It's a good thing I don't have the proverbial fork in my hand right about now. If I did, rest assured it would get stuck in the most unexpected of places.
My sixth consecutive outing at Back Street last night will not be spoken of here in any great detail; let's just say last night's excursion was F.U.B.A.R {and no, I do not mean Bobby Fancher's fine club of the same name in Midtown}, and leave it at that. The only other comment I will make is this: my drum-proteg`e Sheila had a ringside seat for the entire evening, and got a lingering upclose-and-personal look at how things can go very wrong - for no good reason at all. The entire fiasco reminded me of Ellen Sander's famous quote about Led Zeppelin:
"If you walk inside the cages at the zoo, you get to see the animals close up, stroke the captive pelts, and mingle with the energy behind the mystique. You also get to smell the shit firsthand."
Nothing more needs to be said.
What will happen next is anybody's guess; I still have too much of a rotten taste in my mouth right now to speculate on the future. There will be more news here when the time is right. I still have many other irons in the fire {for once}, and I'm not about to get hung up about this particular bump in the road - but from now on I'm gonna make like a bloody STEAMROLLER, dig?
More shortly.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Woodshed: BLITZKREIG!!!!
Sometimes if you want something done right, you have to bloody well do it yourself.
That's precisely what happened at Back Street last night. My return to semi-active duty these last four weeks has been anything but an easy chore off the boards; on the boards, the results have been rather spotty, to say the least. With two of the four plays I've made so far being lackluster at best, there was absolutely NO way I was going to let play #5 fall into the same category. Things have changed significantly for me the last month or two, and one of those changes was with me last night, as she was during last week's outing.
For quite some time now various people close to me have been saying "Chris, why don't you try your hand at teaching the drums as a way to branch out a bit during your down-time?" Per usual, Uncle Buffalo was the one who bandied the notion about most frequently. Wellsir, three weeks ago I finally gave in, and took on my first-ever drum pupil. Sheila and I actually discovered each other through a different set of circumstances I won't go into now, but once she told me she was an aspiring drummer I just went "Hmmmm............ Okay, what the hell, she'll be my first!!" In short order, we met and got acquainted, then Sheila showed me what she could do on the skins. For having only played the last two years, she displayed an excellent grasp of the basics; more than enough of a good strong foundation to build on.
When she was done, Sheila gave me a huge Smile for not laughing hysterically at her modest {but wonderfully sincere and sharp} efforts, then handed me her sticks and said "Your turn!" What she didn't know was that her modest {but wonderfully sincere and sharp} efforts had given me the itch, and I promptly let loose a five-minute artillery barrage well worthy of the salad days, totally without any accompaniment. The look on Sheila's face when I finished was instantly seared into my permanent memory. After a minute of dead silence, with my new pupil slack-jawed, she said in a husky voice "You have GOT to teach me everything you know!!!" Me being me, I slammed her with "Well, that'll take about five minutes or so," and our deal was struck.
Last week's play was Sheila's "feet-wetting" exercise; I figured BB's Sunday rituals would be the most logical place to start gently corrupting, er, I mean educating a novice. Since it was her first time, I kept things pretty low-key, and as was reported last week my own blow that night was barely up to par. On the heels of that, I subconsciously decided that the next one would be a right proper Woodshed Patrol, and went about my business all last week. Sheila was eager as all get-out as our next outing loomed, but I kept her focused on her first assignments right up to the moment we walked into Back Street last night. I made the rounds with Sheila, and she's already being recognized as a potential Regular, so one basic task was well accomplished as we settled into the social part of the evening.
In due course, BB kicked things off with Joe, Josh, and Jumpin' Jimmy sitting in for Darryl. Josh and I are slowly going beyond Drum-Buds into the Drum-Brother status I have with Tim Heidemann, so his work is becoming complementary to my own, which makes things much more enjoyable. As happened last week, BB and the Lads laid down a tasty benchmark for the evening, which gave both Sheila and me the itch. However, my itch was very nearly extinguished when the first Aggregation went up and knocked out a blistering "Hey Joe," and a few other equally strong tunes. The featured player was "Kid" Hayden, a fifteen-year-old guitar wizard. I was instantly transported back to my original stint as a Regular, when I frequently went up with another young genius, "Little / Much Bigger" Stevie.
Something snapped inside of me then, and when Hayden was done I pounced on him for a preliminary chat, which turned out to be as fruitful as I'd hoped. One Aggregation later, BB called me up with Hayden and Legal Mitch on bass, never once suspecting what was just about to erupt in his face. The chat I had with Hayden was to determine a good setlist, and we wasted no time whatsoever before jumping straight in with both feet. We started off with a ferocious Jimi-style "Johnny B. Goode" which Unka Chuckleberry hisself would have loved to death. From the outset I went straight for the jugular, clamped down hard, and took off to the races in a huge way. Hayden did his job magnificently, but I deliberately pushed him as hard as I could; I was after "epic," and both Hayden and Mitch responded accordingly to my histrionics and played their asses off.
The next tune was Cream's version of "Crossroads," and by now I was in full roar, and the rest of the unit had quickly become the latest incarnation of my musical 219th Artillery Brigade {The HellHounds}. We laid on the super-heavy impasto, and once again I strained HARD against the leash, this time trying to blow the whole damned audience right out of the building at once. Hayden and Mitch stayed tightly welded to my sides beginning to end, and we cooked for nearly nine solid minutes before flourishing out. Hayden glanced at and Smiled me almost constantly during this tear, so I locked my best determined-but-happy game face on for his benefit, and went about my increasingly wild mayhem. Mitch and I knew exactly what each other was doing and where we were going, so our direct interaction was several brief bits of eye contact and Smile-flashes.
