been getting some good comments, and a few listeners, but I have lost time and interest lately.  It  was fun going through some of my old vinyl and digging up some nuggets, though.  I’d like to add a live segment, but alas, time, time, time.

#3.  Organize my Records.  There are about 2000 or so record albums that I own.  I have finally got them all in one place.  For some reason, I have about half of them in order – the other half are in ugly piles.  I keep getting distracted, and after all these years, I still like to read the liner notes. Reminds me of John Cusack in one of my favorite movies “High Fidelity”

#4.  Run for the House of Representatives.  Steve King really is an asshole, and an embarrassment to the state of Iowa.  With  a few years of City Council experience, I’m almost as qualified as Sarah Palin, and I would love to debate him just to pause, and say, “well, you’re a fascist asshole, so shut up!”.   Just kidding (about the running for office part.), besides, probably have to pass a blood test.  

 

#6. Get back in shape. Too much sitting, too much drinking, too little sweating.  Well, at least the weather is turning nice.  Musicians are easily distracted. (Shit, now this post is starting to sound like a New Year’s resolution list!)

#7.  Finally master midi and sampling software and begin collecting sounds to be sampled.

#8. Play Guitar.   After a 7 month break – the longest I’ve ever taken – I finally picked up a guitar in April, and began working on some new acoustic tunes.  I forgot how good of an addiction guitar is.  I forgot what a ball and chain it is.  It seems I can’t do anything halfway, especially something that a care so deeply for.  I think I’ll put together an acoustic set and book a few gigs and see what happens after that.

#9. Start a project to earn money for Val Stoeklien’s family.  And maybe to raise money for an organization like Nucci’s Space.  As a mildly depressive (who isn’t!) and slightly bipolar creative genius, I can certainly relate to the self-inflicted tragedies that befall tortured artists.  The first time I listened to Val Stoeklien’s, Grey Life, I was confused, the mix of 60’s era, orchestral arrangements and sad folky singer songwriter ballads (think Percy Faith meets Neil Young).  The music had enough mystery to hook me for a few listens, which gradually became borderline obsessive.  Legend has it, and it is easily apparent, that Val allowed the record to be over-produced, despite his own misgivings.  I am probably not alone in thinking that had Stoeklien released a stark, all acoustic album, his would now be a household name.  If I can muster the energy, or collaborators, that is what I would like to do.  In my indulgent fantasy, I am working with Colin Meloy,  Bon Iver,  Joe Pug, Justin Lamoureaux, Patterson Hood, Margo Timmins, Jack White, Ray Lamontagne, Neko Case, Iris Dement and the like.  Of course, I will sing a song as well. 

 

Dropkick me Jesus, through the goalposts of life

Val Air Ballroom, Des Moines, Iowa.  Dropkick Murphys on a cold Wednesday night in November.  The Val Air is a relic from the golden era of swing bands. After sitting vacant for a few years, the old gal was purchased by a couple entrepreneurs and developed into a great venue for small and mid sized artists.

Tom and I procurred some of Ray Kroc’s finest, and a couple bottles of ale for the 90 minute ride to Des Moines.   We arrived early and proceeded to find the Irish spirit that resides in spirits.  The first band, Everybody Out was the best of the evening, including the DKM’s.  They had that stuff that you can’t manufacuture – hard edged, go-fer-broke youth.  The made me two step and participate in the mosh pit “wall of death”.  

Angel City Outcasts was the 2nd band.  IMO, posers who couldn’t make up their mind if they were pretendting to be the Killers, or a So Cal rock band. Nothing that moved me, but maybe it was just a bad night for them.

The DKM’s would have been outstanding if they hadn’t been so loud that there was no definition to their sound.  All the subtleties of the Celtic instrumentation were lost in the stew of bass, guitars and drums.   Pity, that. 

We found a place called Kelly’s or Murphies, had one for the road and headed back west.  Sometimes I wish I lived in the damn city.

 

Chocolate City

 

 

Barak Obama is president elect and I couldn’t be happier.  I stood up for him (not exactly an easy thing for a semi-reclusive white male to do in a small rural Iowa town!) in the Iowa Caucuses.  I voted for him and for the first time I can remember, I really, really believe in the dream.  As I reflected on my feelings, to figure out what caused me, this jaded political pessimist, to let his guard down, my life flashback kept returning to the same old snapshots and memories.  

