I hate it when I get like this. It's nothing I can define outside of "uninspired." Even that isn't entirely true. The best word is "blank." I am 100% blank right now. It's one of those times where just about nothing sounds like fun and all my normal distractions (movies, books, poker, music, etc) lose their luster way too quickly.

If I were to write right now, it would be about the following things.

Sixty seconds away from my brother's house in the tony community of Kirkwood, Missouri, a guy walked in to a city council meeting and started killing peoople. Before he was done, he had shot seven people, killing two police officers, as well as some city council members and other members of city government. A reporter and the mayor of the city were also shot. At the very same time this was happening, a sugar refinery not too far from here in Savannah, Georgia blew up. At the time, the casualty numbers seemed astounding. I started flipping between every major cable news network. Here's a rundown of what they were showing:

FOX News: Britney Spears coverage
CNN: Britney Spears coverage
MSNBC: A pre-packaged hour-long bio on Hillary Clinton (funny enough, the DirecTV guide showed the program listing as "The Mind of Manson.")

I mean...come on.

I'm not a big Phish disciple, but I found this article absolutely fascinating. Probably something about being an aging husband and father with a wild and crazy history. Via Coventry.

My friend E asked me to write a guest post for her professional blog. She's a political reporter out of Austin who is getting ready to see the onslaught of national media and candidates in Texas. She asked for some advice she can pass along to her colleagues. My only regret is the censors cut out the only really funny thing I put in there. It involved the word genitalia. Regardless, you can find it HERE

Finally...the other day, I was perusing plastic surgery websites in preparation for a rant about the industry. I came across a doctor who specialized in...wait for it...vaginal reconstruction. I suppose I should've assumed there would be such an area of expertise. I didn't realize, however, how popular a surgery it is. Among the specialities within the specialties is labiaplasty. I'll admit, I looked at pictures, because...well, really, who doesn't want to see before and after images? Let me warn you. This is absolutely Not Safe For Work. Do not open this link if anyone else is around. I feel a little weird linking it at all. However, science is involved and I think we can all stand a little enlightenment. NSFW.

Yeah...let that carry you through the weekend.

Labels: Crime, Health, Music, TV News

When my wife answered the phone, I let loose a string of profanity that made even her blush. This is the woman who uses four-letter words in job interviews and to describe puppies.

"What? You've been in a wreck?" she said.

I was about to run my car off the road, but I hadn't crashed yet. Instead, I had just discovered that one of two listenable radio stations in G-Vegas (96.7 WBZT, The Buzzard) was about to switch formats. The jock sounded like he no longer need a strap and was promising that the big news was coming on Christmas day. Despite the fact that the station was biding the time in the interim by playing the Pointer Sisters, I knew what was coming. Indeed, I checked an industry message board when I got home.

Inspirational Top 40? When was the last time anything in the Top 40 inspired you?

I discovered demise of decent free radio as I drove around on one final Christmas shopping run. It occurred to me when I left that Christmas time would be a very easy time to engage in adultery. This morning, I was able to leave the house without telling my wife where I was going or when I would be back. When she called to inquire about lunch, she told me what she'd like to eat. "But that's probably not convenient to where you are," she said, obviously looking for a little hint. I didn't give it up.

When I got home with her sandwich, I told her about my adultery theory.

"I'm glad you've thought this out," she said.

Obviously, my attempt at holiday humor was lost. I really should get in the spirit of things here. And what better than Inspirational Top 40, right?

While eating my sandwich, I perused the news and discovered that Texas has gone and done it again. The legislature is about to impose a $5 per customer charge on strip club patrons. Now, I haven't been to a strip club in years (except to play poker, of course), but this seems a little more than unconstitutional to me. Like most sin taxes out there, the revenue from this one is going to a good cause--in this case to help rape victims. Still, it's really dangerous to start legislating morality, and further punitively taxing that which the lawmakers can't eliminate. The story linked quotes a constitutional expert as saying, "Laws like this would expose any unpopular industry to punitive taxes. It could be abortion clinics."