Our units' final number was Jimi's "Voodoo Child {Slight Return}," and this time I went all-out like Hank Aaron coming up to bat with the bases loaded, bottom of the ninth, Game Seven of the World Series. Did my main man James Marshall up damn proud, we did. Hayden shredded like a whole civilization's worth of lives was depending on each note and lick he cranked out, and Mitch gave me some fabulous improv-counterpoint as I boiled and bombed along. This final strafing run also stretched beyond the eight-minute mark, and like the two previous sorties was met with a very rousing round of the clap at the conclusion. BB didn't have to milk the crowd for anything as Hayden quit the stage, but he did manage to surprise me by picking up his axe and starting off a reprise of "Crossroads," before I could get up off the throne.
This time around, we did a much slower and somewhat calmer arrangement, quite like the version Cream themselves did during their 2005 / 6 reunion shows. Although I slowed the tempo and employed lots of dynamics throughout, I still kept up the fire and bombast as a sort of heavy undertow that leads to a Titanic-swallowing whirlpool. Stone me if our silliness didn't result in one more fine round of the clap, before I finally got off the boards, for once well-pleased with what went down. Sheila was all smiles as I plopped down at our table to cool off, and I mechanically responded to the several enthusiastic compliments about my overall mess once more, too damn tired to even bother with the Modesty Monster.
The upshot of it all is that last night's play, while one of the better ones, was also a fine bit of hands-on field research work for my star drum pupil. The total eruption I triggered last night was a textbook example of how I draw all my inspiration from my band or Aggregation-mates. Hayden and Mitch were both on their A-game, and whatever merit my own playing had was 100% due to them; a fact that was easier for me to demonstrate to Sheila, rather than merely explaining it. Yes, it was great fun also, but my focus was mainly on opening Sheila's eyes as opposed to pleasing the crowd, hammering BB to death, etc, etc. In the end, I did exactly what I set out to do, and then some. For me personally, last night's patrol was the return to form I was after; for Sheila, it was the next step along her budding drum-path. And most of the signs from last night seem to be pointing towards a brightness in the distance, albeit still a long and possibly treacherous ways off.
Whatever the case, I've still got a pupil to nurture for the immediate future, which is a new {but pleasant, and sincere, and sharp} one on me. I'm still taking everything else one day at a time too, so please sit tight as things unfold themselves organically; no way in hell am I going to push things too hard at this early stage. Y'all will be apprised regularly, so relax a bit and be ready for the next news when it comes.
Which ought to be shortly, dig?
That's precisely what happened at Back Street last night. My return to semi-active duty these last four weeks has been anything but an easy chore off the boards; on the boards, the results have been rather spotty, to say the least. With two of the four plays I've made so far being lackluster at best, there was absolutely NO way I was going to let play #5 fall into the same category. Things have changed significantly for me the last month or two, and one of those changes was with me last night, as she was during last week's outing.
For quite some time now various people close to me have been saying "Chris, why don't you try your hand at teaching the drums as a way to branch out a bit during your down-time?" Per usual, Uncle Buffalo was the one who bandied the notion about most frequently. Wellsir, three weeks ago I finally gave in, and took on my first-ever drum pupil. Sheila and I actually discovered each other through a different set of circumstances I won't go into now, but once she told me she was an aspiring drummer I just went "Hmmmm............ Okay, what the hell, she'll be my first!!" In short order, we met and got acquainted, then Sheila showed me what she could do on the skins. For having only played the last two years, she displayed an excellent grasp of the basics; more than enough of a good strong foundation to build on.
When she was done, Sheila gave me a huge Smile for not laughing hysterically at her modest {but wonderfully sincere and sharp} efforts, then handed me her sticks and said "Your turn!" What she didn't know was that her modest {but wonderfully sincere and sharp} efforts had given me the itch, and I promptly let loose a five-minute artillery barrage well worthy of the salad days, totally without any accompaniment. The look on Sheila's face when I finished was instantly seared into my permanent memory. After a minute of dead silence, with my new pupil slack-jawed, she said in a husky voice "You have GOT to teach me everything you know!!!" Me being me, I slammed her with "Well, that'll take about five minutes or so," and our deal was struck.
Last week's play was Sheila's "feet-wetting" exercise; I figured BB's Sunday rituals would be the most logical place to start gently corrupting, er, I mean educating a novice. Since it was her first time, I kept things pretty low-key, and as was reported last week my own blow that night was barely up to par. On the heels of that, I subconsciously decided that the next one would be a right proper Woodshed Patrol, and went about my business all last week. Sheila was eager as all get-out as our next outing loomed, but I kept her focused on her first assignments right up to the moment we walked into Back Street last night. I made the rounds with Sheila, and she's already being recognized as a potential Regular, so one basic task was well accomplished as we settled into the social part of the evening.
In due course, BB kicked things off with Joe, Josh, and Jumpin' Jimmy sitting in for Darryl. Josh and I are slowly going beyond Drum-Buds into the Drum-Brother status I have with Tim Heidemann, so his work is becoming complementary to my own, which makes things much more enjoyable. As happened last week, BB and the Lads laid down a tasty benchmark for the evening, which gave both Sheila and me the itch. However, my itch was very nearly extinguished when the first Aggregation went up and knocked out a blistering "Hey Joe," and a few other equally strong tunes. The featured player was "Kid" Hayden, a fifteen-year-old guitar wizard. I was instantly transported back to my original stint as a Regular, when I frequently went up with another young genius, "Little / Much Bigger" Stevie.