In 1976, I was a 6th grader, and Milwaukee, Wisconsin started a desegregation busing initiative that turned the town upside down for a few weeks. Teachers in my neighborhood white south side school went on strike, and adults cursed and held anti-desegregation (segregation?) signs.  It was all a little scary for a youngster who didn’t understand the sociopolitical dynamics of the situation.  I just knew that black kids were coming to our school from somewhere far away, and boy, were people pissed. My brother and sister attended the local school that year, but,  my mom, being a stout Jesse Jackson follower and general liberal political agitator, opted to send me to Jackie Robinson Open Alternative school on the Near North Side where the black kids were being bused from.   She didn’t think it was fair that the kids from the primarily black areas be the only ones bused, so she sent me in trade, I guess.  All of a sudden, I was a overnight minority, a scrawny white kid in a completely foreign inner city.   

Now, if you’ve read any of my posts, or if you know me at all, you’ll understand that music is my cultural touchstone.  I tend to think of many things in terms of their musical significance in my memory.  At Jackie Robinson in 1976, Jr High kids either listened to hard rock like Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath and Aerosmith (now classic rock?!) or they listened to soul and funk sounds that would eventually become hip hop; Parliament, Chaka Kahn, Rufus and Ohio Players.  In the game room at lunchtime, it was the rockers vs.  the cool funksters.  The adult lunch monitor tried to give equal time to each side, but there was still bitching.  I loved the funk.  It was alien and primal and to a kid who was raised on straight 4 beats, the accent on the 3 made my pelvis feel slippery.  But I loved the hard rock too.  Aerosmith’s “Rocks” and Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” from that period are still two of my favorites, and when I’m alone, and in the right mood, it’s Parliament’s “We Got the Funk” and “Bop Gun”.

What does this 30 year old tale have to do with our new President elect, you ask?  Barack’s historical achievement brings me back to 1976 and Parliment, Bootsy Collins, George Clinton, and the song  Chocolate City. “They still got the White House, but that’s a temporary condition, too.” To me, the song epitomized black power.  Clinton’s lyrics gave strength to the numbers of blacks that had been migrating north to cities like Gary, IN, Newark, NJ, Chicago and Washington, DC the original Chocolate City.  Parliament channels groovy Sly and James Brown, infused with the influence of black power militants Huey Newton and Bobby Seale (plus a lot of pot and LSD). They took the party to the people, with a message that provided a sound track for the change that made todays hope possible.  

Gainin’ On Ya!

 

Lucinda Williams and Barak Obama

Me and Rachael went to see Lucinda Williams in Des Moines this week. What a great show.   I bought the tickets for Rachael as a surprise and didn’t tell her until the morning of the show.  

We ate at a nice Italian place, Luccas, then cut it close, making the show as the opening act started.   I went expecting to enjoy the show, but my expectations were surpassed.  Lucinda is a bit of a nerd.  She reminds me of my aunt – totally not a good dancer.  But, by the end of the show she was everyones best friend.  Her band was tight and talented, and her between song banter was perfect.  My favorite part of the night was when she went on a jag about Barak Obama.  

Clearly, and obviously, her crowd is sympathetic to Obama – aging hippies and hipsters and the like.  She started to introduce song form her new album “Little Honey” and started talking about how Bluegrass Legend Ralph Stanley had endorsed Obama. The crowd cheered her foray into clearly uncomfortable territory for her – politics.  Then she mentioned her niece, a pentacostal, who was going to vot for McCain. She couldn’t believe anyone could vote that way. Lucinda seemed a little out of control and the crowd loved it.  She ran on a bit long, even for me, and 3 people in the front row left, in what appeared to be a “huff”. 

Lucinda was clearly rattled and it took two songs to get her mojo back.  Meanwhile, the crowd loved it. It was one of those shows where it was time to go and I couldn’t believe how fast the time flew. 