Well, that would be a really solid argument, but for the fact that many people who don't approve of strip clubs would probably be behind the taxation of abortion clinics as well. Perhaps a better way to test it would be to assign a $5 surcharge to listeners of an Inspirational Top 40 station.

Either way, I'm certain of this: The music in the strip clubs is better.

Labels: Marriage, Music, Sex

Several years ago, I sat in a renovated mill in downtown Greenville at a charity auction held by the local classic rock station, Rock101. It was a time I didn't have a lot of money in my pocket and probably shouldn't have been bidding on anything.

I didn't need another guitar. I have my old Alvalrez acoustic/electric I've been playing since I was a teenager. I have a beat-up Peavey T-60 I've been playing since then, as well. What's more, I would soon have a 12-string and a mandolin. The last thing I needed was the guitar that sat on the stage. It wasn't an expensive guitar and had nowhere near the kind of tone I would want. Still, I bid, bid again, and bid again. I took it home with me that night knowing I bought it only because it was signed by one of my songwriting heroes, Steve Earle.

That guitar has been here ever since and took on the likely name "The Steve Earle Guitar." It got played, to be sure. It usually came out when I had friends over and we took to musical silliness. The best night I remember was a Bradoween celebration. My cousin, a friend named Kebin, and I all sat in my driveway for way too many hours and traded songs.

That guitar isn't here anymore. It's now somewhere where it's going to get played all the time. I bought a hard shell case for it so it would survive the trip and had a packing company send it off. To the credit of the U.S. Postal Service, the entire journey took less than a week and the guitar arrived in one piece.

That guitar and its future are now in the hands of a friend. I know it is in good hands. I sent along only one request: Make sure the guitar stays there until everybody gets to come home. I know my friend, known to many as Dr. Chako, will make sure that happens.



For more, visit Dr. Chako's website.

Labels: Music, War

The boy is loud.

Give him a guitar and he will rock out with his blocks out. He's currently working on a Ramones-style version of Billy Jonas' "What Kind of Cat Are You?" It's sure to be a hit with the under-five set. Drum sticks? Yeah, he has a pair, and when he's not threatening the dog with great canine injury, he's turning any of about a dozen home decorations into his own personal snare.

All of this is an ad for Tylenol Parent and makes me only mildly insane. Most of the time I am more proud than I am wishing to stuff my ears with my own brains. There are times, however, that are so sweet and endearing that I'd cut off my arm if it mean my son could drum a few more minutes before bedtime.

As the holidays approach, Mt. Otis is taking on a distinctly cheerful aura. A wreath went up on the front door, other decorations are waiting in the wings, and my boy is requesting I play Jingle Bells instead of "I Gotta Get Drunk." Merry Christmas, one and all.

Last night, we went for a drive and "Little Drummer Boy" came on one of the five XM stations playing holiday music. The boy stopped his mindful screaming and settled into a quiet, make-you-wanna-cry "Rum-pah-pum-pum." I almost had to pull over.

I really don't like Christmas music, and I certainly don't like it for 30 straight days. Most of the time the music comes across like a Sweeny Sisters orgy if Bing Crosby and Johnny Wadd showed up. In fact, about the only time I really enjoy holiday music is on the actual holiday. I have a couple of cousins who have angelic voices and occasionally treat us to perfect-pitch harmony on Christmas Eve. Then, I can listen to it. Otherwise, it feels like I'm main-lining simple syrup laced with shut-the-hell-up.

The dilemma is pretty clear. The kid loves him some Rudolph, Frosty, and Santa songs and notices when I switch it over to "Daddy's on Parole This Christmas." I don't want to discourage the boy from enjoying traditional holiday fare, but waiting around for Frosty to come on the radio and listening to a scat version of Jingle Bell Rock is quickly going to turn me into Ebenezer Scrooge on meth.

