This Too, Shall Pass

When things were at their worst, IN MY LIFE, and it seemed everyone had abandoned me.  My Grandmother, a sage old farm wife, sent me a avery nice card and without making reference to any of the specifics  - my divorce – she ended with “This too, shall pass”.  Very comforting words, when you think everything is crashing down on top of you.  I used them as a mantra, and verily, this too – did pass, and happier (and sadder) days did follow.  Leave it to a almost 100 year old woman to put it in perspective.

When my younger brother died, shortly after my grandmother, someone suggested a nice poem by Yeats for the cards that the family sent out as thank you’s.  The Lake-Isle of Inisfree…

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree;

And a small cabin build there, of clay and waddles made.

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee

And live alone, in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow

From the veils of morning to where the cricket sings

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow

And the evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake-water lapping with low-sounds by the shore

While standing on the roadway, or on the pavements gray

I hear it, in the deep heart’s core.

I cry everytime I read that.

Last Saturday, I put my grief, and yeats in a song that I wrote in less than 3 hours.  The song was sparked by a line in Yeats poem “Vacillation”.  Which mad me think of my brother, my grandmother, and the too many other souls that I knew who had left this place, where we do the best that we can with what we are given.

I think there is an incredible relationship between Art and Grief.  I offer as evidence the way this song poured out of me.

 

My Grandma died. But, wait, before you feel sorry for me, let me tell you that she was 98 years old, and was relatively lucky to escape the deteriorating spiral of health problems and cognitive dysfunction that many old people face.  She died relatively suddenly, and thankfully without the tubes, machines, and family vigils that often occur.  Now, that having been said, let me tell you a secret.  She has returned to this mortal earth, as a bird.  Before you think I’m crazy, let me explain.

Her name was Nellie Donovan, and she really liked birds.  She was, by no means an amateur ornithologist, she didn’t keep track of scientific names, or keep a log or anything like that.  She just liked to watch birds. Whenever I would visit, we would talk about people and past memories, but the talk would usually turn to the places she lived in before assisted living, and before her short stint in the nursing home.  She always spoke fondly of the trees and birds she could see outside her window.  She would feed them, and as she became less and less mobile – a broken hip, then trouble getting around, and finally, a wheelchair – I think she envied their ability to be free, to flit from tree and bush, and they reminded her of her lifetime spent on the farm.  She told me she didn’t like TV, and when it became hard for her to read, and write I guess she must have spent a lot of time staring out the window, watching birds, and thinking.

She moved 5 or 6 times in my memory, and with each move she gave up more freedoms.  First, she left the farm and gave up the gardens and wide open spaces, the ability to put out bird feeders, plant flowers, and sit on porch.  Then, she moved into town, a nice place on Rochester Avenue, with a wooded view, and a short walk to the bus stop, then to assisted living in the small town of Hills, Iowa, with a nice view of a grassy lot, some trees, and a Church – another of her favorite things.   Each place was smaller than the next, but they all had the feeling of grandmotherly comfort.  With lots of pictures, comfortable furniture, and pillows, many with embroidered wildlife scenes.  There was always a feeling of peace, and maybe a touch of sadness, because you always sensed that she didn’t want you to leave, because she might go a couple days without any visitors.   In her last 15 years, we exchanged a couple of notes every year or two, and I tried to remember to send her fresh lilacs every spring.  I became familiar with an employee at a local florist and she would cut fresh lilacs from her back yard and deliver them to the care center.  I would always get a nice thank you note in her scratchy penmanship, and folksy vernacular – always signed “Gramma Nellie – lots of hugs O”, or a “great big hug – O”.  Sometimes she would draw a little heart.

She was an amatuer writer, like me, and we shared that.  I would always ask her how her writing was going, and encourage her to write.  I sent her books of poetry sometimes.  Usually, they were from the turn- of- the- century, or thereabouts, with religious overtones.  Books I wouldn’t read, but knew she would like.  Once, she returned one, with a nice note and a bookmark with both our names on it “Nellie” and “Todd”, in her handwriting.  She told me that the book gave her ideas for her poetry.  Her poems were a little too religious for my tastes, but I could relate to the themes of a shackled soul, yearning for peace and other-world  freedoms.  I imagine when you have lived 90 plus years old, you’ve seen everything but God, and you have to believe because it gives you something to look forward to.  One of my favorite notes from her includes a poem for me, entitled “Spring”.