She finished with the ACDC chestnut “Long way to the Top”, and we started the 2 hour drive home singing “Jailhouse Tears”

 

Truth or Fiction

I feel like an ATandT commercial tonight, only without the graphics and ubiquitous music. I’m dangerously optimistic and slightly delusional. When I woke up this morning, I was making a list of the most ideal cabinet appointments for the next U.S. President. With a few well-placed adjustments in the U.S. Body politic, this world could could save itself from another four years of political post traumatic stress disorder.
As I faded in and out of semi-wakefulness, thinking about making the world better (cue “We are the World” music circa 1985) I was hidden in the corner of a room that resembled Elvis’ jungle room in his Graceland Mansion, invisible like Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol. A guy resembling Ghandi and a women that had to be Mother Theresa were talking in calm, soothing, peaceful voices. It seemed they had called a special meeting of all their dead friends to try and fix the world, once-and-for-all.  Walt Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau, Gertrude Stein, Henry Miller, Father Damien, Martin Luther King, Marcus Aurelius, George Burns, Harriet Tubman and Bob Denver.  All dressed in multi-colored satin robes.  The most odd part – they all were seeking my counsel and all I could do was repeat the step-by-step instructions for my venison stroganoff.

 

Alcohol

3:24 am.  Friday night.  Now I understand why Carrie Nation carried a hatchet.

 

Except for the color on my TV it’s 1954

I’m watching the Republican convention on TV. I said I wouldn’t, but after a couple of drinks, I can almost tolerate it. Almost. Although I wasn’t born yet in 1954, it reminds me of cold war era conservative vitriol and Reagan era yard sale philosophies.

As I tune in, Mike Huckabee is lecturing the congregation. “Democrats are tackier than a costume change at a Madonna concert.” Wow, he is “cool” and “with it”. Just say no, Mike. “My dad lifted heavy things.” I’m like you. Wtf? I lift heavy things and I think you suck.

My blood is boiling. An auditorium full of the people I avoid and smile politely when I see them in the grocery store, or at a school function. Tight lipped sanctimonious bastards. Mean spirited or rich, take your pick.

Reminds me of why I hated going to Sunday school. Reminds me of why I turn the radio when Paul Harvey comes on. Reminds me of why so many people don’t want any part of democracy.

In between speakers, they play a mix of 70’s disco and contemporary country. The camera pans the audience – bald bespectacled businessman trying to “get down” with a McCain sign. Why can’t any of them dance?! They try, but no go. They look like their backbones are fused. I’m actually flipping off the tv – with my middle finger. I watch it on CSPAN so I don’t have to listen to the talking heads. If you want to experience apoleptic rage, watch it on Fox news.

Another speaker, Rudy Giuliani. And what is with the hokey, funky bad truckstop photo backgrounds.

I can’t take it, so I turn on my laptop and watched Rage Against the Machine from earlier in the day, in St. Paul, MN. Real heros. Denied, by the police, an opportunity to play, they make the best of it peacefully. Zach de la Rocha takes the bullhorn by the horns and asks everyone to peacefully protest the fascists in charge of this government. He brays out the line he used when I saw RATM last summer. “They’re not afraid of 4 musicians from LA, THEY”RE AFRAID OF YOU! Since they can’t perform with instruments, the perform acapella. Testify Bulls on parade, with Rudy Guilliani, still blah, blahing on the tv, in the background. It seems appropriate.

Cindy Mcain, with her haute coture and pearls. reminds me of Nancy Reagan which reminds me of how pissed off and frustrated I was in college when Ronald Reagan was elected. The young republicans. Errgh.

Back to the convention. They all look goony-eyed, the way only religious zealots and teenaged girls can. (and when did nuclear power become political again? Are we going to have to call Jackson Browne out again?)

The camera pans the crowd. I saw Steve King, Iowa’s looney senator and almost puked. Why am I wishing the building would be hit by a mind erasing funny beam.

I grew up with grandparents who were fundamental Christians and grandparents who were Irish catholics with a sense of humor. I liked the Irish catholics better. The baptists made me eat peas and say things I didn’t believe in.