Something snapped inside of me then, and when Hayden was done I pounced on him for a preliminary chat, which turned out to be as fruitful as I'd hoped. One Aggregation later, BB called me up with Hayden and Legal Mitch on bass, never once suspecting what was just about to erupt in his face. The chat I had with Hayden was to determine a good setlist, and we wasted no time whatsoever before jumping straight in with both feet. We started off with a ferocious Jimi-style "Johnny B. Goode" which Unka Chuckleberry hisself would have loved to death. From the outset I went straight for the jugular, clamped down hard, and took off to the races in a huge way. Hayden did his job magnificently, but I deliberately pushed him as hard as I could; I was after "epic," and both Hayden and Mitch responded accordingly to my histrionics and played their asses off.
The next tune was Cream's version of "Crossroads," and by now I was in full roar, and the rest of the unit had quickly become the latest incarnation of my musical 219th Artillery Brigade {The HellHounds}. We laid on the super-heavy impasto, and once again I strained HARD against the leash, this time trying to blow the whole damned audience right out of the building at once. Hayden and Mitch stayed tightly welded to my sides beginning to end, and we cooked for nearly nine solid minutes before flourishing out. Hayden glanced at and Smiled me almost constantly during this tear, so I locked my best determined-but-happy game face on for his benefit, and went about my increasingly wild mayhem. Mitch and I knew exactly what each other was doing and where we were going, so our direct interaction was several brief bits of eye contact and Smile-flashes.
Our units' final number was Jimi's "Voodoo Child {Slight Return}," and this time I went all-out like Hank Aaron coming up to bat with the bases loaded, bottom of the ninth, Game Seven of the World Series. Did my main man James Marshall up damn proud, we did. Hayden shredded like a whole civilization's worth of lives was depending on each note and lick he cranked out, and Mitch gave me some fabulous improv-counterpoint as I boiled and bombed along. This final strafing run also stretched beyond the eight-minute mark, and like the two previous sorties was met with a very rousing round of the clap at the conclusion. BB didn't have to milk the crowd for anything as Hayden quit the stage, but he did manage to surprise me by picking up his axe and starting off a reprise of "Crossroads," before I could get up off the throne.
This time around, we did a much slower and somewhat calmer arrangement, quite like the version Cream themselves did during their 2005 / 6 reunion shows. Although I slowed the tempo and employed lots of dynamics throughout, I still kept up the fire and bombast as a sort of heavy undertow that leads to a Titanic-swallowing whirlpool. Stone me if our silliness didn't result in one more fine round of the clap, before I finally got off the boards, for once well-pleased with what went down. Sheila was all smiles as I plopped down at our table to cool off, and I mechanically responded to the several enthusiastic compliments about my overall mess once more, too damn tired to even bother with the Modesty Monster.
The upshot of it all is that last night's play, while one of the better ones, was also a fine bit of hands-on field research work for my star drum pupil. The total eruption I triggered last night was a textbook example of how I draw all my inspiration from my band or Aggregation-mates. Hayden and Mitch were both on their A-game, and whatever merit my own playing had was 100% due to them; a fact that was easier for me to demonstrate to Sheila, rather than merely explaining it. Yes, it was great fun also, but my focus was mainly on opening Sheila's eyes as opposed to pleasing the crowd, hammering BB to death, etc, etc. In the end, I did exactly what I set out to do, and then some. For me personally, last night's patrol was the return to form I was after; for Sheila, it was the next step along her budding drum-path. And most of the signs from last night seem to be pointing towards a brightness in the distance, albeit still a long and possibly treacherous ways off.
Whatever the case, I've still got a pupil to nurture for the immediate future, which is a new {but pleasant, and sincere, and sharp} one on me. I'm still taking everything else one day at a time too, so please sit tight as things unfold themselves organically; no way in hell am I going to push things too hard at this early stage. Y'all will be apprised regularly, so relax a bit and be ready for the next news when it comes.
Which ought to be shortly, dig?
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Quickie Bash
All right Fellow Babies; just a quickie to note that this Humble Blog is now a year old {as of 9 July}!!
Where the hell did all that time go? And have I really been blogging in general for nearly seven years running? That's an awful lot of whimsical musings and whatnot, innit?
It's had its' ups and downs just like everything else in my life, but blogging remains an essential creative outlet for me. I still get a kick out of it for the most part, and will continue these silly ramblings indefinitely.
So to paraphrase the late great Tom Snyder, fire up a colortini and watch the pretty words as they fly through the air...........
More shortly.
Where the hell did all that time go? And have I really been blogging in general for nearly seven years running? That's an awful lot of whimsical musings and whatnot, innit?
It's had its' ups and downs just like everything else in my life, but blogging remains an essential creative outlet for me. I still get a kick out of it for the most part, and will continue these silly ramblings indefinitely.
So to paraphrase the late great Tom Snyder, fire up a colortini and watch the pretty words as they fly through the air...........
More shortly.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Woodshed: Slop Them Hogs
Four consecutive plays.
Hard for me to believe, but just about a full month has passed since my unexpected return home. And I have punctuated each week since with a visit to Uncle Buffalo's Woodshed, just as if the last three and one-half years hadn't happened at all. It's hardly the same atmosphere as it was back then, but precious few things in life ever remain exactly the same indefinitely. My playing surely hasn't; it's currently in yet another transition, as I strive to resume exploring different avenues of expression.
