#anyway. *plays the same three tunes on the mandolin again*

[technofinch]

literally cruel and inhumane that u have to actually spend time to learn & practice instruments instead of just picking them up and immediately being able to play them perfectly

#the banjo sitting across the room is judging me #and the violin is locked in a case upstairs like a heart under the floorboards :/ #anyway. *plays the same three tunes on the mandolin again*

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

The Ballad of Spike & Jerry: Bob Dylan & Jerry Garcia, 1980-1995 / Dylan & The Dead: 2003

A very special treat for you today — the estimable Jesse Jarnow has gone long on the tangled tale of Bob Dylan and the Grateful Dead, and put together two essential comps for your listening pleasure, with great art by John Hilgart. Before we get started, you should know that Jesse has a new book coming out soon: Wasn’t That a Time: The Weavers, the Blacklist, and the Battle for the American Soul, scheduled for publication by Da Capo on Election Day, 2018. He’s also just started a podcast — Alternate Routes, featuring “independent music not found on major streaming services, all tracks approved by artists.” And of course, you can still catch his Frow Show, weekly on WFMU. OK, I think that covers it — take it away, Jesse! 

The Ballad of Spike & Jerry: The Frequently Secret & Always Misbegotten Adventures of Bob Dylan & the Grateful Dead, 1971-2003 by Jesse Jarnow

You might love Dylan. You might even love the Dead. But that says nothing about how you might feel about Dylan & the Dead, the 1989 live album documenting the 1987 tour where Jerry & co. backed Bob. I’m pretty sure I’ve spent more hours listening to Bob Dylan and the Grateful Dead than any other two artists combined, and I’m quite sure I don’t dig Dylan & the Dead. Perhaps presumptuously (but I’d bet accurately!), I assume the vast majority of Dylan and Dead freaks I know feel the same way.

So, as Doom & Gloom From the Tomb rolls through the Never-Ending Tour, which started the year after Dylan’s ’87 tour with the Dead, I was inspired to dig into the moment where it intersected with the equally endless Summer of Dead, which has trucked on now for more than two decades since Jerry Garcia’s 1995 death. Specifically, I wanted to hear the appearances Dylan made with the post-Garcia configuration calling themselves “The Dead” in the summer of 2003, playing 18 different songs during eight performances. And so I did, and enjoyed it quite a bit, the two acts’ idiosyncratic tendencies lining up more sympathetically and far more enjoyably than the 1987 onstage train wreckage.

But, of course, there was the missing void of Jerry Garcia, and it seemed silly to stop there. What I wanted--what I want--is Jerry and Dylan. And there’s actually a fair body of that, over 14 hours worth. Inside that, I went a-questing for at least a single disc’s worth of highlights, of performances that I actually want to listen to and could maybe internalize in the same way that I do with my favorite recordings from either. Listening back to what I put aside, I think what I wanted were tracks where neither side overpowered the other, where Dylan doesn’t shout, and where the Dead quit rolling their thunder. I’m sure the expanded Bootleg Series version of Blood on the Tracks will be plenty bloody, but these might be Dylan’s bloodiest tracks of all.

There’s also the plot point that Dylan has repeatedly credited his collaboration with the Dead for turning around his own career, leading directly to his critical and commercial reemergence a decade later. And I also wanted to piece together the story, which--as it turns out--goes back nearly a full decade before the first Bob Dylan and Jerry Garcia played together onstage.

1. Reckoning with Dylan & the Dead

Dylan & the Dead is one of the bigger missed opportunities in rock history, but the even bigger missed opportunity probably came about 15 years earlier, when the Dead were at their peak as a nimble Americana/jazz quintet, and Dylan was simultaneously retired and in the process of becoming something of a Deadhead.

The first inklings that Dylan might be gettin’ heady came in spring 1971, when Rolling Stone reported him hanging out by the Fillmore East soundboard during the Dead’s five-night run that April. “Fuck, they’re damned good,” the Stone reported him saying after watching the band jam with the Beach Boys. According to Levon Helm’s autobiography, on New Year’s Eve that year, when Dylan showed up to play with The Band at New York’s Academy of Music, he told the drummer that, “I’m thinking of touring with the Dead.” “Dylan Stalks the Dead,” the Village Voice reported on Dylan’s presence at Jersey City’s Roosevelt Stadium for one of the Dead’s summer ’72 shows, but nothing materialized. Jerry Garcia was elusive when asked about their chillage.

Jerry Garcia was a serious grade Dylan freak, which maybe seems obvious, but it wasn’t ever thus. In fact, Garcia was one of those purists who thought Dylan’s new directions in folk music were impure and walked out on one of Dylan’s legendary folk festival sets in disgust. For Garcia, though, it was the Monterey Folk Festival in May of 1963. By the time Dylan plugged in two years later, Garcia was likewise in the process of going electric, and was totally on board. When Dylan returned to the road in ’74, Garcia caught him with the Band in Oakland and, according to Rolling Stone, headed down to LA to see him again at the Forum a few days later, only to discover that some enterprising beardo had shown up at the box office, claimed to be Jerry, and ganked his ticket.

In the intervening years, Bob Dylan and Jerry Garcia continued to circle one another, traces of their developing friendship emerging in the marginalia of rock history. Grateful Dead Records employee Steve Brown told me (when I interviewed him for my book, Heads) about how he and Garcia scored an invitation to a mixdown session for Planet Waves, after Dead crew chief Ramrod befriended some roadies for the Band at their joint gigs. They saw them working on “Going, Going, Gone,” Steve notes, which went almost directly into Garcia’s solo sets. Sometime later that year, it seems, Dylan looked up David Grisman and arrived in Stinson Beach for mandolin lessons, and--at some point--made his way up the hill for a jam session with Garcia at San Souci, cookies by Mountain Girl.

But it wasn’t until 1980 that Bob Dylan and Jerry Garcia showed up on a stage together and, by then, things had changed. Bob Dylan had been born again. Jerry Garcia was sliding into a deep heroin addiction. Like star-crossed lovers, the pair continued to cross paths for the next 15 years, playing together from time to time--most notably during Dylan’s six show run with the Dead in the summer of ’87--but never achieved the sustained burst of magic that one might hope for from the two. Bummer.

I’ve revisited their first pairing a few times over the years, a 1980 show during Dylan’s 14-show stand at San Francisco’s Warfield Theater, beginning only a few weeks after the Dead had finished their own 15-night run that would end up, in part, as the great acoustic album Reckoning. Dylan, though, was on his second pass through the Bay Area with his expanding repertoire of born again Christian songs. The previous year, he’d performed only his gospel music.

By 1980, for the first time in Dylan’s performing career, though, shows weren’t selling out. A few of his old favorites soon returned to the setlists, and promoter Bill Graham started to tap into his phonebook for guests that might spice up the proceedings and sell more tickets, which would come to include Carlos Santana, Roger McGuinn, Maria Muldaur, and Dylan’s final performance with Highway 61 Revisited guitar hero Mike Bloomfield. And Jerry.

The first song they played together, “To Ramona,” is fairly magic. Garcia takes over for the solo, shifting into a mode that’s perfect Jerry, simultaneously fully in charge, but finding voicings and turns that also push the song open, making it sound like a limitless conversation -- for 85 seconds or so, anyway. After that, though, Garcia’s contributions are bit more nebulous. Setlists differ about when he was actually onstage, and the recording is of mixed help, his guitar sometimes sinking into the murk, sometimes punctuating thoughts, but never with the confidence of “To Ramona.”

A few months later, Garcia spoke to David Gans about the performance. “I was surprised that the tunes were as difficult as they were,” he commented. “A lot of the tunes that he writes are deceptively simple-sounding, when in reality they’re not. There was really only maybe two or three of the five or six that I played on that I wasn’t doing anything besides trying to learn the tune.”

Little Feat guitarist Fred Tackett, then serving in Dylan’s band, assessed it similarly to Clinton Heylin, if more harshly (and not fully accurately): “Carlos played a song--thank you and left. Mike Bloomfield came out, played ‘Like A Rolling Stone’--thank you--left. Jerry Garcia came out, played and stayed. The whole two-hour show. [Not quuuite --ed.] He didn’t know any of the songs and he was higher than a kite... We finished the show and Bob said, ‘I’m never going to have anybody sit in with us again.’” (Roger McGuinn and Maria Muldaur would sit in over the next few nights.)

Their semi-public paths converged again in 1986. Garcia checked out a Dylan show at the Greek, hung with Bob backstage, planted the seed for the next summer’s tour, and offered some song-by-song notes. Another story from around that era has Dylan showing up at an Oakland Dead show with his Greenwich Village-era roommate, Wavy Gravy, and going unrecognized until he slipped his sunglasses on.

Finally, when the Dead shared a few stadium bills with Dylan (backed by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for his own summer tour), Dylan showed up onstage with the Dead in Akron and Washington, DC.

But ye Gods I don’t recommend listening. Only a week later, Jerry Garcia would fall into a diabetic coma and nearly die. He sounds better here than I would’ve suspected, but there is no clickage happening whatsoever between Dylan and the Dead during either of these performances as Dylan tries and often fails to duet with Garcia and Bob Weir on his own songs.