What it boils down to is that for me, it’s about the people, not the suits and dresses on stage. When I look at the Republicans on TV, and when I brush elbows with Republicans here in Iowa, and when I meet Democrats here, it’s clear to me – the people that I like are most likely to be Democrats. The people I’m most likely to avoid in a drunk obnoxious state are Republicans and sport fans. The Democrats just seem cooler, not as cool as a room full of radical socialists, but cool, none-the-less – and have a lot better taste in music, hands down, and since music is food for the soul, I gotta beleive Democrats are better people.

Now it is time for the main show. I get the feeling that Sara Palin could take a shit onstage and the crowd would go wild. To me she sounds like a homecoming rally senior class president. I feel like I”m watching a Saturday Night Live skit – the church lady. I woiuld like to have Quentin Tarantino rewrite the script with a lot more blood. I listen with an almost open mind. Ok, now I hate her.

Observation: Feverish pitch of a tent revival, without the snakes. In all sadness, this strikes me as the first political battle over energy. A harbinger of dark times to come.

As a musician, I can’t help but comment, with all their stinkin’ money, they can’t afford a real band for John Rich. After a weak version of the Star Spangled Banner (Rich, Gretchen Wilson and Cowboy Troy(?) Rich performs some kind of radio commercial, rah, rah with just a Karaoke tape and a guitar. Go figure. If for no other reason than the Democrats have better musical taste, I’ll vote for Obama.

I have never watched a RNC convention, and may never again.

 

Where is the uproar

Have we become a silent democracy?  I wonder, as I read blogs and news on the Internet, written by bystanders to the process.  Usually, I can take it in stride, but tonight as I read about the fascist flavored raid on rally organizers in Minneapolis, preparing to make an organized fuss at the Republican National Convention this week, I felt outrage.

The Minneapolis Police Department, with help from the Feds, used Gestapo-like intimidation techniques to terrorize and detain organizers for seemingly no other reason than the;y were organizing a protest. Here is the story.  Black clad and masked gunmen, with weapons, stormed houses of suspected organizers and searched for laptops, maps and other subversive materials.   Everyone in the houses were detained, questioned and photographed. The only charges made were trumped up and little used fire code violations. 

However, what angers me the most is that there is no outrage at this preemptive, unprovoked violation of basic civil rights.  I’m not sure what I can do from here, but anyone concerned with these abuses of civil liberties should be doing whatever they can to ensure there is proper hue and cry.

 

Give me one reason to write

Haven’t written a song for awhile.  February 16, 2007 took the wind out of my sales. My brother was the biggest fan of my music.  Dave and I shared a room most of our childhood, we even roomed together in college.   He tried to run sound for my first Band “Black Light Syndrome”, but the free beer was his downfall.  Eventually, I got married and settled down a bit.  Meanwhile, Dave decided his business degree wasn’t for him got a wildlife and fisheries degree lived in Illinois for a while, then moved down south to Auburn University and finally a DNR job in Albany, GA. 

My brother was my biggest fan.  I wrote most of my songs with him in mind.  Sure, I wrote songs for lovers and songs about friends and places and imaginary characters, but as I wrote and recorded and mixed, I always was motivated by playing the song for Dave. I would send tapes to Georgia, and couldn’t wait until he came back home to visit so the band could jam for him.  He was an adequate drummer and would sit in after the drummer left.  

I would try to schedule gigs so that Dave could attend, and he would sing every word.  When he moved back in 2005, my family, the band, everyone was ecstatic.  He attended practice and seemed to live for the music more than anyone else that stopped by to hear us play. When he was around we were superstars. 

Now he’s gone and I can’t write and the song lyrics that resonate are words like Neil Young’s, Out on the Weekend – “Can’t relate to joy…”. 

I’m not sure when or if I’ll be able to turn it on again.  Sure, I play, and the sparks of creativity still fire in the old synapses, but I don’t seem to be inspired to turn them into anything.  Everyday I think of Dave, everyday I try to pretend that things will return to the way they were, that my brother will show up at the next gig, that I’ll write him a song and he’ll sing it at the top of his lungs in a drunken bar.  But, there is this black chasm, this grey foggy everyday pretend, like sleepwalking.  

 

There is a hole where my music used to be.