Spring

Spring arrives each year and places jewels every tree

A robin red breast here, a flashing oriole there

a bit of yellow “gold finch”.

A touch of lovely “blue-bird”.

Bright flash of “red cardinal’

A sober little brown wren adds contrast –

nature dresses herself for Spring

In living gems.

Then, the note, “Keep a green tree in your heart, and perhaps a singing bird will come in – N.  I’ve thought about this, and I believe this is the secret to long-term happiness. That is, to keep your heart young and happiness will visit you.

When I had my moment with her body in the funeral home, I almost didn’t go up to “say good bye”, but at the last minute, I decided to go stand before the body in the casket, and as I stood there, I could feel a pressure in my chest, which I told myself was the roots of a green tree taking root, and waiting for a singing bird to come.

Some good memories pop into my mind at this point, and I’ll make a serious digression for the sake of the writer.  The reader will have to skip ahead, or be patient.  Both memories are in the “little house” the one grandpa and grandma lived in when I was around 10.  The first is catching big ugly toads in the bushes and window wells around the house, with my brother.  The second is eating my first steak.  I felt grown up, and with the black angus cows, right outside the house, it was the first time I remember understanding that cows are meat.  There was a funky room with odd colored pillows and a single bed that had a little electric push button organ, and that was our main entertainment when we visited.   That house was the first place I remember seeing Gramma’s embroidered scenes of the 4 seasons.  They were framed cloth needlepoint pictures, with a “paint-by-numbers” feel.  The one I remember best is the one of a winter scene, with a white background, and bare tree, and a red bird.  That winter scene is the one I always associated with Grandma, and the red bird, to me, in later years represented her. When she wrote to me, to keep a green tree in my heart, and perhaps a singing bird will come in, that bird was always a red bird.  When I thought of her watching birds outside her windows, it was always a mess of chickadees, and a red bird. She enjoyed reading, and I once sent her a copy of Hamlin Garland’s “Son of the Middle Border’.  She once wrote me that she enjoyed the book I sent her because it was a favorite of her father’s because her grandfather Thomas Dewey was a pioneer, and told similar stories.  I have always considered myself a “Son of the Middle Border”, owing to my Iowa roots and heritage.  She also mentioned Willa Cather’s “My Antonia” as a favorite, and for some reason, I associated her with the Gene Stratton Porter books, like “Song of a Cardinal”.   To me, my Grandma D, was a happy, lone red bird.

While I was in Iowa City, at the visitation, and funeral for my Grandma, I thought about the little red bird that I felt represented her. I made it through the funeral, and returned home. The next day, my heart swelled with disbelief –  there was a red bird flitting about the trees outside my home.  I pay attention to birds.  We have lived here 3 years, and I have seen no red birds before.  There are blue jays, and thrushes, and occasional finches, and the like, but never a Cardinal.  Therefore, I submit to you that my Gramma Nellie returned to our life of the living, in the form of a lone red bird.  I am keeping a green tree in my heart, and you can bet I’m going to set out a feeder, and spend more time just sitting and watching out the window.

 

I’m 41 years old, what am I doing in a crowded mosh pit where the next oldest person is maybe  25?  It’s the smoky and dark “Sokol Underground”, in Omaha, Nebraska,  an all ages show featuring 2 mid-level “screamo” touring bands, and one “headliner”.   My kids are my cover, I bought the tickets for them, and they absolutely adore Bayside, the headliner, from New York.  When we arrive. It looks like a junior high dance, with lots of black and a few weird haircuts and miscellaneous piercings.  There are hardly 50 people there, and everyone is sitting on tables or chairs along the wall around the outside of a smallish space in front of the stage.   Within seconds I feel right at home.  I order a Guiness, and watch the people show.

As I sip on my beer, I smile and nod, and think about how things have changed and yet stayed the same.  The music biz has changed a lot since my musical adolescence. Back then, it was all big arena rock bands:  Kiss, Rush, Van Halen, Ozzy, Eagles, Madonna, U2, ACDC, Yes,  Cheap Trick – all dinosaurs now.