I haven't quite figured out the solution, yet, but I think I'm getting close. I just bought a $4 Willie Nelson Christmas disc off Amazon that might be a happy compromise. I'll be able to stomach hearing Christmas music for another four weeks and, if I'm lucky, I might be able to slip "Bloody Mary Morning" into the rotation. It's either that or I'm going to have a lot of those mornings myself between now and the time Christmas rolls around.

Labels: Music, Parenting

There are two hard things about the Lake Eden Arts Festival.

The first hard thing is the getting there. The actual road trip is easy. From where I sit, it's only an hour and half drive, most of it on interstates. Camp Rockmont (which, despite the sound of its name, is not a place where people are regularly massacred by serial killers or a place where 18 year-old girls in white cotton panties experiment with some crazy new interests) is a simple little place on a simple little mountain lake.

The hard part is the anticipation of getting there and then fear of not getting a prime spot next to the lake. That is my job today. The wife and I are the first wave of The Advance Team. The job we have chosen to accept is that of scout and flag-planter. I should remember that in nine years of LEAF-ing, we have never failed to get a good camp site for this four-day event. Yet, I always worry. I'm sick with it right now. I'm leaving two hours before I really should in some false hope that it will make me feel better. When we get there, it will be a mad dash over a split-wood fence and to the lake. There, we will begin forming the Tent City U for a party of around 20 people (a small year in comparison to the 32 we had last year). Within a few hours, we will be joined by the rest of The Advance Team, Jane, T, and Ted. They will help us build Tent City and make it our weekend home. By 8pm, we will be finished and drinking beer. The hard part will be over.

The other hard part is the leaving. Sunday morning, we will all wake up up. More than half of our group will be hung over. Everyone will be tired. No one will want to spend three hours breaking down Tent City and cleaning up our site to leave the land as we found it. But everyone does.

Those are the two parts of LEAF that I hate. If those were the only things I knew about LEAF, I most certainly would never go. Thing is, everything else in the middle of those two times is easy. Beyond easy, really. A picture T took last year pretty much sums up LEAF in October.



I could spend a couple hours writing about how much I enjoy this weekend, but I don't think most people would get it. I've spent years trying to convince people why it's fun, and nobody has understood it...until they have joined me. I think in our group's LEAF history (which pre-dates the Otis clan by several years), only two people have joined us at LEAF and not liked it. Dozens of others have vowed to come back as often as possible. And they have.

So, it's off the grid for me this weekend. I'm not simply setting an away message on my computer. I'm turning the damned thing off.

I've never been one to run away, but this weekend, I'm retreating and not feeling the least bit bad about it.

Seeya next week.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music

A few people commented and/or e-mailed regarding last Friday's iPod meme list. For those still wondering, here's a list of the bands and songs and how they ended up on my iPod.

1. Carrie, darlin', Carrie. Carrie Brown I cried. If I can't marry Carrie Brown, believe I'd rather die. Believe I'd rather die, boys. Believe I'd rather die

Carrie Brown by Del McCoury Band and Steve Earle -- It's Steve Earle gone bluegrass and off The Mountain album that my friends, the Reillys, gave me for my birthday in December 1999. The album pretty much set up the next five or so years of my music listening and is still in regular rotation

2. A memory of a miner, who dragged himself to work, worked himself to death, workin' for someone else.

Shaky Ground by Uncle Tupelo -- This is off the acoustic album the boys from Illinois put together back during my college years. I don't think there is another album I have listened to more times from beginning to end.

3. Midnight from the Inside Out by the Black Crowes -- I will never be ashamed to say I like the Black Crowes. I've always wanted to see them live. Now, I'm going to in October.

4. This song is sung for anyone that's listening. This song is for the broken spirited man.

Life Worth Livin' by Uncle Tupelo -- Off the No Depression album, and one of the songs that made the Americana/progressive country/Alt-country movement. A lot of you are fans of Wilco and Son Volt. You don't know what you missed 15 years ago when Jeff and Jay were playing together.