Even still, Dylan arrived at the Dead’s Club Front studio warehouse in the San Rafael industrial zone in January 1987 and jammed with the Dead, landing (according to Dennis McNally) in a version of the Beatles’ “Nowhere Man” that thrilled both parties. Dylan proposed a tour together, and showed up in June for three weeks of rehearsals.

Dylan’s entrance into the Dead’s world was typically absurd and would get no less so. The band’s infamously cliquish road thugs immediately signaled that Dylan was on their turf, deciding that--since the Dead already had one “Bob,” and two if you count Hunter--that they would need to find a new name for Dylan. They settled on “Spike,” and would only address Dylan as such.

Dead roadie Steve Parish remembered Dylan as private, “content to write songs, play guitar, and smoke a little pot,” and enjoyed the surreality of being assigned to hang as Dylan crashed on the Front Street couch, inherited from Parish’s parents, where little Big Steve had once sat and argued that Dylan was the voice of his generation.

While a banner year for the Grateful Dead, scoring their only top 10 hit, 1987 was a terrible year for Bob Dylan. Later, he would tell Newsweek that he was going through a complete musical freak-out, suffering onstage panic attacks, “I-- I can’t remember what it means, does it mean -- is it just a bunch of words? Maybe it’s like what all these people say, just a bunch of surrealistic nonsense...” As Paul Williams points out in his wonderful chapter on the 1987 collaboration, this amnesia is audible throughout Dylan’s performances with the Dead during this period, both onstage and off. Perhaps the most sympathetic Dylan listener the world has ever known, Williams’s Dylan/Dead assessment comes in the third (and sadly final) volume of his Performing Artist series, 1986-1990 & beyond, Mind Out of Time, and I don’t totally agree with it.

In Chronicles, a book to which perhaps shouldn’t always be taken literally, Dylan’s freak-out continued palpably as he arrived at Front Street and discovered the band wanted to dive far back into Dylan’s songbook. “I could hear the brakes screech,” Dylan wrote in his 2004 account. “If I had known this to begin with, I might not have taken the dates. I had no feeling for any of those songs and didn’t know how I could sing them with any intent... I felt like a goon and didn’t want to stick around.”

And here Dylan slips into what sounds more like a parable than an actual story, describing how he escaped to a seedy bar somewhere nearby, not intending to go back, ordered a gin and tonic, turned around to watch the jazz combo onstage, and was struck dumb with musical revelation. “All of a sudden, I understood something faster than I ever did before,” Dylan wrote, and spends time in Chronicles explaining how this sudden download would cause him to rethink his career and approach to performing. He returned to Front Street a new man and had a blast. “Maybe [the Dead] dropped something in my drink, I can’t say, but anything they wanted to do was fine with me. I had that old jazz singer to thank.”

In 1997, Dylan would tell a more believable and practical version of what he gained from the rehearsal sessions. “[Garcia would] say, ‘Come on, man, you know, this is the way it goes, let’s play it, it goes like this,’” Dylan described. “And I’d say, ‘Man, he’s right, you know? How’s he getting there and I can’t get there?’ I had to go through a lot of red tape in my mind to get back there.”

The five hours of music circulating from these sessions at the Dead’s Club Front rehearsal space represent the Basement Tapes of the Dylan/Dead continuum, filled with delights, strange covers, experiments, shop talk, almost four dozen different songs, and a few performances that are, to my ears, just wonderful. I don’t think Dylan’s revelation is necessarily audible here, and I tend to imagine the real story being a bit more prosaic, closer to the second version, as the tape record bears out, but I find almost all of the rehearsal recordings to be enjoyable on some level.

My personal keeper takes come almost entirely on songs that neither act is known for, played in a far quieter manner than either had demonstrated onstage in those years. (Dylan had spent time a earlier that spring working with former Sex Pistols guitarist Steve Jones.) I’m especially taken with the songs where Garcia plays pedal steel and banjo. With Jerry on the banjo, they turn out some primo folk revival sunshine by way of “John Hardy” (as performed by the Carter Family on the Anthology of American Folk Music) and the jug band standard “Stealin’” (part of the Dead’s early electric repertoire and revisited by Garcia with his pal David Grisman a few years later). With Garcia sitting down at pedal steel for the first known time since 1972, they would play beautiful versions of 1967’s “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” and the half-lost 1962 gem “Tomorrow Is A Long Time,” both delivered with far more intimacy than the onstage versions performed over the summer, even if Dylan seems to remember almost none of the words. Paul Williams hates this version of “Tomorrow Is A Long Time,” and it’s true that Dylan doesn’t remember, really, any of the words and invents a few new phrases on the spot. Williams attributes it to the amnesia, but there’s a softness and spirit in Dylan’s voice I don’t hear many other places. It reminds me more of how--during the Basement sessions--he would sing songs he hadn’t yet finished, grappling for words, and sometimes not make full sense, but still capture some kind of feeling.

There’s raucousness, too. “Nowhere Man” doesn’t show up, but I was also grabbed especially by solid take on the communal favorite Buddy Holly’s “Oh Boy,” a sweet and casual “Watching the River Flow,” and a deliciously Basement-y romp through Paul Simon’s “Boy in the Bubble.” The lead song from Simon’s recent mega-comeback Graceland, it’s a gas to hear Jerry, Bob, and Spike try to remember the words, a song they’ve all clearly spent time with. Plus-one to Garcia for remembering the third verse and alternate chorus about “lasers in the jungle” and powering through even when the Bob section doesn’t recall it.

I wish there was more ethereal music like “Under Your Spell,” the Dead exhibiting surprising comfort with Knocked Out Loaded’s closing song, released the previous year and never played live, which Dylan seems to deliver with an entirely different set of lyrics. They almost hit that spot again doing Ian & Sylvia’s “The French Girl,” which Dylan and the Hawks had played in the Basement era, too, here with Garcia on pedal steel. The music stays nicely moody -- at least until the drummers figure out how to drum it up. Somewhere between the ethereal and the raucous is a take on the Rolling Stones’ 1965 song, “I’m Free,” with the Bobs joining on the chorus.

“You really have to pay attention to him to avoid making mistakes,” Garcia said after the rehearsals, “insofar as he’s doing what he’s doing and everybody else is trying to play the song. If you don’t do what he’s doing, you’re doing something wrong. In that sense, he de facto becomes the leader of the band... I don’t know whether two weeks with us is going to be able to change twenty years of that kind of conditioning.”

“By the end, I had a notebook filled with chord sequences, form diagrams, and lyric cues,” Phil Lesh remembered the sessions in his memoir. It “also confirmed that, hey, this guy’s at least as weird as any of us.” To that end, Spike also fell in love a pink Modulus guitar, later seen on stage in the company of Bob Weir. “This one’s really the right color, isn’t it?” Spike remarked.

It was during these sessions, too, that video director Len Dell’Amico got to screen the first cut of the “Touch of Grey” video during the sessions, and remembers that Dylan and Garcia’s relationship seemed to run deeper than it might’ve seemed. “I got the sense from Jerry that the two of them had a closer relationship than has been revealed by either one,” Dell’Amico recalls. “Because once I got him talking, it was clear they had talked on the phone a lot and they had spent time together in New York when [the Dead] played in New York. Bob had even given him a tour of New York City in his van. I think that was somewhere between ’78 and the Christian tour in 1980.”

Whatever Dylan and Garcia’s connection, and whatever transformation he may’ve undergone at a seedy San Rafael bar, when they got onstage, it was more or less chaos. For starters, Dylan was right back to shouting again and, yeesh Spike, chill out, in addition to setlist chaos. “That seemed like poetic justice for a band that took pride in its flexibility and in not using a setlist,” Lesh would say.

The resultant tour album is so harsh that it scared me off the rest of the tour and, as I dip back into it, it’s not unrepresentative, and that reaction wasn’t unwarranted. But there are also a few takes from the tour that I do actually like. On the “Ballad of a Thin Man,” during the first chorus, Dylan approaches something like the lovely voice he’d find again in the ‘90s, and lays into it, finding a harmony for the verse melody, and suddenly he’s stopped shouting and is singing.

On Sonicnoizelove’s mix of tour highlights, I found two versions that are right for me, both songs that I virtually never need to hear anybody sing ever. I recognize myself as being in the minority, but I’ve always loved Dylan’s versions of “All Along the Watchtower” above all others, but what pulls me in here is Garcia’s utterly over-the-top power shredding, totally ‘80s, but also pure Garcia, like the photo-inverse of the delicate colors he’d added on “To Ramona” the first time he’d joined Dylan. Sung by pretty much anybody, “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” has almost always sounded like “Kumbuyah” to me. But the Dead (whose versions of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” is likewise one I don’t often need to hear) fuckin’ nail it here, perfectly ragged, perfectly graceful. I think it’s ‘cuz Garcia’s leading the oooohs, and Dylan almost accidentally slides back into his purdy style of singing.