I can't escape the Hellhounds from the last three years though, and last night they once again let their presence be known. Out of all the Woodshed Regulars, I'm one of perhaps a small handful of others foolish enough to have dabbled in the Deep Blues on a regular basis, back in the day. As such, I have a strong compulsion to try and make my instrument "cry," or "wail," or "moan" as often as I can, as a way to express my emotions and pains. It's not the easiest of things to do when the instrument in question is a drum kit, but this is the path I chose to follow as a youth, and the constant challenge is what keeps me going to this day, musically speaking.
Last night's play unfortunately turned into one of the more unpleasant varieties of challenges I've faced, although I fought like hell to keep my Aggregation from going all Hindenburg-at-Lakehurst. The night started off with many of the old familiar routines and faces, but this time out there was a healthy injection of new faces to complement the stalwarts, and I initially looked forward to whatever might crop up. Drum-bud Josh was glad to see me, and got a kick out of my reaction when he handed me a pair of the drumsticks he routinely gives out to his drum students. I hadn't seen such HUGE sticks since my high school marching-band days. Josh reminded me that the "logs" in question were meant to strengthen the wrists, and I conjured up memories of youth and countless hours of exercise with similar trees of my own.
I made a sly quip to Josh about his kids winding up with "wrists like Popeye," which got a decent laugh out of him as he agreed with me. As BB and the Lads got up to kick things off, I wound up with a small but persistent John Bonham-vibe in the back of my head, thanks to seeing those sticks. Said vibe was quickly escalated by the rather high benchmark BB & Co. set early on. In short order, I was contemplating a Zeppelin-esque strafing run, once my turn came. Fate and those damned Hellhounds had other ideas, though. Once the opening and the first Aggregation's short set were done, BB threw me up with the familiar faces of Hungry Chuck on vocals and harp; my man Jimmy on bass; Legal Mitch on guitar; and good old Vaughan on sax, whom I hadn't seen since the Delmar Lounge blows four summers ago. Our unit was rounded out by newbies Don on keys, Mike on guitar, and Zack on trumpet.
Counting voice as another instrument, that's eight individual rhythm platforms I had available to work with / bounce off of. A situation tailor-made for me, until we got into the first number. For some reason, my Aggregation couldn't quite nail down "Caledonia" properly, despite Chuck's fabulous barrelhouse vocals, and blazing harp-action. I did the best I could to try and pick up as much of the slack as possible, but the groove remained rather rubbery at best throughout the whole tune. When the same thing started to happen with our next number, I gave up any notions of a Zepp-run and pulled some heavy side-swing out of my bag of tricks and threw it into the mix. Now, when I say "side-swing," I mean it in the same context as "front-swing" {riding just ahead of the beat}, or "back-swing" {lagging just slightly behind the beat}.
Thus, side-swing is my personal terminology for riding around the beat, instead of ahead or behind it. It was the only thing I could do to keep things cohesive, but even that didn't work 100% properly. I really began to feel burned and highly frustrated as Mike led us into our last number; the resulting tune featured star-turns by everyone in the outfit, save Yours Truly. I flatly refused my turn when Mike tried to hand me the baton, and carried on with the quite sullen patterns I had sunk down into by this time. Despite all the work trying to shore up the set as a whole, I was only too glad to split the stage in record time at the end. This would have been a much easier task if Chuck, Mitch, Mike, and Jimmy hadn't stopped me to praise my mess before I could even sit down. True, I did hold things together and in good tempo beginning to end, but the rubberiness overall pretty much destroyed the positives for me. Too much slop - and it showed - in other words.
I kept my onstage Buster Keaton deadpan expression going after I quit the boards as a defensive reaction. Going 1 for 3 during this initial month of plays wasn't setting well with me at all as the night wound down. The coup-de-grace was the fact that all of the other jammers got called back up for another go, save you-know-who. Due to a couple of brand-new considerations which I'll clarify in a future blog, I had to lick my now salt-drenched wounds in deep privacy. As such, the next couple weeks will likely see much re-assessment and re-evaluation, as I ponder my course from here. Maybe it's really true that you can't go home again, or at least shouldn't bother trying to.
Downer-ending, I know - but then again this is the blues, remember. Just like high opera, blues happy endings are few and far between. Kiwll da wabbit, kiwll da wabbit, kiwll da wa-bbit, dig?
Stay tuned.
Hard for me to believe, but just about a full month has passed since my unexpected return home. And I have punctuated each week since with a visit to Uncle Buffalo's Woodshed, just as if the last three and one-half years hadn't happened at all. It's hardly the same atmosphere as it was back then, but precious few things in life ever remain exactly the same indefinitely. My playing surely hasn't; it's currently in yet another transition, as I strive to resume exploring different avenues of expression.
I can't escape the Hellhounds from the last three years though, and last night they once again let their presence be known. Out of all the Woodshed Regulars, I'm one of perhaps a small handful of others foolish enough to have dabbled in the Deep Blues on a regular basis, back in the day. As such, I have a strong compulsion to try and make my instrument "cry," or "wail," or "moan" as often as I can, as a way to express my emotions and pains. It's not the easiest of things to do when the instrument in question is a drum kit, but this is the path I chose to follow as a youth, and the constant challenge is what keeps me going to this day, musically speaking.