5. I'm a fool to want you, such a fool to want you, to want love that can't be true.

I'm a fool to want you as played by The Jody Grind -- An old standard, in this case performed by the now defunt Jody Grind duo. I fell in love with the lead singer when she opened for They Might Be Giants (also seeing them next month) back in the early 1990s. Somebody once told me the girl died in a bus crash, but I later learned that to be false. She's still singing, although never found much big time success.

6. Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, you can't tell the story by the cover of a book, so don't judge Jack, 'cause Jack Can't Cook.

Jack Can't Cook by Eddie From Ohio -- My favorite New Folk band from Virginia wrote this as a poke at Jack Kent Cooke. I've said it before, even if you don't like folk music, you should see Eddie From Ohio play live once. It's just too fun.

7. Brett is in the bathtub making soup for the ambassadors. I am in the hallway singing to the troubadours.

Bathtun Gin by Phish -- This is a live show from Charlotte given to me by my buddy G-Rob. Not my favorite song, but still in the rotation.

8. A man stood in the shadows, his face was dripping sweat. He took a break from running, but wasn't done yet.

Running for his Life by Yonder Mountain String Band -- My buddy Uncle Ted turned me onto YMSB a few years ago and rounded out my collection of newgrass bands. I still owe him for this one. If you like newgrass and don't know YMSB, for your sake, find two or three albums today.

9. If the rainbow was a roller coaster, I could ride it for free.

Rainbow Rollercoaster by Acoustic Syndicate -- Among my favorite bands to see live, Acoustic Syndicate played this live version at their farewell show a couple years back. Word is they are playing together again, but I haven't seen them since. I hope to be able to soon.

10. Meet me down on the railroad track, wear your hair high like a haystack, jump on in boxcar number nine, he'll take us out past the county line.

This Town Ain't Cool by The Cigar Store Indians -- Rockabilly from Crab Apple, Georgia. I've seen this band more times than I can count, and certainly more times than I remember.

11. Oh, can you hear me? Oh, can you, can you hear me? I have come from the grave, I have spared no shame.

Can You Hear Me by The Grievous Angels -- One of the bands I listened to during my All Alt-Country All The Time phase. It's not Sleeping in Bayou (With a needle and a spoon), but it reminds me of years gone by.

12. When I was a child, my family would travel down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born. There's backwards old town that's often remembered, so many times that my memories are worn.

Paradise by John Prine -- Say no more. No, really, if you don't like this song, shut up. Say no more.

13. Now here we go dropping science, dropping it all over, like bumping around the town like when you're driving a Range Rover.

Sounds of Science by The Beastie Boys -- I'm not much for the hip-hop/rap scene, but I've always had a thing for Paul's Boutique. Reminds me of my buddy Marty and rolling around in his broken down car back in college.

14. I never shoulda drank that tequila. I should've stayed with the beer. I took the first shot and like it or not, I couldn't stop 'til I landed right here.

The Tequila Song by Allen Ross -- This guy was a bar singer in Springfield, MO and performed regularly at my favorite and` now defunt dive Culleys. I asked my wife to marry me while Ross was singing. Ross performs from time to time with a guy named Hank Rotten under the likely name "Ross and Rotten." They play Sturgis and show up on biker bar jukeboxes. If you've heard me play guitar in the past ten years, you probably heard me do more than one of Ross' songs, including "Harley in the Rain."

15. Where did your long hair go? Where is the girl I used to know? How could you lose that happy glow?

Caroline, No by the Beach Boys -- I grew up listening to the Beach Boys. No reason not to have Pet Sounds on my iPod, right?

16. (No lyrics) "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed." Let's leave this one as obvious as it is, k?

17. When this war is over, it will be a better day. When this war is over, it will be a better day, but it won't bring back those poor boys in their graves.