But of the six shows, those are the only three performances I really wanna hang out with more. For Dylan-heads, the sets included some big bust-outs, including the first ever live versions of “Queen Jane Approximately” and the first versions of the unreleased “John Brown” since the early ‘60s. Garcia apparently had his own favorites, which he assembled for the proposed live album -- and which were rejected by Dylan, recompiled by Sonicnoizelove on the Albums That Never Were blog. “What am I going to do, pop him one?” Garcia apparently shrugged. Unusually, given how I often I tend to agree with Garcia’s tastes, none of his picks resonated with me, either.

The real importance of the Grateful Dead on Bob Dylan would only become clear after the tour. Through the ‘80s, including his tour with the Dead, Dylan’s live setlists had barely varied. As Paul Williams pointed out, in Dylan’s first two shows of the fall, back with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, that changed, only repeating four songs on the second night of the tour, adding 13 more to the setlist.

Around the time of the ’87 shows, too, he set music to a pair of unrecorded Robert Hunter lyrics, “Silvio” and “The Ugliest Girl in the World,” both included for 1988’s Down in the Groove. “Silvio” featured Garcia, Weir, and Brent Mydland on backing vocals and became the album’s only single. Played nearly every night during large vital stretches of the Never-Ending Tour(s), I think “Silvio” is one of the songs that helped Dylan find his voice again, and even the down-on-his-heels character that would occupy 1997’s Time Out of Mind and 2001’s “Love & Theft.” Paul Williams thinks the song might be about Dylan himself.

By 1989, Dylan’s Deadheaddom had turned to something of an obsession. That February, he arrived at the LA Forum, inviting himself to sit-in and demanding to play “Dire Wolf.” (Perhaps he was inspired by the two nights Neil Young invited himself to play with Bob the previous year.) Dylan joined the band for the first half of the second set, but--for the most part--only played guitar. When they got to “Stuck Inside of Mobile,” the other Bob took the mic, Spike only stepping in when Weir forgot the words.

The next day, Dylan personally called the Dead’s office and asked if he could join the band, like, as a member. They had to have a vote, and it had to be unanimous. Perhaps obviously, it wasn’t. (Phil Lesh has been cited as the likely dissenter.)

Dylan himself became even more of a Deadhead after his tour with them.  The Dead influence on his live shows is undeniable. In the early ‘90s, he began to integrate Garcia/Hunter covers into his live sets, including “Friend of the Devil,” “West L.A. Fadeaway,” “Alabama Getaway,” and “Black Muddy River.” A friend of mine has posited a theory about the first half of a particular Dylan show in the fall of ’92 being a shout-out to Garcia, with the first 7 songs being a combination of Dead tunes (“West L.A. Fadeaway”), Dylan tunes Jerry and/or the Dead covered (“Positively 4th Street”), and material they shared (“Peggy-O”). And even if it wasn’t intentional, the math says a lot.

Garcia sat in with Dylan a few more times, too, one in ’92 at the Warfield (a misfired but still enjoyable “Idiot Wind”) and ’95 at R.F.K. Stadium, on Garcia’s final tour (“Train to Cry” is especially the right pace, “Rainy Day Women” has a crashing little jam-off). It’s sadly fitting that Garcia and Dylan’s friendship was only seeming to deepen during these years, ending with yet another heartbreaking missed opportunity: a proposed fall ’95 acoustic duo tour, which both had orally agreed to, according to Dennis McNally’s bio. It was Dylan, too, that provoked what proved to be Garcia’s last studio session in July of 1995, Garcia gathering himself for a cover of Jimmie Rodgers’ “Blue Yodel #9” with David Grisman and pals for a tribute album Dylan put out on his own infrequently invoked Egyptian imprint.

“There’s no way to measure his greatness or magnitude as a person or as a player,” Dylan said in a statement a month later, following Garcia’s death at the age of 53. “I don’t think eulogizing will do him justice.” It remains one of the most articulate and beautiful pieces of writing about Jerry Garcia. “To me he wasn’t only a musician and friend,” it reads in part, “he was more like a big brother who taught and showed me more than he’ll ever know. There are a lot of spaces and advances between the Carter family, Buddy Holly and, say, Ornette Coleman, a lot of universes, but he filled them all without being a member of any school. His playing was moody, awesome, sophisticated, hypnotic and subtle. There’s no way to convey the loss.”

Dylan stayed with Hunter while visiting for the funeral, the two great lyricists supposedly starting to write songs together, a thread the two would officially pick up on Dylan’s 2009 album Together Through Life, where the two are credited as songwriters on all but two of the album’s songs. Whatever connection Garcia and Dylan shared, it was one that Dylan has continued to carry with him at a deep level. The year after Garcia’s death, he drafted former Jerry Garcia Band drummer David Kemper into his own band, who played with Spike for a half-decade in my personal favorite iteration of the Never-Ending Band. As Dylan entered his pastiche period, Dylan scholar Scott Warmuth has posited that “Love & Theft”’s opening “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum” is an answer song to “Uncle John’s Band” by way of a 1961 single called “Uncle John’s Bongos.” Really!

I haven’t seen much evidence of the Dead’s influence since Dylan shifted into his later career mode of covering pop standards. His setlists have ossified again, too. But it’s hard not to be influenced by Jerry, and, in the equally never-ending hunt for Dylan’s sources, I’m sure Garcia’s bemused beardo grin will show up somewhere.

2. Reckoning with Dylan & “the Dead”

As post-Garcia incarnations of former Grateful Dead members go, the 2003 squad called “the Dead” was one of my favorites. I only caught one show, but there were long jams, weird drumz and spaces, new songs, and no blues yodelers in sight. Looking back, it was the only year where Jimmy Herring acted as sole lead guitarist. I thought it was great.

But, even more, the early 2000s remain one of my favorite periods in the Never-Ending timeline, before Bob Dylan shifted over to keyboards full-time. His mode of improvising new melodies on the fly can be harsh and shouty, and there’s no better example of that than Dylan & the Dead. But, for nearly a decade of the Never-Ending Tour of tapes, I find his inventions to often be gorgeous, especially when he employs a soft and sweet lilt that I simply can’t hear as any derivative of “harsh.” (Check out the “Desolation Row,” especially on the recent Doom & Gloom NET Choice Cuts, vol. 1 mix.)

Spike didn’t join the band for any big jams (though Willie Nelson joined for a 10-minute version of Miles Davis’s “Milestones” that summer), wouldn’t allow his sit-ins to be included in the soundboard CDs sold after after show (again, big ups to Willie), and didn’t exactly sing in that soft, sweet Never-Ending voice (give or take the vitriolic “Ballad of a Thin Man,” ironically). But, listening to it as a compiled disc, they do jump into a great and convincing range of material. They do Garcia favorites (“Señor,” “Tangled Up in Blue”), shared standards they’d tried at the ’87 rehearsals (“You Win Again,” “Oh Boy”), Garcia/Hunter tunes Dylan loved (“Alabama Getaway,” “Friend of the Devil,” “West L.A. Fadeaway”), and more. It’s all a blast to my ears.

In many places, Bob Dylan does something totally remarkable by his standards: he sings songs such that, if a listener knows the words and wanted to, they could sing along. He doesn’t do it every time, certainly, but riding through “Alabama Getaway” on July 29th, Dylan does so with authority, a growling frontman. (Of course, the other two takes are wildly different.) “Subterranean Homesick Blues” didn’t make its live debut well into the scrambled ‘80s, but here sounds shockingly close to the 1965 Bringing It All Back Home version, give or take the Berklee-trained shredder Jimmy Herring in place of Bruce Langhorne, which is hilarious in its own way.

On “Goin’ Down the Road Feelin’ Bad,” he takes Garcia’s lead vocal with Joan Osborne matching him gamely, and on “Oh Boy,” the Bob section links up successfully. Sometimes it’s a little clunky, like when the Bobs trades verses on “Around & Around” -- never a Dead cover I particularly cared for, though I like Spike’s contributions a good deal. Occasionally, we get hints of what Dylan might be like as a jamming contributor to the Dead, had they taken him up on his 1989 request to join the band, in which he proves himself to be perhaps a more beguiling lead/rhythm hybrid than even Bob Weir, adding clonking piano interjections to “Thin Man” and “Gotta Serve Somebody.”

While perhaps not one of the great collaborations in the history of rock, Dylan and the 2003 Dead managed to achieve what they’d never done before, and--for once--didn’t miss their opportunity. Opening seven shows, Dylan sat in with the band at all of them. The musicians sound competent, the songs are usually recognizable from their first notes, and the music remains enjoyable in recorded form. If achieving competency doesn’t seem like a remarkable achievement, I suspect you might not be a fan of later period Grateful Dead or Bob Dylan, in which case I’m pleased you, dear reader, made it past the first sentence, let alone to the last.

Wall of Sound-sized #deadfreaksunite thanx to Tyler, John Hilgart, Sean Howe, James Adams, Joe Jupille, & Scott Warmuth for pointers / assistance / encouragement.

#bob dylan #The Grateful Dead #Jerry Garcia #jesse jarnow #the neverending tour

[earleofsteve]

"Hey Dumbo" story, update #2. Written by Steve Jacobs, on October 7, 2002.