SUPER big groups who seemed larger than life, and impossible to reach.  They were big, and there were no shortage of BIG shows.   Now music is more compartmentalized and fragmented, and  the only shows that draw the really big crowds – 10,000 or more people are the same bands that were big 10 or 20 years ago.  The Stones, Bon Jovi, Green Day.  The time’s they are “achangin’”, and now it is easier to be a fan of Reggae,  Metal (there are 10 different flavors of metal, now!), country (classic country, cowboy “rap”, can you even tell the difference between some country and Disney teen radio pop?) or any of 100 genre’s.  It is much easier to find music that touches your inner-self, your musical psyche.  It’s much easier to really connect with a community or communities of a virtual nation.  That means smaller crowds and fewer big name record sales.  Sure, the marketing  has changed – the way we find new bands, and purchase new music.   But, the one thing that hasn’t changed is time.  We still only have 24 hours a day to listen to music, and in fact, we seem to have a precious less “entertainment” time. There are more media, more artists, more “diversions “ vying for less and less time.  So we find our selves with more selections, and no possible way to enjoy them all.

As each band takes the stage, and I’m enveloped by the vibe and sensory experience, I think, despite the changes,  how little the root motivation for the musical experience has changed.  It will always be cathartic to scream as loud as you can, and not hear yourself.  To rub shoulders with a moving mass of sweaty, zealous, revelers, united in purpose – to ROCK (now an accepted adjective and verb whose meaning is perfectly clear, to 3 generations).  To share that special feeling of knowing that your cheers are driving the band to perform from their subconscious, a once in a lifetime show.  Then to talk about it with others who understand what a great time it was.  I make my way to the merchandise  (now it is cool to say “merch”) tables and chat with the volunteers that are selling shirts,  stickers and other  insignia for their  respective “cults” (several of the newer bands  use this word to describe their fans)  A couple of the frontmen for the bands make reference to needing “peanut butter sandwich money”.  With the crowd topping out at around 150-200, I can’t  imagine the band members pulling more than a small per diem. I buy a cd and a black hoodie sweatshirt – tre chick.

As a musician, I take special note of trends, and there is one thing I know for sure;  todays quasi-rebellious punks, gangstas, rockers and metalheads  will be tomorrows stockbrokers and teachers.  Most will be forever wearing sleeves to hide that tattoo (what was I thinking??), and will have little, but a scar to show for their rite of passage piercings.  A very precious few (U2,Link Wray, Les Paul ZZ Top,  Cher, Sir Paul anyone?) will be able to ride the wave of that youthful feeling their whole career life. To be cool forever is a gift from the musical heavens.  But, alas, most will become stiff, with daily resoluteness, and eventually, crack, peel, chip and fade away.  (talkin’ ’bout my generation..)  As a songwriter, I’ve often thought if I could write one really great song, a song for the ages, to be passed down from generation to generation, all would be  would be complete. Valhalla and Nirvana all at once.  But as my ambitions settle down, and purpose becomes less clear and more understood, I realize that the process of writing, whether it be a  multi-platinum mega hit, or just a song to be enjoyed by a few close fans,  — or no one at all, is in itself, the achievement of great proportions.

The headliner takes the stage.  Bayside is a good solid, entertaining band.  They pace the show well, their energy and musical showmanship whip the crowd into a frenzy.  The small crowd knows every word to their songs, and sings along.  I climb on a chair along the wall, and pretty close to the stage to get a better view. My kids are right against the stage, like they are part of it.  The band, the stage the crowd all as one.  The crowd chants “one more song!” until the band returns from backstage for an encore.  I am admittedly pretty jaded, but I find myself cheering – maybe cheering for the realization that my youth is a moment frozen in time, as much as for the performers.  The band leaves the stage, and we hang around for awhile, then start the 2 hour drive home.  Our ETA is around 2:30 ( a school night!)  we relive the show from our different perspectives, but after thirty minutes the kids are sleeping.  As I drive on the darkened highway, with no other traffic, my mind, is working through the events of the night, and rearranging the images, already, I’m composing a song, a song to be passed down from generation to generation, or maybe just a song.

 

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.