When this War is Over by Clapton and Cale -- First song I heard from the duet album was one that sounded like Widespread when I first heard it. Bought it. Like it. Etc.

18. The thrill is gone. The thrill is gone away.

The Thrill is Gone as performed by Garcia and Grisman -- I like Jerry Garcia and Davis Grisman together a lot. This song got a lot of play. The rest of their work on the album is a lot better in my opinion.

19. A long time forgotten, her dreams just fell by the way and the good life he promised ain't what she's livin today.

Good Hearted Woman as performed live by Yonder Mountain String Band -- I'll listen to Willie Nelson whenever and for as long as you want me to. I also don't mind good bands covering him. So, thereya go.

20. Got a tow from a guy named Joe. Cost $60, hope I don't run out of dough. Told me about a sex offense put him three days in jail. I'm stuck in Indianapolis, hope I live to tell the tale.

Indianapolis by the Bottle Rockets -- Jay nailed me on this one. This song is too fun for anyone to dislike, even when sung by me after I've had way too much to drink.

Labels: Music

For the first time in a long time, today actually feels like a Friday. I don't feel like doing anything that resembles work. I will, of course, but I don't think I'm going to work too hard. In fact, I don't think I'm going to work too hard here, either. So, here's a quick week in review and a fun music meme to put a period on the week.

Good thoughts for a friend in the hospital

L'il Otis Turns Three

The Devon Epps Story

Bacon

Finally, as I've said before, I don't much cotton to memes, but the one BadBlood tried yesterday sounded like fun. Turn on your iPod, set to shuffle, and record the first few lines of the first 20 songs that play. I also don't much cotton to the supernatural forces folks, but I do have a special relationship with my iPod. It has days where it really gets me and knows where my head wants to go musically. When I turned on the Pod, this is what it spit out. It made for a good session. It took me on a ride that ranged from childhood listening, through college, through my post-college party days, and into whatever it is I am now. In short, a good shuffle. Some of the songs will be completely obvious to many of you. Others may be a bit more obscure. If any of them pique your interest and you want to know more about them, hit me in the comments and I might dedicate a post to this list. I think you'd all enjoy just about every band I heard play.

1.Carrie, darlin', Carrie. Carrie Brown I cried. If I can't marry Carrie Brown, believe I'd rather die. Believe I'd rather die, boys. Believe I'd rather die.

2. The memory of a miner, dragged himself to work, worked himself to death, working for someone else. We follow each other around on shaky ground.

3. You with your fast and fur-lined mind, with your disregard of time

4. This song is sung for anyone that's listening. This song is for the broken spirited man.

5. I'm a fool to want you, such a fool to want you, to want love that can't be true.

6. Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, you can't tell the story by the cover of a book, so don't judge Jack, 'cause Jack Can't Cook.

7. Brett is in the bathtub making soup for the ambassadors. I am in the hallway singing to the troubadours.

8. A man stood in the shadows, his face was dripping sweat. He took a break from running, but wasn't done yet.

9. If the rainbow was a roller coaster, I could ride it for free.

10. Meet me down on the railroad track, wear your hair high like a haystack, jump on in boxcar number nine, he'll take us out past the county line.

11. Oh, can you hear me? Oh, can you, can you hear me? I have come from the grave, I have spared no shame.

12. When I was a child, my family would travel down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born. There's backwards old town that's often remembered, so many times that my memories are worn.

13. Now here we go dropping science, dropping it all over, like bumping around the town like when you're driving a Range Rover.

14. I never shoulda drank that tequila. I should've stayed with the beer. I took the first shot and like it or not, I couldn't stop 'til I landed right here.

15. Where did your long hair go? Where is the girl I used to know? How could you lose that happy glow?

16. (No lyrics) "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed."

17. When this was is over, it will be a better day. When this war is over, it will be a better day, but it won't bring back those poor boys in their graves.