Hand me down my walking cane, hand me down my walking cane, hand me down my walking cane I’m gonna leave on the morning train my sins they have over taken me. Where are those words from? They’re from a song that was written before I was born. A man I know named Virgil sang that song for me in Winfield, Kansas. Who is Virgil? Virgil is a nice old man and a heck of a guitar player and a storyteller. How old is Virgil? I don’t know. Does it matter? I don’t think so. He’s older than me that’s all I know. How old am I? I’m not going to tell you just yet. It’s kind of like this little story this nice man named Harold brought to bible study the other night. You had to guess the age of a woman from the facts presented in the story. We’ll do something similar here. I’ll give you some facts along the way and you tell me who I am at the end of the story. Here’s my story. I hope you like it.

Why am I telling this story? One reason is I’d like for people to understand me better. My family understands me on some levels, my friends on other levels, but in general I think I’m somewhat of a mystery to most people. The main reason for that is I’m pretty quiet so people have a hard time figuring me out. A second reason for telling this story is to help make sense out of the things that have been happening to me over the last couple of years. Hopefully by telling my story people will get a better sense of who I am and at the same time I’ll gain a better understanding of myself . I tried telling this story to a woman I met a couple of years ago and it didn't come out the way I intended it to. I actually tried to tell it to a lot of people including my family but no one seemed to want to listen. I've always been a better writer than a speaker so I’m going to try to tell this story one more time and hopefully this time I’ll get it right. I think the best place to start my story is in the summer of 2000. Here’s my story. I hope you like it.

In July of 2000 my nephew Scott and I traveled to a music festival called the Dulcimer Funfest in Evart, MI. I was first introduced to that festival when my cousin Dawn and I went there with my grandfather in 1992 and then again in 1993. My grandfather died in October of 1993 and I hadn't been back to Evart since that time. I was glad to have my nephew Scott along this time and expose him to some of the traditional string type music my grandfather loved so much. I had recently bought this mini-disc recorder and heard some music I really liked coming from the people camped next to us. So I brought my recorder over and started recording them play and sing. One lady in particular was kind of curious about my recorder and began talking to me. She took a liking to me and told me later that I reminded her of her grandson.

I had brought along a dulcimer, two guitars, and a mandolin and Scott and I would play music by our camper, walk around, attend workshops, or just listen. And every time the group camped next to us would play I’d bring my little recorder over and tape them. I just loved their playing and singing. One day the nice lady that asked me about my recorder introduced me to her husband and I found out that their names were Al and Millie. What a coincidence I told them. My grandparents were named Al and Millie too. The strange thing was that even their personalities were similar to my grandparents. Millie was very outgoing and talkative while Al was a little more reserved.

One day I was playing the guitar by myself outside my camper and one of the neighbors named Jim invited me to play with the group next door. I was a little shy about it at first but they made me feel welcome and before long I was having the time of my life. They were all excellent musicians, really nice people, and fun to play with. I was so pumped up by the experience I could hardly sleep that night and got up around 5:00 the next morning ready to do it all over again. That was really unusual for me because I am not an early riser. For the rest of the week I played with the group next door every chance I could get. I couldn't get enough of it and was sad to see the week come to an end. Before we left Millie invited us to their home for Labor Day Weekend to play music with many of the people we had just met.

So I headed back home for a few weeks and when Labor Day Weekend came around I packed up my camper again and headed north to Upper Michigan which is where Al & Millie live. My nephew Scott didn’t come along with me this time. I arrived there around 11:00 at night and Millie greeted me in her bathrobe and gave me a big hug and said she was getting worried about me since I was so late. I went into their house and there were a few people playing in Millie’s loom room so I sat in there for a little bit and listened. Then I went into the kitchen and was greeted by a lot of the player’s wives. I immediately felt welcome. None of them knew me very well but they treated me like they had known me for years. I think Millie might have given me a piece of pie. She is just as warm and generous of a person as you’d ever want to meet.

Al & Millie have around 15-20 campers set up at their place for the Labor Day Weekend. The whole weekend is filled with nothing but music, friendship and laughter. Outside of my family I have never met a group of people that have treated me as nice as these people do. I've been there three times now and to me I feel like part of a family when I’m there. They have a barn where people gather and play music. They also play music in the loom room, out on the porch, or by their campers. Some local people from town come to play and to listen. They’re all fantastic musicians and I’ve learned so much by getting a chance to play with them. On Saturday night they have a big cookout and on Sunday morning they have a gospel sing and Millie and her helpers make homemade pasties. By the time Monday rolls around you can hardly get me to leave I’m having so much fun.

You might ask what kind of music they play. I try not to get too hung up on labels. I just call it good music. As far as instruments go they are all acoustic type instruments like the guitar, mandolin, fiddle, dobro, banjo, and bass. People play all hours of the day and late into the night. I usually stay up until the last tune is played. I can’t get enough of it. I’m kind of like a musical sponge, trying to soak up as much good music as I can. How it normally works is people gather in a circle of about five to ten people, sometimes more of sometimes less. Each person has a chance to play or sing a song and then you move on to the next person. The singer kind of leads the song and the group plays along. Sometimes the singer will give a nod to one of the players and they’ll take an instrumental break. I play mostly rhythm or accompaniment and try to play whatever best matches the song. I’m not really much of a lead player but that doesn't bother me. I like providing the harmony and rhythm. There are a lot of really good players there that can take the lead and it’s fun to play along with them.

I started playing the guitar about 1990 and for the most part have played alone. I got a chance to play with my grandfather a little bit before he died. Sometimes I get a chance to play with my cousins but that’s pretty rare. Mostly I’m self-taught. I sing when I play but am very shy about singing in front of other people. I sing too quietly and sometimes have a hard time hearing myself over my guitar. I've tried singing a couple of times with my cousin’s husband Chris. He has a nice voice and is a good singer so I usually let him do the singing. One time I remember being at a party trying to sing a song and someone laughed at me. I don’t like being laughed at. I’m just trying to get comfortable singing in front of other people so encourage me, please don’t laugh at me. Everybody has to start somewhere. Anyway I think I have a decent voice and sometimes at home I’ll be singing and think to myself wow that really sounded good. The sad thing is that no one was there to hear it but me. Anyway I guess I have a self-confidence problem about singing in front of other people.

So back to Al and Millie’s, Labor Day Weekend 2000. I think it was Sunday night. I had been there since Friday night and had been playing music pretty much nonstop since I got there. Whenever my turn to play or sing would come up I would always pass. I just wasn't comfortable enough to sing in front of a group of people. Anyway my turn came up again sometime late on Sunday night and they kept on encouraging me to sing a song. There was one song I had just learned that had been going through my head for the last couple of weeks. To tell the truth I couldn't get it out of my head I liked it so much. I had just heard it a couple of weeks before and when I heard the words to the song they hit me pretty hard. It made me cry the first time I heard it. I’m an emotional kind of guy and some songs just touch me somewhere deep inside. This was one of those songs. Here’s the words for you. It’s a song called “Thy Burdens are Greater than Mine.

Traveling down a lonely highway I knew not where the road would end Not a penny in my pocket All alone without a friend

In a little country village I met a man and he was blind As I helped him across the highway I cried thy burdens are greater than mine

I can see the light of day and I need not feel my way Yes thy burdens are greater than mine

Saw a lad while on his travels Trying hard to play the game Though his legs were very crippled And he could not speak his name

Still he smiled in understanding Though life to him had been unkind And as I watched I cried in sorrow Son thy burdens are greater than mine

I can speak my name aloud and make my way among the crowd Yes thy burdens are greater than mine

Just by chance I passed a graveyard Saw a young man kneeling there In his hand there were some roses On his lips there was a prayer

On a stone these words were written Your soul is God’s your memory mine And as I watched I cried in sorrow Friend thy burdens are greater than mine

Just a drifter on the road I got no friends I got no home Yes thy burdens are greater than mine Yes thy burden are greater than mine

That song was written before I was born too. Why don’t people write songs like that anymore? So I sang that song in that little barn at Al & Millie’s. It was the first time in my life except maybe a couple times with family and that one party that I sang in front of other people. I was so nervous my hands were shaking and I couldn't hold the guitar pick so I strummed the strings with my fingers. Luckily they had a microphone or they never would of heard me I sing so quietly. So I fumbled my way through the song singing the best I could for how nervous I was. All the time I was singing people were giving me words of encouragement. Come on Steve you can do it. Sounds good. Keep it up. Stuff like that. After the second verse someone asked about taking a break and I told them I was just about done. I thought they were asking me if I needed a break. I didn't realize it at the time but that person wanted to take an instrumental break. So I just went ahead and finished the song. Nobody laughed at me, told me how much I sucked. One girl there told me I had a nice voice. Somebody else told me it sounded good I just needed to sing louder. The point I want to make is those people built me up, they didn't try to tear me down. They encouraged me like I have never been encouraged before.

Shortly thereafter the music wound down for the night and I went back to my camper. I was filled with a sense of joy and elation like I had never felt before in my life. A few people passed by my camper and wished me good night. I was on top of the world and wished I could go through the rest of my life feeling as happy as I did then. I put my guitar away and crawled into my sleeping bag for the night. As I lay there and reflected on the evening I felt very happy inside with one exception. It seemed like everyone gathered there had a husband or a wife except for me. I felt lonely and wished I had someone special in my life to share this experience with. So I said a prayer that night to God to help me find someone to love. The next day I packed up my stuff and said my good-byes to my new friends. Millie gave me an ice cream pail full of peanut butter cookies and I was on my way. It was Labor Day 2000 and my next destination was another music festival in Winfield, Kansas.