Last night's play unfortunately turned into one of the more unpleasant varieties of challenges I've faced, although I fought like hell to keep my Aggregation from going all Hindenburg-at-Lakehurst. The night started off with many of the old familiar routines and faces, but this time out there was a healthy injection of new faces to complement the stalwarts, and I initially looked forward to whatever might crop up. Drum-bud Josh was glad to see me, and got a kick out of my reaction when he handed me a pair of the drumsticks he routinely gives out to his drum students. I hadn't seen such HUGE sticks since my high school marching-band days. Josh reminded me that the "logs" in question were meant to strengthen the wrists, and I conjured up memories of youth and countless hours of exercise with similar trees of my own.
I made a sly quip to Josh about his kids winding up with "wrists like Popeye," which got a decent laugh out of him as he agreed with me. As BB and the Lads got up to kick things off, I wound up with a small but persistent John Bonham-vibe in the back of my head, thanks to seeing those sticks. Said vibe was quickly escalated by the rather high benchmark BB & Co. set early on. In short order, I was contemplating a Zeppelin-esque strafing run, once my turn came. Fate and those damned Hellhounds had other ideas, though. Once the opening and the first Aggregation's short set were done, BB threw me up with the familiar faces of Hungry Chuck on vocals and harp; my man Jimmy on bass; Legal Mitch on guitar; and good old Vaughan on sax, whom I hadn't seen since the Delmar Lounge blows four summers ago. Our unit was rounded out by newbies Don on keys, Mike on guitar, and Zack on trumpet.
Counting voice as another instrument, that's eight individual rhythm platforms I had available to work with / bounce off of. A situation tailor-made for me, until we got into the first number. For some reason, my Aggregation couldn't quite nail down "Caledonia" properly, despite Chuck's fabulous barrelhouse vocals, and blazing harp-action. I did the best I could to try and pick up as much of the slack as possible, but the groove remained rather rubbery at best throughout the whole tune. When the same thing started to happen with our next number, I gave up any notions of a Zepp-run and pulled some heavy side-swing out of my bag of tricks and threw it into the mix. Now, when I say "side-swing," I mean it in the same context as "front-swing" {riding just ahead of the beat}, or "back-swing" {lagging just slightly behind the beat}.
Thus, side-swing is my personal terminology for riding around the beat, instead of ahead or behind it. It was the only thing I could do to keep things cohesive, but even that didn't work 100% properly. I really began to feel burned and highly frustrated as Mike led us into our last number; the resulting tune featured star-turns by everyone in the outfit, save Yours Truly. I flatly refused my turn when Mike tried to hand me the baton, and carried on with the quite sullen patterns I had sunk down into by this time. Despite all the work trying to shore up the set as a whole, I was only too glad to split the stage in record time at the end. This would have been a much easier task if Chuck, Mitch, Mike, and Jimmy hadn't stopped me to praise my mess before I could even sit down. True, I did hold things together and in good tempo beginning to end, but the rubberiness overall pretty much destroyed the positives for me. Too much slop - and it showed - in other words.
I kept my onstage Buster Keaton deadpan expression going after I quit the boards as a defensive reaction. Going 1 for 3 during this initial month of plays wasn't setting well with me at all as the night wound down. The coup-de-grace was the fact that all of the other jammers got called back up for another go, save you-know-who. Due to a couple of brand-new considerations which I'll clarify in a future blog, I had to lick my now salt-drenched wounds in deep privacy. As such, the next couple weeks will likely see much re-assessment and re-evaluation, as I ponder my course from here. Maybe it's really true that you can't go home again, or at least shouldn't bother trying to.
Downer-ending, I know - but then again this is the blues, remember. Just like high opera, blues happy endings are few and far between. Kiwll da wabbit, kiwll da wabbit, kiwll da wa-bbit, dig?
Stay tuned.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Woodshed: Routine Night Patrol
No other way to embellish last night's play at Back Street.
To be fair though, I wasn't in the cheeriest of moods going in. The struggle to settle down from my unexpected homecoming three and a half weeks ago has been commanding my focus since I hit the state line; the plays at Back Street have been my only distraction from the rather grim circumstances otherwise surrounding me. I'm hopefully going to get a respite soon, but the next week or two are going to be critically important.
Couple this with my less-than satisfying-blow seven days gone, and I had a pretty good excuse to play the blues, bare the soul a little bit, freak out, or all combined. As things worked out last night, I actually wound up doing all three, much to my surprise. The night started off with the usual social bit, but I made no effort at all to hide my fatigue, and was otherwise pretty subdued throughout the run-up to the play. Just as Bob went up with Darryl, Joe, and Mike The Wop, my horn-and-guitar Bud Nick clapped me warmly on the shoulder, and said "Chris, you really kicked some ass last week!" I looked at him like he was crazy, and told him so - last Sunday was hardly in my personal Top 1,000 Best, after all. Nick wouldn't hear of it though; he insisted it was all good, so I gracefully let it go with a grin and a shake of my head, which raised a laugh from him.
Bob and the first sets of jammers set a pleasant enough benchmark that I subconsciously had the old itch early on in the proceedings. Whether by luck or perhaps sly design, my call came with a twist - Bob put me up with Nick, Darryl, and Legal Mitch on rhythm guitar. Well, fine. I'd jammed many times with this particular aggregation during my original stint as a Woodshed Regular in '08, so the basic prospects were looking good. Matter of fact, both Nick and Mitch were part of the absolutely EPIC play at Motley's in November of 2008, which turned out to be my last one before the d'horse and malaise hit a week or so later. I'd videoed it for at least a half-dozen YouTube entries, but the raw material wound up as "collateral damage" in my damned d'horse, and a scintillating document of the evening was lost for good as a result.