18. The thrill is gone. The thrill is gone away.

19. A long time forgotten, her dreams just fell by the way and the good life he promised ain't what she's livin today.

20. Got a tow from a guy named Joe. Cost $60, hope I don't run out of dough. Told me about a sex offense put him three days in jail. I'm stuck in Indianapolis, hope I live to tell the tale.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music

Life is exceptionally busy right now. I think I could write 2000 words on this subject. Sadly, I just don't have the time for it right now.

My kid is an unabashed disciple of Billy Jonas. Jonas is a self-described re-percussionist and a fun songwriter. Most of his work is done for kids. What my boy doesn't know is that Jonas also does some PG-13 work for folks like me.

One hit my kid hasn't heard is one of my favorites: Jonas' "Pissin' Outside."

Although my kid is not yet old enough to hear the unrated Jonas, he's, as I said, clearly a disciple.



'Nuff said.

Labels: Music, Parenting

I am usually an open book. This makes it hard to be a poker player in a live setting. With emotions and sleeves and all, I'm often tempted to wear sleeveless shirts. However, those who know me know I don't necessarily pack a lot of heat in the guns department, so anything that shows off my arms is usually more embarrassing than whatever part of my fragile emotional base I'm giving away.

A big part of this has to do with impulse control. I only bring this up because I just had to take my kid's train set away from him. He is developing a nasty habit of pushing down his preschool classmates and, in lieu of smacking him around a bit, I took away his most prized possessions. His teacher--who also happens to be a very understanding good friend--suggests the kid's impulse control isn't necessarily keeping up with the rest of rapidly advancing brain. I worry sometimes that might be my fault.

That's not actually not why I sat down to write. In fact, I sat down to tell you I'm not going to give much away today. Instead of an open book, I'm going to be more like the fluttering pages of a book when you're flipping through it looking for a picture, or money, or a note from an old girlfriend. I'm not being coy, nor do I have any big secret. I'm just feeling a bit like a camel right now.

So, a bit of an early week mental massage for you.

Massage #1: After some good research and a weigh-in from Brother Otis MD, it appears that trying to measure the volume of a giraffe's vagina as compared to a cow's vagina is a futile activity. Apparently, a better way to measure is to consider the size of of their male counterparts' junk. Some quick research shows a bull has about a three-foot penis (one-inch in diameter). I don't have the exact measurements of a male giraffe's penis, but a picture provided in the comments of the last post indicate the giraffe ain't as well hung. So, thereya go? Oh, and why did I want to know?

Well, some of the places I play poker aren't necessarily frequented by gentlemen. As such, I actually heard the phrase, "Tighter than a giraffe's pussy" at a game last week. That spawned a long discussion about the relative tightness and, eventually, how it compared to a cow. I argued that despite the relative height, that a giraffe would have a smaller vagina. So, thereyago.

Massage #2: I love the theme songs from 1970s and 1980s TV. These days, people don't write many show-opens or show-closers that are worth much. Jerry Bruckheimer users music to open a lot of his shows, but he is such a big fan of The Who that we don't get any original material. Think back to the 1970s and 1980s and you'll remember a ton of good theme songs. From "Cheers" to "Moonlighting" to "Barney Miller," the music was about as good as you could want for the era.

I have long argued that the two best theme songs ever on television actually came from the same TV show. Which was that? Well, "WKRP" of course. Now, everybody knows the opening song. The outro is the lesser-appreciated tune. I spent years trying to figure out the lyrics. As it turns out, according to IMDB, while there is singing in the song, there are no lyrics. Apparently the exit song was the work of a bunch of studio musicians in Atlanta. While recording, they needed a vocal track to help them keep time with the music. So, somebody recorded a bunch of gibberish (which I'm sure contains the word "bartender" at least twice), and laid it down. When the producers heard the tune with the gibberish vocal track, they said, "We'll take it!" And that was that. What I'd really like to know is where those studio musicians ended up and whether they ever recorded anything else I like.

