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..............
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.
Ten years ago today, the music world lost one of the true Maestros - John Alec Entwistle, aka "The Ox."
It is impossible for me to adequately relate the impact JAE had on my life; suffice to say it was considerable. Along with the late great Dee Murray, John was literally my introduction to the symbiotic relationship between bassists and drummers. The first two records my brother and I ever owned were Who's Next, and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and both were to have enormous impact on me as I matured.
JAE quite simply re-defined the bass as an instrument of the virtuoso, rather than merely being a slightly more melodic version of the drums / basic timekeeping instrument. His singing, songwriting and black-humor skills were not lost on me either, and all would eventually manifest in my own makeup as I got older. I soon picked up on John's contemporaries and disciples, which is how I came to know and love the likes of Jaco Pastorius, Jack Bruce, Geddy Lee, John Paul Jones - and even {gasp!} Carole Kaye.
Since virtually all the bassists mentioned worked with top-shelf drummers, I had all the basic materials I needed to embark on my master's course in musicianship, a wonderful education that continues to this day. Then as now, JAE remains near the epicenter, the key that originally unlocked and opened the door for me. Although I don't play the same instrument, I have nonetheless gleaned a large chunk of my musical knowledge and understanding at the foot of John's impressive body of work. I was also fortunate to see him in concert several times before he passed away, both with The Who, and on his own.
Ironically, John's passing sparked off an amazing period in my life that led me to Love and a resurgence of my own musical endeavors. I quietly attended my first-ever play at Back Street a weekend or two after the Ox died, but didn't really follow up on it. I think it had something to do with the lack of response my then-guitarist and I got from playing "Summertime Blues," and "Listening to You {See Me, Feel Me}" just as the Who did - loud, fast, and crazy. Buffalo Bob didn't say anything about it at the time, but I'd like to think he at least appreciated the gesture - he certainly has no complaints about my mess today!!
I miss the Ox just as much now as I did ten years ago. John died just four months after I lost my own Father, and I still bear the many scars from both losses. However, in yet another ironic twist, this 10th anniversary of the Ox's passing coincides with the beginnings of what could likely be another powerful resurgence within my personal and musical life. The process has already begun, but there's still a l-o-n-g way to go before I'll be reasonably settled. My online time here and on Facebook will remain somewhat sporadic for the next several weeks at least, but there's a lot more hope and optimism than when I last posted a couple days ago.
As such, I'd like to ask all and sundry here to please be patient, and keep your eyes peeled for new postings. I'm working as hard and as fast as I can to achieve a measure of stability. The next few weeks will be the hardest, but there is indeed light at the end of the tunnel. In the meantime, why don't y'all join me in celebrating John's memory the good old-fashioned way - with THIS:
That's how long it's been since my last patrol in Uncle Buffalo's Woodshed. Last night saw my return to the old familiar territory at Back Street, and according to many who were there, my exile might as well have been eighteen hours. Even I myself have no complaints or regrets about the play, which is a rare thing to those who know how self-critical I am regarding my work, even in a "mere jam" situation.
As always, Buffalo Bob was the chief instigator; he convinced me to come out for the usual fun-and-games as a way to distract me from my serious private circumstances. I was reluctant at first, what with it being ages since I had any regular plays and all, but BB put just enough gentle pressure on me to say "what the hell," and off to Back Street I went.
Upon arrival, I got the usual warm greeting from BB and Den-Mama Linda, and we made with the small talk, jokes, and the usual silliness. Several Colleagues from the old days turned up - Mighty Joe Taylor, Wild Willie, my man Nick, Derek Lauer, and in a spectating capacity, Dangerous Dan and Darlin' Dar. We all did the happy to see ya thing during the run-up to the play, and I fell into a pleasant state of readiness in short order.
Come the show, BB kicked it all off backed by Drum-Bud Josh, Joe, and Doc Jim Evans on bass, one of BB's old friends {and one of my newer Facebook musical friends}. The groove they set pretty much sealed my conviction, and I simply soaked it all in until my time came. True to form, BB saved me for last, but he also was true in throwing me up first with a completely ad-hoc aggregation of Derek and his bass player, along with Joe and a sax and trumpet player. Derek played a couple original jazz / blues hybrids, and I jumped right in and wailed like the Animal of yore, despite having absolutely no clue where Derek was going, or what he wanted.