Almost four years down the road, the sheer irony of the situation was just too good to ignore, so I cast off any pretense of being subdued, and got ready to cook from the get-go. Nick started us off with one of his signatures "Ain't No Sunshine," and I threw a rather effective orchestral wash over the entire tune, all dynamics and dreamy flow. This earned me several Smiles from Nick, and when I went to visit Darryl and Mitch during their star-bits, they Smiled me frequently as well. Our unit worked the song and the crowd well, and the reception for once was enough to keep me from pushing too much over the balance of the play.
The second number was a roadhouse-stomp that borrowed its' hook from Jimi's "Voodoo Child {Slight Return}." Needless to say, I was in full front-swing mode from the first few pounding beats of the bass drum that opened the tune. Nick and Mitch had plenty of room during their solos, but the rest of the time I was effectively soloing with my lead-drums patterns and riffs. Things were tight, bright, and quite dynamic; both Snoopy and the Red Baron wouldn't have stood a chance against my WWI-Ace-barnstorming. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Darryl was just laying back in the pocket and providing a tasty link between me and the other cats. Yeah, I took advantage of this, but not in an over-the-top way. I kept things tied tightly together without sacrificing any of the space available to me, and I did my level best to fill as much of that space up as I could.
We flourished things out to a nice round of the clap from the crowd in response, and I patiently waited for the next tune, which turned out to be "I Shot the Sheriff." The tempo was slowed down a lot from when I used to regularly do the song with Bell Bottom Blues, and Darryl had an issue or two at first with what key Nick wanted. We both got sorted out quickly; I slipped into back-swing mode {a must for a good reggae feel} and revived several "bomb patterns" from the BBB days. Darryl locked tight with me, and despite the ragged start, we finished strongly. Nick, Mitch and Darryl were all Smiles, and I shot each with a few of my own as we quit the stage. Despite the generally good vibes our Aggregation generated, I was quickly relapsing into my previous state of mind as I sat down. The small mistakes were a part of it, yes, but quite honestly I wouldn't have minded one or two more songs to finish off properly.
Nonetheless, I hung out and cooled down until near the end. Just before I got up to cash out and split, one of the new faces to me - Jake, I believe - stopped by to shake my hand, and compliment my "funky blues drumming!!" I had dug his set right after ours, and told him so, but he was just like Nick and all but demanded I give myself due credit. I mollified him as best I could, but for once let the Modesty Monster keep me true to myself, ego-wise. If the Animal Fan Club can still pick up new disciples despite my regular slop and mess, who am I to argue? At the very least, it gave me upbeat thoughts for the drive home. My set was hardly a disaster, but there just wasn't enough adrenaline generated from it to buoy my spirits much, afterwards. Like I said at the start, the next week or two are going to be critical for my survival, and I might not have a chance at another play for a while. Last night should have been a lot stronger, but I have to take what I can get and move on quickly to stay one step ahead of the off-boards hustling I'm locked into right now.
And that's the whole ball of paraffin, boys and girls. It's back to one day / step at a time for me for this next week {if not longer}, so please don't be surprised if I disappear for a spell. I'll be back just as soon as I can, and hopefully will keep the musical momentum going in the bargain. Be of good cheer in the meantime.
More whenever.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
America: 236 Years Young
Happy Independence Day, All.
Before I make with the meat-n-'taters of this special installment, please allow me to introduce the rather sexy model I conscripted for a bit of eye-candy:
This blog's "Page 3 Girl" is the old Rock Island Railroad's E8 passenger locomotive #652, done up in her American Bicentennial paint scheme from 1976. Although I'd personally prefer her blue to be Navy rather than Baby, she nonetheless cuts quite the striking and patriotic figure. She's my third-favorite Bicentennial locomotive, just behind my beloved Missouri Pacific's red-white-and-blue duo of # 1776 and 1976. What's more, this year is 100% perfect to feature and celebrate this particular locomotive, 'cause I'm also celebrating a bit of my own Independence for the very first time in almost four years. Yes Friends and Neighbors, I'm finally back on the road towards the total recovery I've been desperately scratching for since the onset of the Malaise in late 2008. I'm still taking baby-steps, but the balance is finally good, and the strides - though small - are nonetheless strong and confident once again.
Thanks to my perverse and warped black humor, I can only hope my Independence doesn't ultimately go the way of #652's Independence; the Rock Island went bankrupt and was totally dissolved in 1980, but the 652 was spared the dread trip to the scrapyard and manages to survive to this day, by the skin of her teeth! Been there, done that, ain't gonna do it no mo'. Ironic as hell that this July 4 finds our country as a whole on the verge of re-enacting the ignominious end of the mighty fine Rock Island Line. Oh I'll do my level best to help fire the boob that resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue come November, but I can't help but wonder if it'll be too little, too late. Barry Hussein isn't the only boob infesting DC these days; there seem to be roughly 543 more of them, virtually monopolizing our entire national governing body; "Czars," Cabinet, and myriad hangers-on notwithstanding. And doing a right piss-poor job across the board, IMHO. It reminds me of the ancient joke about the Rock Island, where a distraught passenger says to the station attendant "I have to get to Chicago in the worst way." Without hesitation, the station agent deadpans "SO very sorry, Ma'am. You just missed our last train of the day - and there ain't no worse way to get to Chicago!"