Massage #3: As you might have read elsewhere, my wife's car was burgled over the weekend. Lost in the crime was one of my most prized technological possessions: my Bose QC3s. At first I was like, "Ah, well. Them's the breaks." However, upon further thought, the Bose QC3s completed my technological circle. Without them I feel empty and leaking. And that makes me sad.

And that's all, except for a picture of the resident therapy mutt--a great thinker on the subject unconditional love, provided that unconditionality doesn't involve a fight for food or the new neighbors' dog.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music, Parenting, TV

Midway through the show, I decided I wanted to write a review of the Bottle Rockets' gig in Greenville, South Carolina. Otis Gibbs, the guy who opened, blew me away and I thought I owed them all a few words from the heart.

Alas, my wife, within five seconds of getting home, hit her blog and wrote...well, pretty much everything I was going to. Scooped again.

So, if you're a fan of the Bottle Rockets or are looking for a new guy to give a listen, check out the wife's post: Going Back In Time.

Labels: Music

A friend of mine e-mailed a few days back to question the deafening silence around my corner of the internet. In fact, a few of you have started posing questions and they are all really fair. I just can't answer them right now, because I'm stuck on a question that has to be answered really soon and I have no idea what the answer is going to be. I promise, when the time is right, I'll tell you all about it. For now, suffice it to say that I'm back from LEAF and it was a much-needed and wonderful experience.

My friend, T, took the picture below on one of the mornings we spent next to the lake. It's one of my favorites he's taken in years.



Before I drop into my decision box for a few days, I have to recount one moment from LEAF that is going to stick with me for a while.

We weren't sure if we really wanted to hike around the lake to see Richie Havens. If you'd asked me on Wednesday, I might have said Havens was part of another era, worn out, and likely could not speak to 2006 America. Woodstock was nearly 40 years ago you know?

Something, and I'm still not sure what, moved me off my ass. I grabbed the wife and followed a couple of friends around the lake to the main stage. The crowd was packed under the tent and forced us to stand on the periphery. My wife is non-tall and struggled to see what I could see on stage. Havens looked old, as I expected, but the sound was pure and verging on something spiritual. I realized immediately that I was enjoying myself. My thoughts drifted from my main source anxiety to nothing as I listened to Havens' jam. For a while, he was alone on stage. His voice was stronger than most 25 year-olds, despite the fact he'll turn 66 in a few months. John Lennon once said that Havens played, "a pretty funky guitar," and even in the cold, dusk air of Black Mountain, North Carolina, Havens fingers moved so effortlessly over the frets that I alternated between awe and envy.

When Havens slipped into a cover of CSN Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock," none of us immiedately recognized it. It was slow in the beginning and it took most of us until this part to figure out what he was singing...

We are stardust,
we are golden
We are ten billion year old carbon
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden

By now, another guitarist and a cellist had joined Havens on stage and moved into a driving jam that needed no drums. Hell, it didn't even need electricity. By the middle of it, we were all so stunned by what we were hearing, we were on the verge of tears. When it was over, the crowd called Havens encore. It turned out to be a semi-acapella version of Pink Floyd's "On the Turning Away." This part hung in the air when he sang it:

On the wings of the night as the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite in a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange, mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change on the wings of the night

On the way back to camp, we all agreed that we had seen something sort of special. I admitted I didn't think Havens could speak to 2006 and admitted that he proved me wrong. Somehow, a man who was born before my father, who came to importance 40 years ago, who sang a Pink Floyd song that was actually on an album from 1987 (after Roger Waters left the band), touched an Appalachian crowd in 2006.

Around the campfire, I was curiously quiet for an hour or so before asking a few friends, "How long do you think it took America to realize that Woodstock was going to be a cultural phenomenon? Do you think it was immediate or took a while?"

My friend Beth spoke up. "I think they knew immediately."