Once that bit was done {to decent applause}, BB swapped Doc Jim back in on bass, and I got ready to start some serious cooking. Derek led us into another blues-jam, and I locked as tight as I could with Doc, and we took off - and I mean, took off. See, DJ and I have been "Facebook only" fast friends for several months now. Last night was our first blow together, and it took me all of 15 seconds to start exploiting the chemistry as much as I could. DJ's the kind of bass player I love to work with; rich musical vocabulary, crackerjack improv skills, and rock-solid timekeeping. As such, I unleashed a very fair amount of my usual "lead drums" mayhem, and stone me if it didn't work, and work well. Early on, I glanced up, and DJ was just laying back and riding along with Derek and the other cats, completely at ease with what I was doing.
This imperceptible signal made my night, it did. My mess can be a bit of a handful for some bass players, but DJ took it all perfectly in stride. I made a point to play as many unison-riffs with him as I could - my way of returning the subtle compliment. I did get a couple of Smiles from him during the solo parts, so I knew he was digging things as much as I was. Joe and the other cats weren't neglected either; I visited each during their solo-turns and complemented their business with some tastefully restrained improv riffs, even throwing in a little bit of "ambidextrous swing" during one passage - which blew away Dangerous Dan, as he told me after we finished.
At this point, BB swapped himself in for the horn players, and we tore into good old "Sunshine of Your Love." Way comfortable with DJ, and itching to do the do with BB, I combined the best of Ginger Baker and my main man Mitch Mitchell into one boisterous package. BB was all smiles, Joe was having a high old time, DJ was kicking ass - and I was the engine relentlessly driving it all. We flourished out the evening in damn fine style, both band and crowd 100% satisfied.
I was my usual soggy, panting heap afterwards, but for once I was also 100% satisfied. Last night was one of those rare times when even my many mistakes worked perfectly. As always, this was because I was simply responding to the caliber of everyone else's playing. They all wanted me to play well, and they did everything they could to give me plenty of material to work with. And work I bloody well did, to pretty good effect. DJ was full of praise and admiration, as were Joe and Derek. I returned the praise and admiration in-kind, fully aware of what was coming next.
BB was laughing and shaking his head; always a good sign with him. Like my last time in the Woodshed in mid-2010, he couldn't believe that my most recent hiatus hadn't atrophied my skills appreciably. I have a hard time believing it too, to be honest. The only explanation I have is that a Gift such as mine might always be there, whether I exercise it or not. To me, this is a true sign of the ethereal, or purely Divine nature of such a Gift. Yes, I had to work incredibly hard to learn how to use it properly, but once learned, I have somehow never forgotten any knowledge of the application. I can stop playing the drums for two days or two years, but you'd never know it, judging by last night's acid-test.
In the end, last night's blow in the Woodshed was one of the better ones I've had, by any standard. More than that, it re-opened my eyes to my true calling. Ever since my Mom died, I've been living a halfway-sort of existence, by allowing my music to be over-ridden by more "important" concerns. The "importance" of those other concerns was obliterated into dust motes last night. Nothing is more important than me giving my Gift frequent and regular exercise. And for the foreseeable future, I'm gonna fight like a wildcat to try and achieve that goal once more - or die trying.
God willing, it'll be sooner rather than later for my next Woodshed patrol. I've got plenty of musical business to take care of - like quickly cementing the bond with DJ, as I did with Darryl in 2008 - but private circumstances are looming that might be too hard to surmount, before I can do so. Time, luck, Fate, and Destiny will tell {but the odd million or so prayers won't hurt either}.
Until the private crisis is resolved, I can at least take comfort in the fact that possibly my last play was one of my very best. I'd like to personally thank BB, DJ, Joe and Derek for the wonderful inspiration they all gave me, as well as Josh, Den-Mama Linda, Dan, and Dar for the moral / fan support. One and all are wonderful Friends to me, and I Love the lot of 'em.
I hope to see them all, and the rest of the Audience here, the instant my private business is resolved. Until then, be of good cheer and please don't worry - I'll be around until I'm not any more at all.
Due to extreme circumstances, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a sabbatical from this blog for a spell. When I might be able to resume regular postings has yet to be determined. A great many issues in my private life need to be resolved before I can concentrate on something other than basic immediate survival.