Before I get too far along in my story I’d like to take you back in time for a while. So climb aboard my time machine and I’ll take you back to my humble beginnings. I was born a poor black child. If that offends you that’s too bad. It’s from the movie “The Jerk” with Steve Martin. It’s a funny movie. You should watch it. I’m going to throw some names at you. I don’t expect you to remember them all; they’re just characters in my story. My Dad’s name is Walter and my mother’s name is Kathy. I’m the oldest of three children. I have one sister named Janice and another sister named Sharon. Sharon is the older of the two.

There were six adults that were a major influence on me while I was growing up. They were my Mom and Dad, my grandparents Al and Millie, and my Aunt Rhoda and Uncle Roy. My Aunt Rhoda and Uncle Roy had four children. Allen was a year older than me. Sue is my age. Dawn is my sister Sharon’s age and Karen is the same age as my sister Janice. My aunts Annette and Ruth lived in other parts of the country while I grew up. I don’t mean to slight them in any way because they are wonderful people. But since they lived farther away they were less of an influence on me as I grew up.

My grandmother Millie was a wonderful person. She had the kind of love that could light up a room. You could be across the room from her and you felt loved. She was an outgoing talkative person. My grandfather Al was a little more quiet and reserved than my grandmother but he also was a warm loving person. My grandfather was the musician of the family. He played music all the time. I can’t remember a time that our family got together that he didn't play music. He played by himself, sometimes with friends, sometimes when it seemed no one was listening. What my grandfather couldn't say with words he said with his music. His music came from his heart.

Our family was a little more on the quiet side while my Aunt Rhoda’s family was always more outgoing and talkative. I always enjoyed going to my Aunt Rhoda and Uncle Roy’s house because they were fun people to be around and they always made you feel welcome. I still enjoy going to my cousins Sue, Dawn, and Karen’s houses for much the same reason. The point I want to make is that I was born into a warm loving family. I don’t just mean my immediate family but my extended family as well. They’re all wonderful people that have helped me in so many ways over the years. If I didn't have a warm loving family I would have self-destructed years ago.

When I was young we used to have a cottage in northern Wisconsin. It was a small cottage on Pier Lake. There was an entryway, one main room, a room in the back with two queen size bunkbeds, and that was it. Some of the fondest memories of my childhood were at that cottage. Our family, Rhoda and Roy’s, and my grandparents grew close by spending time together in that little cottage. We laughed together and we played together. Grandpa played his music. Sometimes he had guests over to play music. There was love in that cottage. I’m so thankful for that love. It’s what’s kept me going for so many years.

I was loved and I was very happy the first five years of my life. Things started to change once I started going to school. There was something about me that made me different from the other kids. I was born with large ears that stuck out like you wouldn't believe. If a stiff wind would kick up I would take off like a helicopter. I’m exaggerating but you get the idea. If you’re different from other kids they let you know about it. Kids can be cruel. I was teased about my ears every day I went to school up until about the ninth grade when I grew my hair over my ears. Kids weren't that original. It was the same names year after year. Dumbo, elephant ears, big ears, or just ears.

The first five years of my life I never knew I had big ears. Nobody told me I had big ears. My ears weren't an issue. I was loved and that’s all that mattered. The first memory I have of being called a name was at St. Mary’s grade school in Menasha. There was a courtyard that separated the grade school from the gym where lunch was served. I was in the courtyard with a hundred or so other students waiting to get into the gym for lunch. There was a young girl standing on the steps above me and that name came. Hey Dumbo! All of the other students turned around to look at me. That’s when I knew for the first time that I was different than the other kids.

I got teased every single day I went to school. It never stopped. I would come home from school crying and tell my Mom that kids were calling me names. Her advice was to ignore them so that’s what I did. I stood there and took it. I took it every day from the first grade up until about the ninth grade. I never stood up for myself. There was only about five or six kids that would call me names but nobody ever helped me stand up to those kids. The other kids, my friends, teachers, principals, coaches, nobody stepped in to help me. I was quiet so I didn't ask for help but no one ever tried to put a stop to it. Why? I get angry when I think about it.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. I always hated that expression. Names hurt more than a lot of people realize. I tried to ignore the names but when you hear them every single day of your life it starts to become a part of you. I remember seeing the movie “Frankenstein” when I was a kid. That movie made me cry. Do you know why it made me cry? Frankenstein is this monster with green skin and bolts coming out of his neck. The people in the village are terrified of him. Underneath Frankenstein is a really gentle creature. The people in the village didn't see that. All they can see is what’s on the outside. Frankenstein goes to a blind man’s home. The blind man welcomes Frankenstein into his home and feeds him. I remember thinking is that all people see when they look at me, a monster with 2 big ears? Why can’t they look beyond my ears and see all the good underneath?

So why did I tell you the story about my ears? Because I have been held down all my life because of those names I was called as a child. Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. Well those names hurt me in more ways than I even realize and still affect me until this very day. How have the names affected me? I've watched my sisters, cousins, and friends get married and raise children. I’m a lonely man who has never had a serious relationship with a woman in his life. I can barely string three sentences together without having to be resuscitated. I can write my ass off but can’t talk my way out of a wet paper bag. I’m a smart man but very few people realize it because I never say anything. I’m an outgoing person trapped in a quiet person’s body. I have come nowhere near to realizing my full potential. I've been tied down for far too long and now I want to fly.

Yes, I have shared this story before. Do you understand why I keep on telling it over and over again? Have you ever thrown a stone into a pond or lake and seen the ripples going out from it? I'm just trying to send out some positive ripples into this world. God knows we need them.

#Bullying

[maasayada]

記憶の入れ替え。今朝、近所をただひたすら一時間以上歩いてきた。そのときに架空の演奏形態が入れ替わった。

ピアノを10年間、マンドリンを3年間やっていた。どちらも離れて随分経つが、頭の中でメロディを再生しているときに動くのは左手である。幼稚園から始めて、曲がりなりにも絶対音感を与えてくれた（音感にも様々なレベルがある。私は物音がドレミの濁った音に聞こえて苦しいことはないが、ピアノの調律と歌謡曲の音の高さが微妙に違って気持ち悪い感覚は、ピアノを弾いていた時代にはあった。）鍵盤楽器で右手でメロディをたたくのではなく、後から学んだ（高校生！）弦楽器に教わったとおり、左の手のひらを上に向けて、弦を押さえる。右手のピックの動きはほぼ省略されるし、左手も、本当に弦があるはずの高さまで持ち上げられるのではなく、腰のあたりにぶら下がったままでただ僅かに押さえる動きだけをする。

マンドリンを始める前には、もちろん空のピアノで演奏を行っていたけれど、そのとき左手って何してたっけ？　とふと思い、思い出すのにしばらく時間がかかった。いつも弾いている曲ではなくて、口ずさんでいる歌謡曲を、口ずさめる場で���ないから黙って服の裾を指でたたいていたあのとき。しばらくして、右手で歌声を、左手でベース音をたたいていたことを思い出した。その二つの旋律くらいならば耳で覚えていた。ただ、ベース音って時に低すぎて認識できないパートもあって（もしかするとピアノも左端の低音は明瞭な音の差に調律できないことと、女は低い声を現実的に出せないという二方向によって、聴く能力がなくなるのだろうか。）そのときは適当に合う和音を左手で鳴らすことをイメージしていた。

このことを思い出す努力をして以来、鍵盤楽器が前面に出てきて弦楽器が後退し、メロディを思い出すとき右手が動くようになってしまった。以前にも同じことがあり、しばらくして左手に戻ったので、今回もそうなるだろう。そのほうが忙しなくない。だって四弦は押さえなくても鳴る四つの音を持っているから、手を動かさなくても音が鳴っていることを想定できるのだ。そのほうが春らしい。

奏法の違い、メロディは変わらない。これを小説で言うと、語り手が変わっても内容は変わらないなどがまず思い浮かぶんだけどそうじゃなくて…両方あるんだ、ってことだよな、たぶん。誰かを真剣に抱きしめることと、上の空で腕を動かしていることとは、分岐するパターンではなく、どちらも含まれている。実現されたのがどちらであったとしても、そこはあまり関係がなく、どちらも含まれている。そして、音があなたを愛していることであるのは、ずっと変わらない。たまに別のことに集中して関心が低くなったり、眠気と疲労のために予測がネガティブになったりすることもあるけど、そういう私のゆれは決意したこととは本当は関係がなくて、私は両手を放していても、張られている弦に風が当たって、そこで勝手に鳴るのは必ず愛であって無関心ではない。他の何が同時に起こったとしても、必ず愛も生起している。主体がそれを感じ取れなかったらたまたまのことだ。

The substitution of memory. This morning, all I did was walk around the neighbourhood for over an hour. But that was replaced with the fictitious figure of a musical performance.