Hopefully for myself and the rest of the country, the message splashed on #652's lovely-but-worn flanks will enjoy a strong resurgence as we go forward into the latter half of 2012 and beyond. I'm not worrying about it or anything else at all, for that matter; I've finally learned the hard way to take everything one day or step at a time, and let the chips fall where they may. Which was precisely the mindset of our distant forefathers who originally mined, minted, and eventually put out on the open market the very word {or concept, to be both correct and specific} proudly emblazoned on #652's sexily-gleaming carbody. Coming full circle? You betcha!!! Y'all don't think I'd actually miss such a unique conundrum now, do ya??? I am an interested observer and commentator, after all. And the Independence I do so enjoy - along with the rest of my 365 million-plus Fellow Babies - er, Citizens - is precisely what gives me the absolute freedom to make my musings and observations, without fear of reprisal. A concept worth fighting and dying for, indeed. Not a totally perfect concept, mind you; we all still need to do our individual bits {and more} to get our homeland going in the right direction again.
Simple fact of life, albeit a rather hard one. For the moment I'm digging it, myself.
Safe and pleasureable Independence Day, One and All.
More shortly..............
Before I make with the meat-n-'taters of this special installment, please allow me to introduce the rather sexy model I conscripted for a bit of eye-candy:
This blog's "Page 3 Girl" is the old Rock Island Railroad's E8 passenger locomotive #652, done up in her American Bicentennial paint scheme from 1976. Although I'd personally prefer her blue to be Navy rather than Baby, she nonetheless cuts quite the striking and patriotic figure. She's my third-favorite Bicentennial locomotive, just behind my beloved Missouri Pacific's red-white-and-blue duo of # 1776 and 1976. What's more, this year is 100% perfect to feature and celebrate this particular locomotive, 'cause I'm also celebrating a bit of my own Independence for the very first time in almost four years. Yes Friends and Neighbors, I'm finally back on the road towards the total recovery I've been desperately scratching for since the onset of the Malaise in late 2008. I'm still taking baby-steps, but the balance is finally good, and the strides - though small - are nonetheless strong and confident once again.
Thanks to my perverse and warped black humor, I can only hope my Independence doesn't ultimately go the way of #652's Independence; the Rock Island went bankrupt and was totally dissolved in 1980, but the 652 was spared the dread trip to the scrapyard and manages to survive to this day, by the skin of her teeth! Been there, done that, ain't gonna do it no mo'. Ironic as hell that this July 4 finds our country as a whole on the verge of re-enacting the ignominious end of the mighty fine Rock Island Line. Oh I'll do my level best to help fire the boob that resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue come November, but I can't help but wonder if it'll be too little, too late. Barry Hussein isn't the only boob infesting DC these days; there seem to be roughly 543 more of them, virtually monopolizing our entire national governing body; "Czars," Cabinet, and myriad hangers-on notwithstanding. And doing a right piss-poor job across the board, IMHO. It reminds me of the ancient joke about the Rock Island, where a distraught passenger says to the station attendant "I have to get to Chicago in the worst way." Without hesitation, the station agent deadpans "SO very sorry, Ma'am. You just missed our last train of the day - and there ain't no worse way to get to Chicago!"
Hopefully for myself and the rest of the country, the message splashed on #652's lovely-but-worn flanks will enjoy a strong resurgence as we go forward into the latter half of 2012 and beyond. I'm not worrying about it or anything else at all, for that matter; I've finally learned the hard way to take everything one day or step at a time, and let the chips fall where they may. Which was precisely the mindset of our distant forefathers who originally mined, minted, and eventually put out on the open market the very word {or concept, to be both correct and specific} proudly emblazoned on #652's sexily-gleaming carbody. Coming full circle? You betcha!!! Y'all don't think I'd actually miss such a unique conundrum now, do ya??? I am an interested observer and commentator, after all. And the Independence I do so enjoy - along with the rest of my 365 million-plus Fellow Babies - er, Citizens - is precisely what gives me the absolute freedom to make my musings and observations, without fear of reprisal. A concept worth fighting and dying for, indeed. Not a totally perfect concept, mind you; we all still need to do our individual bits {and more} to get our homeland going in the right direction again.
Simple fact of life, albeit a rather hard one. For the moment I'm digging it, myself.
Safe and pleasureable Independence Day, One and All.
More shortly..............
Monday, July 2, 2012
Really?
No joy at all in the Woodshed last night, boys and girls.
The solid followup to last week's play I was looking forward to just didn't happen. Oh, there was a large pool of jammers present, both old and new faces, and plenty of the happy-social schtick at the outset, but I eventually got lost in the shuffle {again}. Sad, too - some of the cats present really, really cooked. I got the itch early on, but for whatever reason, my contribution was stuck in the "death slot on the bill" - and there were precious few around by then to witness it.
What's worse, the short set I did manage was marred by - of all things - equipment failure {and injury}. Bob re-teamed me with himself, Joe, and Doc Jim, and we started off with "Sunshine of Your Love," which I really didn't feel like playing by then. The only good fortune of the evening came about because Drum-Bud Mike The Wop had a "cheater" double-bass pedal on his kit. Good thing too, because Doc snapped a bass string about 1/3 into the song!! Cut one of his fingers badly from it, too. I was able to cover for him somewhat with the extra kick, but once I started filling the extra rhythm holes, I said "f*ck this mess," and let loose with some rather angry heavy-metal bombs. Since Bob and Joe had basically shot their wads already, their playing was casual in a "throw the dog a bone, and let's get this over with quick" manner.