I wanted to go on the record in an effort to keep speculation / concern or worry down to a minimum. I WILL return just as soon as I'm able, hopefully with much better news to report. In the meantime, I'd like to thank all the Followers of this humble page. Y'all are a damn decent bunch of friends to have, and I'm truly grateful for each and every one of you.
Please be of good cheer during the hiatus, and we'll see each other again on the other side of this damned hump.
This M-4 Sherman tank, on display in France near the site of the Normandy Beach landings, is my favorite symbol of the tremendous sacrifices our military makes - as part of their basic job description. This tank never made landfall; the vessel assigned to land it was sunk early in the campaign, taking men and materiel down with her. This tank was later salvaged and made a display item to symbolize the high cost of war in general, and the horrible price paid in particular on 6 June 1944.
D-Day {the opening of Operation Neptune} saw 2499 American deaths, and in excess of 10,000 tons of equipment lost; grim figures for a campaign that barely lasted 72 hours. To be fair though, compare that figure to the number of people lost on 9/11, or to the current casualty count from a full decade of conflict in the mid-East and Afghanistan. None of those losses should be taken lightly, which is precisely why this tank was recovered and put on display.
To my eyes, this tank looks "raw" in many senses. It obviously was never modified to better survive combat; it remains more or less the way it came off the assembly line, in stark contrast to the countless images of its' brethren who did see service. Going a bit deeper, I can easily picture a gaggle of 19-year-old boys clustering around the tank for cover as they hear the scream of the artillery shell that ended their campaign before it even got started. Like the tank, they were fresh, raw, and untested by combat - and never would be.
Not that all those who survived D-Day were any better off, mind you. Surviving war does NOT mean one is unaffected, as countless Veterans might tell you, if they feel like airing their demons a little bit. For many Vets, death would be a mercy in comparison to the horrible firsthand knowledge they have about warfare. Death ends mortal suffering, after all. Those boys who went down with the Sherman likely never knew - much less understood - what hit them. The survivors did however, and that's why we have such monuments today - as well as the freedom to blog about them if we choose.
For that, I'm tremendously grateful and thankful. All those who paid a price on that handful of French beaches so long ago deserve much, much more honor and respect than my humble musings here. As such, I'd like to invite all and sundry to join me in honoring our Military on a frequent basis. Theirs is the ULTIMATE thankless task, and they deserve infinitely better than a slowly rusting combat vehicle that never once got powder residue in its' gun barrel, as a form of honor. It's the very least we can do IMHO, but I'd dearly like to see a damn sight more done.
This Memorial Day, I'd like to focus on those wonderful members of our military who didn't wind up underneath a somber white marble cross as depicted above. For every fallen soldier, sailor, airman or marine there are 10, 50, or perhaps even 100,000 comrades who served honorably and survived.
For some of these fine Vets, death would have been a mercy - far too many have come back horribly maimed, both physically and mentally. The lucky ones get the care and treatment they deserve and need - but again, far too many simply slip through the cracks, and spend the rest of their lives just trying to cope with the day-to-day stuff a lot of us take for granted. Fortunately, we do have the Veteran's Administration to help look after all surviving Vets, but to be brutally frank, it really isn't enough when weighed against the sacrifices made.
The VA is one of the very few Federal programs I wholeheartedly support, and it's my opinion that they should be granted a permanently open-ended budget; a small price to pay, all things considered. We honor our dead Vets well enough; it's high time we did more to honor and care for our living Vets. The VA aside, there's plenty more we can do for our Vets; everything from a simple "Thank you" to exercising our right to vote in every election. I mean, said right is what all our Vets died or got wounded trying to protect and preserve, after all. Absolutely no excuse for apathy, here.
Let's make this Memorial Day special by going the extra yard or three for our surviving Vets, as well as honoring the fallen ones. Even if it's a small token like buying a Vet friend a beer down the local tavern, do it. They deserve it, and you'll feel good doing the warm-fuzzy thing. I feel very fortunate indeed to number quite a few Vets as close friends, over and above all my relatives who served. I may not always vocalize my deep gratitude, but I try to show or demonstrate it every chance I get - and not just twice a year on Memorial and Veteran's / Armistice Day. Honoring my Vets is a year-round thing like maintaining both Christmas and Easter spirit, if you catch me drift.
May God Bless and Keep all our Vets. More shortly.........