Everybody nodded their heads and continued to nod when I off-handedly talked about how something like that couldn't be manufactured, that it just had to happen.

Richie Havens opened Woodstock with his song "Motherless Child," with the word "Freedom" repeated many times through the song's drive.

Everyone was still nodding about the inability to force cultural change through manufactured symbols. Everyone was still nodding when someone said, "They just have to happen.

And nobody stopped nodding when someone else said, "Maybe it's time."

Labels: Music

It's pre-autumn in South Carolina. At 4am on my back porch, it's 52 degrees and a breeze makes it feel even a little more chilly. Ten hours ago, I put the kid in our high-tech stroller (outfitted with an iPod hookup and pumpable tires) and took a walk up to the neighborhood park. On the walk home, I turned on Acoustic Syndicate and soaked in the blue sky that revealed itself yesterday.

My wife was beautiful today, sore from exercise, worn out from insomnia and a kid that almost lost part of a finger this week, and radiating a sweetness that only a husband can truly appreciate. As we navigated our way back to the homestead, I smiled at a family playing frisbee and sung along with Steve "Big Daddy" McMurry as he sang "Punkin' and Daisy." My wife endured it and smiled when I got silly about the blueness of the sky, my adoration for the kid in the stroller, the desire for a wife on the walk, and patience with the dog that was not nearly as dainty as she needed to be in front of the neighbors.

As we walked, we mused about a life that was 75 degrees every day.

"I really could do without winter," I said.

"I thought you said you wouldn't live anywhere that didn't have four seasons," the wife poked.

She was right. I'd said it before and I meant it. I can't appreciate days like today unless I live through the winters and suffer through the summers. It's the days in April, September, and October that make me believe in something that matters. It may not be the God that everyone else knows, but it's something that makes me want to live and not be afraid of dying.

I can't control the blueness of the sky. I can't control the speed of the breeze. I can't control myself. What I do, what I believe, what I appreciate are all things I don't even recognize until they are so deep-set that they are part of me.

I remember sitting at the Handlebar (the best local joint for live music) a few years ago and feeling tears come to my eyes as I listened to Julie Murphy Wells sing "Oh, My Brother." She fronts--if anyone really fronts--Eddie from Ohio. This is a band that most people just don't get until they see them live. New folk is something that the big city folks just don't understand. It's like indie music for the Appalachian set. It's harmony and soul and pure marrow. It just doesn't play in the city. It's something that you just wouldn't get if you live in L.A. or NYC. Regardless, Julie made me cry that night. I was sober and clear-headed. That night, there was something about Julie's voice that made me realize why some people cry when they see a perfect piece of art.

There are so few perfect things within reach of my understanding. I write a lot and a I read a lot. It's rare that something hits me in a place that makes me react involuntarily. Julie was not the first, but she's the one that defines it. She's the type of woman I'd never try to pick up in a club, but would've married in a second if I had been a single man, and she a single woman. Julie makes me cry.

And, so, Big Daddy. The man has a distictive voice that just doesn't translate to popular music. Big Daddy is the only guy who can scream into a microphone and make me love him. As this night turned into early morning, I spent an hour talking to a guy who had spent a year of his life in Iraq, driving over dead bodies and trying to come to grips with the reality of being a guy who believed in his country, but couldn't quite accept the cause his country supplied for war. A blog post that began as an homage to the seasons and their musical equivalent has become, again, something I can't quite define.

A little more than a year ago (and maybe more) Acoustic Syndicate broke up and left me without a "local" band to really appreicate. Tonight, I spent an hour trying to track down the voice that makes me happy. I miss his voice. I miss a male voice that touches me a place that no one else can touch.

Big Daddy is somewhere else now and I miss him. I'm now in search of something else. I'm as happy as I have ever been, but I want to find something that hits me in that place I can't define. It's not a desperate or sad search, but it's something that I really need.

Labels: Music