I played the piano for 10 years and the mandolin for three. It’s been a long time since I’ve played either of them, but when a melody is played in my head, my left hand moves. From kindergarten, I had a sort of perfect pitch (there are levels to one’s sense of pitch too. I never had problems with sounds around me sounding like muddy versions of do-re-mi, but when I still played the piano, I sometimes had the experience that the tuning of the piano would differ slightly from the pitch of a pop song and give me an unpleasant feeling.) Rather than playing the melody with my right hand like on a keyboard instrument, I do what I was taught when I learnt a stringed instrument (in high school!) and face the palm of my left hand upwards while pressing the strings. Most of my right hand’s picking movements are omitted, and my left hand doesn’t need to go to the height where strings would actually be, but just makes slight pressing motions while hanging at my waist.

Before I started with the mandolin, I played on an air piano, but it took me a while to remember what my left hand did at that time. When the song wasn’t one of the ones I would always play but a pop song I would hum, but I wasn’t in a place where I could hum aloud, I would quietly play the song with my fingers on the hem of my clothes. For a while, I remember playing the vocals with my right hand and the bass with my left. If it was just those two parts, I knew them by heart. But there were some parts of the bass that were too low and that I couldn’t recognise (maybe my hearing ability had deteriorated because the low notes on the left side of the piano can’t be clearly tuned anyway, and women can’t realistically produce low notes?) At the time, I imagined playing suitable chords with my left hand.

Since I made the effort to remember that, keyboard instruments have come to the front while string instruments have retreated, and when I remember a melody I’ve started moving my right hand again. This has happened before and I returned to my left hand after a while, so maybe the same thing will happen again. That way is less restless, because on the four strings you can make four notes without pressing them, so I can imagine the notes playing even without moving my hand. That way is more like spring.

The differences in playing methods don’t change the melody. In terms of a story, the first thing I think of is that changing the narrator doesn’t change the content, but that’s not always true...it can go both ways, I guess. Earnestly embracing someone and moving your arms in midair aren’t two divergent patterns, but include each other. Even if only one of them is realised, that doesn’t matter; both are still included. And the fact that the base sound is that I love you won’t ever change. Even though sometimes I focus on other things and have less interest, or my predictions become negative because of sleepiness and fatigue, these waverings of mine really have no relationship to what I’ve decided. The fact that even when I let go, when the wind hits a taut string it will ring by itself is certainly love and not indifference. Even if something else occurs at the same time, love will certainly be there as well. If the subject doesn’t notice that, it’s by chance.

#piano #mandolin #music #memory

[mintwriting]

For the Sake of the Sound

    It was always a joyous occasion, full of bluegrass music and apple stack cake ripping through the air. The bodies attending populated the field, speaking to one another about the goings on since their last meeting. Those who had been invited had come from all around the globe, heading back to the place where it all began for them; they came back home. When he had arrived, everyone was already standing around chatting, dressed up in their best and drinking their fill. He blended in fairly well, slipping in without a huge fuss from anyone. He liked it better this way, being in the shadows and speaking only when spoken to. It made things easier. Despite the overwhelming feeling he always acquired at these kinds of functions - much like the feeling one gets when they tip too far back in a chair - he could appreciate them, for the most part. He always thoroughly enjoyed the part he played, regardless of the occasion. He unzipped the bag he held in his right hand and pulled out the mandolin by the neck, gently. It was like wielding a sword for him; he was entering into a den of lions and he needed to fight for his life. He had tuned it before he came and after eight quick, soft plucks, he was confident that he would be okay. It was the confidence that propelled him to step up onto the handmade stage. It was sturdy, but the creaks of the boards from use made him stare down at his feet until he reached the front. His eyes darted up to look at the crowd and he took a breath that inflated his tummy and brought his heart rate down, if only momentarily. "I think it's important to remember," he began, his voice wanting him to be as fierce as he had felt only a few seconds ago. People began to look over at him with smiles on their faces and some with wetness staining their cheeks. "That this isn't goodbye." He strummed once, getting into his groove. "Your relationship with her hasn't ended. It's just different, y'know?" His voice began to get a bit stronger and he finally sounded like he was certain about his statement. "You can still talk to her about your day and you can still cry to her about your problems. Your relationship doesn't need to end. It's just different." He started to feel a bit faint so he stopped talking and began picking a soft reel that led into a solo rendition of Amazing Grace. It took five minutes, if that, and he felt like he had been transported to a world where time slid by on oceans of molasses. After he heard the clapping, he bowed his head and wordlessly stepped off to go find a tall glass of Dandelion wine.

    After everyone who was going to perform and say something did so, the group made their way to the edge of the forest. Their target: a freshly dug hole. Once surrounding the hole with as much symmetry as possible, one man sat the sapling down near the hole and a woman brought the ivory, ornate jar to sit it next to the young tree. The group joined hands and bowed their heads, keeping silent as they sent prayers up to their Lord, thanking and giving praise for such a beautiful day for a funeral. After five or so minutes of silence, the woman took the top off of the jar and tears welled up in her eyes as she gently shook half of the contents into the hole. The man placed the sapling on top of them and together they mixed the rest of the ashes with the dirt that packed the sapling in. Once the mound around the trunk was complete, the group joined hands again. This time, however, they kept their eyes on the tree; soon enough, it'd bear apples like some of the trees around it and someone somewhere would partake of those apples and be blessed by them. It was the sweetest thought to him, knowing his mother would've want it this way. After he let go of his great auntie's hand, he tried to leave without enduring bone-crushing hugs and endless kisses. It was a futile effort and he was foolish for trying.

    Once he walked home and wiped the lipstick off of his cheeks and forehead, he stood and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He stared himself down and forced himself to gaze into the windows of his soul, muddy as they may be. He didn't see any disembodied, glittery, soul stuff, which was sorely disappointing, but he did reach a conclusion: he wasn't happy. It took his brain a few times to think that short sentence through before it began to sink like an anchor to the floor of his stomach. It was a hard thing for him to accept; his life was, by all accounts, ordinary and full of love. He had nothing to be unhappy about, that much he was certain of, but the black bottom line remained the same. He went to his bed and sat crisscross applesauce, pondering his options. There were multiple and they all came down to him leaving the security blanket that was Appalachia. His heart beat in protest just thinking about all of the unfamiliar sounds and smells, let alone the people. Surely there were other options? He could stay in the town and find someone to apprentice for, perhaps. Or maybe volunteer his hands and heart to the community kitchen full time. Even as he tried to convince himself that he could do either of those things, he felt something stir in him and that something boomed. It let him know those were not viable; it let him know that he knew what he needed to do. Vaguely. With a sigh, he stripped himself down to his birthday suit and climbed under his quilt, deciding it would be best left for the clear morning air.

    If only his dreams would allow him to rest.

    Trees shot up around him. They towered at least three hundred feet above him, higher than any city skyscraper he had ever encountered, and he began to run through the well-spaced rows. The feeling of impending doom blanketed him and it caused him to run faster, though he hardly knew what he was running from and even in dreams he wasn't nearly bold enough to look over his shoulder. It never occurred to him that that was even an option. He could see a bright spot ahead of him in the darkness of the forest and he ran toward it, hoping there was some salvation to be found there. Instead, there was nothing. As soon as the light touched him, the plane he was on ceased to exist and he was left with a blank canvas, floating and suspended in his movement. Then he realized it was only a dream. Such a realization always shook him out of his sleep with a jerk and this time was no different. What was different, however, was that he had made up his mind once the dust of panic settled. He had to leave. It didn't matter where he went, he assumed, as long as he was letting his spirit and intuition guide him. He tossed the quilt off of him and ran around his room, picking up three sets of clothes, five pairs of socks, his Guide to the North American Countries, toothbrush and accompanying paste. All of these thing were promptly shoved into his pack before being zipped up and thrown into the corner, waiting for the morning light.

    Once his shoes were laced up, he was off with nothing beyond his pack, his mandolin, and what little nerve he possessed. Throughout his relatively short life, he had found that nerve was all you really needed to do something, no matter how little you might have. Simply choosing to employ it was good enough for most things in life. He had left a note on the counter in his house for whoever came to check on him, letting them know that he would be back before the Winter Solstice festival. It felt kind of like he was Brutus to their Caesar, but he didn't have the requisite vocabulary to describe what he was feeling and he knew that they would ask. He couldn't do it. What he could do, though, was let them know he was emotionally okay and would check in between now and then, that he was off to find his purpose. He looped his thumbs around the straps of the pack, feeling as tall as he honestly was for once in his life, and strutted down the decently maintained trail. It felt so right, but he still had no idea what he was looking for. Was this one of those 'putting the cart before the horse'-type situations? How many people really began their Wanders with ideas of what they were doing? He could not have been the first, but it felt so lonely for a brief moment before he noticed the light dripping down from the canopy to nourish the ground beneath and warm his face. His racing mind halted and he could finally hear the loving calls of birds communicating with one another, the rustling of leaves above from various animals, the lulling sounds of the woods. It was bizarre how his town could be so close with nature but still be so separated, how his mind always found it soothing to exchange the sounds of people gabbing to one another for birds probably just screaming at each other. The smells were different too, despite the flora and fauna in the area being the exact same. Maybe freedom smelled differently. Maybe the scent of captivity and community of the human variety smelled like something else entirely; it wasn't a rancid odor that he was fighting to get off of him, but he preferred the fragrance out here and he wagered he'd be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't. He hadn't made the time to venture too far beyond the town's border in a long time; there wasn't anything he needed out here. It wasn't too safe to do, anyway.