After we slopped SOYL to a close, Darryl swapped in for a bleeding Doc {bass strings are lethal on fingers when they snap}, and we went into the set-closing second half of "Layla." I kept up the intensity and carpet-bombings with the kicks, but by then the rot had set in, and I too just wanted to get the damn thing over with quickly. Like I said earlier, few were around to witness things by then, so I steamed along until the coda, and split just as soon as I caught my breath. I'd been through this scene more than a few times in the past, and I was well pissed off with myself for letting it happen yet again. I know it's Bob's show and all, but I feel I've earned at least the courtesy of bringing home the bacon when it can really be appreciated {and supported} properly.
My overall playing was well up to scratch, but I could've played a solo that would make Gene Krupa look like a newbie in comparison AND blown up the Gateway Arch as the finale, but it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference last night. At the bitter end, I felt like a cheap clich`e; the proverbial red-headed stepson at a family reunion. It bloody well hurt, it did. So rather than make a big fuss, I just hit the bricks in silence. All the pleasantries and my reunion bit with good old Darryl earlier in the evening were distant memories by the end. And it shouldn't have been like that at all.
I'm still too upset and tired to ponder the ramifications, but flux is hardly a new thing to me. I'll get around to option-weighing and priority-reexamination later. Y'all will be kept in the loop, rest assured. As I write this, I'm keenly aware of my Mom's absence. Today would have been her 85th birthday and I miss her tremendously. She was the #1 supporter of my music, and she could have easily talked me back up out of the black pit I'm in right now. When I first became a Regular with Bob, there was no one happier for me than her. And as we grew our friendship, my Mom began to view Bob as an adoptive big brother of sorts. She was always after me to play and videotape a version of "Jailhouse Rock" with him at the jams - she adored Jeff Beck's cover of it I used to play in my band many moons ago - but I sadly never got around to it before I lost her.
I honestly don't know where things will go from here, boys and girls. I've still got plenty of non-musical stuff on my plate to deal with, so perhaps I'll shift focus a bit and let the musical end of my spectrum look after itself for a spell. Sit tight and be patient - I'll sing out when things are resolved in due course.
More shortly.
The solid followup to last week's play I was looking forward to just didn't happen. Oh, there was a large pool of jammers present, both old and new faces, and plenty of the happy-social schtick at the outset, but I eventually got lost in the shuffle {again}. Sad, too - some of the cats present really, really cooked. I got the itch early on, but for whatever reason, my contribution was stuck in the "death slot on the bill" - and there were precious few around by then to witness it.
What's worse, the short set I did manage was marred by - of all things - equipment failure {and injury}. Bob re-teamed me with himself, Joe, and Doc Jim, and we started off with "Sunshine of Your Love," which I really didn't feel like playing by then. The only good fortune of the evening came about because Drum-Bud Mike The Wop had a "cheater" double-bass pedal on his kit. Good thing too, because Doc snapped a bass string about 1/3 into the song!! Cut one of his fingers badly from it, too. I was able to cover for him somewhat with the extra kick, but once I started filling the extra rhythm holes, I said "f*ck this mess," and let loose with some rather angry heavy-metal bombs. Since Bob and Joe had basically shot their wads already, their playing was casual in a "throw the dog a bone, and let's get this over with quick" manner.
After we slopped SOYL to a close, Darryl swapped in for a bleeding Doc {bass strings are lethal on fingers when they snap}, and we went into the set-closing second half of "Layla." I kept up the intensity and carpet-bombings with the kicks, but by then the rot had set in, and I too just wanted to get the damn thing over with quickly. Like I said earlier, few were around to witness things by then, so I steamed along until the coda, and split just as soon as I caught my breath. I'd been through this scene more than a few times in the past, and I was well pissed off with myself for letting it happen yet again. I know it's Bob's show and all, but I feel I've earned at least the courtesy of bringing home the bacon when it can really be appreciated {and supported} properly.
My overall playing was well up to scratch, but I could've played a solo that would make Gene Krupa look like a newbie in comparison AND blown up the Gateway Arch as the finale, but it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference last night. At the bitter end, I felt like a cheap clich`e; the proverbial red-headed stepson at a family reunion. It bloody well hurt, it did. So rather than make a big fuss, I just hit the bricks in silence. All the pleasantries and my reunion bit with good old Darryl earlier in the evening were distant memories by the end. And it shouldn't have been like that at all.
I'm still too upset and tired to ponder the ramifications, but flux is hardly a new thing to me. I'll get around to option-weighing and priority-reexamination later. Y'all will be kept in the loop, rest assured. As I write this, I'm keenly aware of my Mom's absence. Today would have been her 85th birthday and I miss her tremendously. She was the #1 supporter of my music, and she could have easily talked me back up out of the black pit I'm in right now. When I first became a Regular with Bob, there was no one happier for me than her. And as we grew our friendship, my Mom began to view Bob as an adoptive big brother of sorts. She was always after me to play and videotape a version of "Jailhouse Rock" with him at the jams - she adored Jeff Beck's cover of it I used to play in my band many moons ago - but I sadly never got around to it before I lost her.
I honestly don't know where things will go from here, boys and girls. I've still got plenty of non-musical stuff on my plate to deal with, so perhaps I'll shift focus a bit and let the musical end of my spectrum look after itself for a spell. Sit tight and be patient - I'll sing out when things are resolved in due course.
More shortly.
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