    He walked for a good few hours, feeling like someone were holding his consciousnesses gently in their hands while he ambled until he reached a bench. The wood boards were a little old, but he made sure to sit slowly and to ease his weight onto them before sitting fully on it. It had just dawned on him that he hadn't packed any food. If he hadn't been in such a rush to leave maybe it would've been different, but he figured that there was enough food out here for him to eat.  Right? What if the world beyond Appalachia wasn't like it? What if food wasn't out in the open or readily available or anything? With a deep breath, he leaned himself back and shut his eyes. He couldn't go back. He couldn't go back. He had to keep pressing forward. He mentally repeated these statements to himself but before he was completely convinced, he heard people talking. And they were on the move. His eyes shot open and he sat up just as quickly, looking in the direction of the people. Since he couldn't see them yet, he decided it was best to move along - briskly. The last thing he needed was to get caught up with strangers right now.

    After an afternoon of walking without another incident, he came upon a small town, if you could call it that. It was hardly as big as his home; the buildings numbered in the tens, if that, and the amount of people milling about totaled 30. But it was getting dark and if he didn't find himself a place to stay soon, he'd be out there in the wild; a sitting duck. His heart sank at the thought and he started down the sidewalk, holding his head up high and looking around only with his eyes. It was hard to imagine he blended in when he probably looked like he was trying much too hard to go unnoticed, not to mention the amount of people who lived here made it difficult to lie with your body language about your origins. A sign creaked in what little wind blew through and he turned his head toward it. There it was! Shelter! His pace quickened until he reached the intricately-carved doorway and he knocked.

#wip #writeblr #writing:mine #i'm screamin because this lil bb is my bB #he's not a talker at all #and he's anxious as all hell #and he has no name but

[randomconnections]

Irish Music Jam Session at Littlefield Celtic Center

I wanted a challenge. I got a challenge. On Sunday I attended the monthly Irish Jam Session at the Littlefield Celtic Center in Mount Vernon. I found myself in the midst of some incredible traditional musicians and I also found myself struggling to keep up. Even so, it was a blast.

This was a case of “be careful what you wish for.” Most of the sessions I’d attended lately were learning sessions taken rather slowly. It was hard to get a true feel for the music. I wanted to attend a session where it was assumed that everyone knew what they were doing (even if I absolutely DIDN’T know what I was doing.) I was prepared to listen and learn, joining in when I felt comfortable. This jam session certainly fit that bill.

First, a bit of background…

The Celtic Arts Foundation of Mount Vernon was established in 1997 to “sponsor, encourage and promote Celtic culture through events and educational activities,” according to their mission statement. In 2012 the CAF began seeking a permanent home and purchased property for an event space. Construction was begun in 2014, and in June of 2015 the Littlefield Celtic Center opened.

The center hosts workshops and concerts throughout the year. Earlier this fall we missed a sold-out concert by one of our favorite groups, the Tannehill Weavers. Big name performers come through with concert about twice a month. The center also sponsors two monthly jam sessions, an Irish session on the third Sunday of each month and a Scottish session the first Sunday of the month.

The Irish Jam Session was the next one on the calendar, so it was that which I planned to attend. The descriptions for the both jam sessions were somewhat intimidating. Here are some excerpts from the Irish session:

The music is learned and played almost exclusively by ear, and tunes are played together as ‘sets’ of three or more…each of which is repeated a number of times (usually 3) before the next tune is started. The emphasis is on the melody itself (what the Irish like to say is ‘the soul of the tune’); and so while backup and rhythm players are welcome, they are usually asked to play ‘behind’ and ‘under’ the melody players….there is a famous maxim in the Irish tradition suggesting that a session should include only “one guitar, one bodhran,…and one spoon!” That being said, the ultimate goal of any Irish session is to provide a welcoming place where most of those present can play most of the time, where people new to the music can learn not only the tunes but the culture behind the music, and where more experienced players can learn tunes and technique from players outside their usual sessions. We welcome both listeners and those who are interested in learning to play this music themselves. Please feel free to bring recording devices and ask questions; we do request, however, that you leave music books and stands at home, and that you not use personal hand-held-devices during the session.

It was the phrase “one guitar, one bodhran” that got me. What if another guitarist showed up? Would they kick me out? Despite my trepidation on the third Sunday of the month I headed downtown to see what this was really all about.

On this particular Sunday it was cold, windy, and raining. Fortunately I found a parking spot on the street near the entrance to the building.

I had gotten there at 12:30 to get set up and make sure I knew the lay of the land. Other cars were parked along the street, so I assumed others were there. Turns out that these were for the Anglican Church across the street. As far as I could see there was no one at the center. The doors were locked.

I waited until 12:45 in my car, then wandered around to see if there was another entrance and to make sure I was in the right place. A woman was emptying a trash can at a side door, so I asked if I was at the right place. She assured me that I was, and that she was just about to open the front doors. She also said that most folks started wandering in right at 1:00. Good to know.

Roberta opened the doors for me and introduced herself. She made sure I signed up for the center’s email list and gave me some more info about the center. She also said that she was a volunteer for the center and that she didn’t play with the Irish group. Her instrument is piano, and they apparently don’t allow piano in the Irish sessions. She plays with the Scottish group. Once again, good to know.

I had left instruments in the car, so I took some time to look around. One side of the facility had offices and conference rooms. The other side had a small performance space with a stage. A set of chairs had been arranged in a circle, with a couple of rows set up for onlookers. Coffee and beer was available.

The other musicians began to arrive so I went back to the car to grab my instruments. I decided that I would just bring in the guitar, even though I had the banjo and melodica with me. Given the earlier comments about the piano I figured that the melodica might be view with scorn as being “not traditional Irish.”

Just about all of the other musicians had multiple instruments with them. There were more fiddlers than anything, but each of these also brought tin whistles and other things. In addition to her fiddle, one woman had a tenor Irish banjo in addition to a fiddle, and her husband had a set of Uilleann pipes. One woman had several flutes, and another had brought a Bodhran. One guy had a cittern, kind of like a large mandolin, but with five sets of double strings. There was one other guitarist. OK, so we already had a guitarist and Bodhran player. I guess I could find a set of spoons somewhere.

In all there were fifteen musicians, including me. They came from all over the region – from Whidbey Island and as far away as Vancouver. I was something of a novelty, having come all the way from South Carolina. And, despite my lack of experience with the repertoire, I did have some bonafides. I had spent some time in Doolin, Ireland, and I had spent quality time with P. J. Curtis, the noted Irish musicologist and author. In addition to the musicians there were about seven people who had just come to listen.

When the music started it was like going from zero to sixty in about two seconds. Someone fired up a reel and they were off. The usual procedure was that one instrument would introduce the tune and others would join in. That tune would repeat three times. The lead instrument would usually give a “whoop” or some other indication that the tune was about to change, then that lead would introduce another tune which would repeat three times. Three tunes would be introduced in a typical set. The new tunes would usually be in the same, a related key, or a relative minor, but sometimes the modulation was abrupt. There was no way I could figure out the tunes themselves and it was hard enough to keep track of the chord progressions. The title of the tune was never announced unless it was an unfamiliar one. Even then, someone would ask afterwards, “What was that?”

Here is one of the sets of tunes. I have no clue what the titles are.

If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here https://chirb.it/GpGg9e

Check this out on Chirbit

The other guitarist was much more accomplished than I was, but he said that he wanted to be close enough to watch my chords and follow along. I said that probably wasn’t a wise move. Plus, he was using a “Drop-D” tuning for some songs. I tried the same tuning a couple of times when we were in the key of D, but decided I’d just stick with the regular tuning. The cittern player also said that he had been following my chord progressions. I felt a bit weird about that. As for the banjo player, rather than strum chords she played a single line melody.

I did make note of the fiddle belonging to woman sitting next to me. She didn’t play often, but quietly picked melodies with which she was unfamiliar. Her fiddle was stunning, though, with a dragon motif.

The music continued with only brief pauses for conversation. There were no breaks. If one wanted coffee or beer they just stopped playing and got what they needed. I took very few breaks and by the end of the afternoon my fingers were quite sore.

Here is an music sample. I don’t really remember if this was early or late in the session, but I selected it because it has a different style from the first sample I posted.

If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here https://chirb.it/828rcC

Check this out on Chirbit

At 4:00 the group started to thin out. The other guitarist and cittern player, as well as the Bodhran player, left. Those that remained closed up the circle to continue with a couple more sets. I opted opt, switching my guitar for a camera.

Here’s a video clip of the smaller group. You will need to click the image to view the video on Flickr.

Soon even those musicians began to pack up. I chatted with the woman who serves as the de facto leader of the group. She said that the various communities have their “home” groups where they learn the tunes. They then bring those tunes to this gathering. She said that there are learning sessions on Monday evenings here at the Littlefield center, but I didn’t see them posted anywhere. While she did invite me to the learning sessions, I did NOT get an explicit invitation to come back to this session. Too many guitars? I had fun. I think I’ll do it anyway.

The music was a challenge, but it was also a blast. I am looking forward to checking out the Scottish jam session on December 3 and seeing how different it might be. I don’t know, though. They had even more rules and they were listed as bullet points. It will be fun to see how many of those I can break.

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#IFTTT #WordPress

[tinablchr-blog]

For the Sake of the Sound

It was always a joyous occasion, full of bluegrass music and apple stack cake ripping through the air. The bodies attending populated the field, speaking to one another about the goings on since their last meeting. Those who had been invited had come from all around the globe, heading back to the place where it all began for them; they came back home. When he had arrived, everyone was already standing around chatting, dressed up in their best and drinking their fill. He blended in fairly well, slipping in without a huge fuss from anyone. He liked it better this way, being in the shadows and speaking only when spoken to. It made things easier. Despite the overwhelming feeling he always acquired at these kinds of functions - much like the feeling one gets when they tip too far back in a chair - he could appreciate them, for the most part. He always thoroughly enjoyed the part he played, regardless of the occasion. He unzipped the bag he held in his right hand and pulled out the mandolin by the neck, gently. It was like wielding a sword for him; he was entering into a den of lions and he needed to fight for his life. He had tuned it before he came and after eight quick, soft plucks, he was confident that he would be okay. It was the confidence that propelled him to step up onto the handmade stage. It was sturdy, but the creaks of the boards from use made him stare down at his feet until he reached the front. His eyes darted up to look at the crowd and he took a breath that inflated his tummy and brought his heart rate down, if only momentarily. "I think it's important to remember," he began, his voice wanting him to be as fierce as he had felt only a few seconds ago. People began to look over at him with smiles on their faces and some with wetness staining their cheeks. "That this isn't goodbye." He strummed once, getting into his groove. "Your relationship with her hasn't ended. It's just different, y'know?" His voice began to get a bit stronger and he finally sounded like he was certain about his statement. "You can still talk to her about your day and you can still cry to her about your problems. Your relationship doesn't need to end. It's just different." He started to feel a bit faint so he stopped talking and began picking a soft reel that led into a solo rendition of Amazing Grace. It took five minutes, if that, and he felt like he had been transported to a world where time slid by on oceans of molasses. After he heard the clapping, he bowed his head and wordlessly stepped off to go find a tall glass of Dandelion wine.

After everyone who was going to perform and say something did so, the group made their way to the edge of the forest. Their target: a freshly dug hole. Once surrounding the hole with as much symmetry as possible, one man sat the sapling down near the hole and a woman brought the ivory, ornate jar to sit it next to the young tree. The group joined hands and bowed their heads, keeping silent as they sent prayers up to their Lord, thanking and giving praise for such a beautiful day for a funeral. After five or so minutes of silence, the woman took the top off of the jar and tears welled up in her eyes as she gently shook half of the contents into the hole. The man placed the sapling on top of them and together they mixed the rest of the ashes with the dirt that packed the sapling in. Once the mound around the trunk was complete, the group joined hands again. This time, however, they kept their eyes on the tree; soon enough, it'd bear apples like some of the trees around it and someone somewhere would partake of those apples and be blessed by them. It was the sweetest thought to him, knowing his mother would've want it this way. After he let go of his great auntie's hand, he tried to leave without enduring bone-crushing hugs and endless kisses. It was a futile effort and he was foolish for trying.

Once he walked home and wiped the lipstick off of his cheeks and forehead, he stood and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He stared himself down and forced himself to gaze into the windows of his soul, muddy as they may be. He didn't see any disembodied, glittery, soul stuff, which was sorely disappointing, but he did reach a conclusion: he wasn't happy. It took his brain a few times to think that short sentence through before it began to sink like an anchor to the floor of his stomach. It was a hard thing for him to accept; his life was, by all accounts, ordinary and full of love. He had nothing to be UNhappy about, that much he was certain of, but the black bottom line remained the same. He went to his bed and sat crisscross applesauce, pondering his options. There were multiple and they all came down to him leaving the security blanket that was Appalachia. His heart beat in protest just thinking about all of the unfamiliar sounds and smells, let alone the people. Surely there were other options? He could stay in the town and find someone to apprentice for, perhaps. Or maybe volunteer his hands and heart to the community kitchen full time. Even as he tried to convince himself that he could do either of those things, he felt something stir in him and that something boomed. It let him know those were not viable; it let him know that he knew what he needed to do. Vaguely. With a sigh, he stripped himself down to his birthday suit and climbed under his quilt, deciding it would be best left for the clear morning air.

If only his dreams would allow him to rest.

Trees shot up around him. They towered at least three hundred feet above him, higher than any city skyscraper he had ever encountered, and he began to run through the well-spaced rows. The feeling of impending doom blanketed him and it caused him to run faster, though he hardly knew what he was running from and even in dreams he wasn't nearly bold enough to look over his shoulder. It never occurred to him that that was even an option. He could see a bright spot ahead of him in the darkness of the forest and he ran toward it, hoping there was some salvation to be found there. Instead, there was nothing. As soon as the light touched him, the plane he was on ceased to exist and he was left with a blank canvas, floating and suspended in his movement. Then he realized it was only a dream. Such a realization always shook him out of his sleep with a jerk and this time was no different. What was different, however, was that he had made up his mind once the dust of panic settled. He had to leave. It didn't matter where he went, he assumed, as long as he was letting his spirit and intuition guide him. He tossed the quilt off of him and ran around his room, picking up three sets of clothes, five pairs of socks, his Guide to the North American Countries, toothbrush and accompanying paste. All of these thing were promptly shoved into his pack before being zipped up and thrown into the corner, waiting for the morning light.

Once his shoes were laced up, he was off with nothing beyond his pack, his mandolin, and what little nerve he possessed. Throughout his relatively short life, he had found that nerve was all you really needed to do something, no matter how little you might have. Simply choosing to employ it was good enough for most things in life. He had left a note on the counter in his house for whoever came to check on him, letting them know that he would be back before the Winter Solstice festival. It felt kind of like he was Brutus to their Ceasar, but he didn't have the requisite vocabulary to describe what he was feeling and he knew that they would ask. He couldn't do it. What he could do, though, was let them know he was emotionally okay and would check in between now and then, that he was off to find his purpose. He looped his thumbs around the straps of the pack, feeling as tall as he honestly was for once in his life, and strutted down the decently maintained trail. It felt so right, but he still had no idea what he was looking for. Was this one of those 'putting the cart before the horse'-type situations? How many people really began their Wanders with ideas of what they were doing? He could not have been the first, but it felt so lonely for a brief moment before he noticed the light dripping down from the canopy to nourish the ground beneath and warm his face. His racing mind halted and he could finally hear the loving calls of birds communicating with one another, the rustling of leaves above from various animals, the lulling sounds of the woods. It was bizarre how his town could be so close with nature but still be so separated, how his mind always found it soothing to exchange the sounds of people gabbing to one another for birds probably just screaming at each other. The smells were different too, despite the flora and fauna in the area being the exact same. Maybe freedom smelled differently. Maybe the scent of captivity and community of the human variety smelled like something else entirely; it wasn't a rancid odor that he was fighting to get off of him, but he preferred the fragrance out here and he wagered he'd be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't. He hadn't made the time to venture too far beyond the town's border in a long time; there wasn't anything he needed out here. It wasn't too safe to do, anyway.

He walked for a good few hours, feeling like someone were holding his consciousnesses gently in their hands while he ambled until he reached a bench. The wood boards were a little old, but he made sure to sit slowly and to ease his weight onto them before sitting fully on it. It had just dawned on him that he hadn't packed any food. If he hadn't been in such a rush to leave maybe it would've been different, but he figured that there was enough food out here for him to eat.  Right? What if the world beyond Appalachia wasn't like it? What if food wasn't out in the open or readily available or anything? With a deep breath, he leaned himself back and shut his eyes. He couldn't go back. He couldn't go back. He had to keep pressing forward. He mentally repeated these statements to himself but before he was completely convinced, he heard people talking. And they were on the move. His eyes shot open and he sat up just as quickly, looking in the direction of the people. Since he couldn't see them yet, he decided it was best to move along - briskly. The last thing he needed was to get caught up with strangers right now.

After an afternoon of walking without another incident, he came upon a small town, if you could call it that. It was hardly as big as his home; the buildings numbered in the tens, if that, and the amount of people milling about totaled 30. But it was getting dark and if he didn't find himself a place to stay soon, he'd be out there in the wild; a sitting duck. His heart sank at the thought and he started down the sidewalk, holding his head up high and looking around only with his eyes. It was hard to imagine he blended in when he probably looked like he was trying much too hard to go unnoticed, not to mention the amount of people who lived here made it difficult to lie with your body language about your origins. A sign creaked in what little wind blew through and he turned his head toward it. There it was! Shelter! His pace quickened until he reached the intricately-carved doorway and he knocked.

#my writing projects #writing #this isn't finished but uuughhhh it's my brain crack #and since novlr updated with a bunch of cool things i feel so inspired [heart-eyes]