Mac in Sellersville, October 2014

This blog entry won’t be particularly well thought out because tonight I write from the heart. I haven’t been able to blog about music since Mac died a year ago. It’s not that Gregg didn’t ask me over oysters and beers at Felix’s in New Orleans to start writing again.  It’s not that the Loose Diamonds reunion in Houston last month wasn’t brilliant enough to blog about. It’s just so tangled up in there when I try to narrow my focus to write about that night in Sellersville last fall when I saw Mac for the last time.

Do I write about Mac as a person? No, prolly not since he and I weren’t bosom buds. We did spend some time together after shows over the years in Texas and North Carolina and yes, that night in Sellersville. (The photo is from many moons ago at the Lucky Lounge.) Mac treated everyone he met like a long lost pal so our limited interactions really shouldn’t preclude me from discussing what a great guy he was. When Mac spoke to you, you were his only friend.

Do I write about Mac as a musician? Well, I’m not an academic and my grassroots approach to music appreciation would likely falter. Mac’s flair and style at the keyboard are unrivaled and yet he was no diva. His performances didn’t always run perfectly, and some nights he forgot a few lyrics, but he never forgot to tell a joke or give the audience advice. (“You can say shit but always make sure you smile when you say it.”) He was the dude who played his heart out then stole the hearts of the audience before climbing into a white van with his band to do it again the next day in another town.

Do I write about Mac as a friend? Not my friend but Ronnie’s friend. How many times did Mac raise a Guinness toward heaven in Ronnie’s name? The way he kept a flame burning on Earth for Ron Lane….

Do I bring my dearly departed mother JoAnne into this story? Well by all means it bears mentioning that she called that time she held me on her lap each morning before I left home for kindergarten “Itchy Coo Park.” That takes us back to about 1968 in Louisville, Kentucky, the home of stations like WAKY radio that I just knew harbored the likes of Paul McCartney and Ian McLagan in their studios each time I heard a favorite song on the car radio. I can’t express how ecstatic I was roughly thirty years later when driving my son in the car in Chapel Hill, I heard on NPR that Mac had decided to give up the fight and record Itchy Coo again. That day my son rode in the car with his mama, hearing Itchy for the first time.

Do I write about the set list that night in Sellersville? Suffice it to say it was a rock and roll show.  I thought I might wiggle out of my seat. For some reason when Mac played “Little Troublemaker,” I felt I’d never before heard it live, and so for me, that was the best part of the show. Of course Mac played lots from United States, explaining that he intended the term to conjure relationships, not a country. I was taking a course on Pops and Jelly Roll at Franklin & Marshall so I can say with certainty he played the tantric “I’m Your Baby Now” from that album.

I’m out of control/

I’m jelly roll/

I can’t take it anymore

Do I write about the night of the show in Sellersville itself? Well first I should start with that morning. I don’t know how I found out about the show—likely Facebook. Before I could finish my Rice Chex I had produced the plastic and bought the ticket. Google maps put the Sellersville Theater an hour and a half northeast of my town of Lancaster. In actuality it took me much longer (and Scrappy told me the band thought it took them much longer than anticipated to reach Sellersville), and once I drove out of daylight and into a rural area with no T-Mobile coverage, I started to wonder what the hell I thought I was doing going on this pilgrimage solo, on a school night.  You see I was taking two courses in the music department (for credit) and working my day job. I am the geek who sat in her Highlander in the parking lot of the Washington House studying minor scales during the warm-up act. I had paid extra to be close to the band so I was able to walk right in to a prime reserved seat. By the end of the show I knew buying that ticket had to be the best decision in my life.

Do I have pix from the show? Yes and no. My BlackBerry takes blurry shots. It also goes on the fritz when you lay it down on a table. I had Mac and Scrappy all teed up for a picture when my camera powered off. And being a BlackBerry, the phone is slow to power up. I expressed disappointment when the phone stalled, but Scrappy insisted, “Take a mental picture.” They beamed at each other.  I reached up with my hands and pantomimed the click. I will never forget that sight; it is burnt into my visual cortex. By the time I had the camera ready again, I still had Mac but not Scrappy. “Where’d Scrappy go?” Mac asked. “I know he’s your friend; we need to take a picture.”

Is there a moral to this story? We all need to take more time to ride on dark roads to live music shows where we can snap mental pictures of our beloved friends and raise a glass to those friends in the great beyond.

Bluebird

Scores of reasons to think about the Bluegrass this week:  the NCAA tournament, the spring meet at Keeneland, and notes from cousins and friends who call Kentucky home. 

One note about a bus ride brought back an acoustic memory of my ride on a Blue Bird bus.  In fourth grade my family moved from the parish boundaries of St. Athanasius Church to a more pastoral area by the apple orchards on Fegenbush Lane.  We weren’t the only family to make that move, and the parish elders did some "gerrymandering" to retain some of the flock.  That redistricting necessitated some long bus rides to and from school.  In 1976, my rides were on a Blue Bird bus. This video about the making of Blue Bird buses says no two of the corporation's buses are alike (really?), but mine was special because there was an awesome stereo on board. The bus driver, a gentle soul with curly hair and sparkling blue eyes, really liked the song “Bluebird,” and I heard it daily on his Blue Bird bus.

Hadn’t really thought of that song in a while, but it flew into my heart with some others this week.  Happy surprise. Those who know me know I prefer Mick and Keef to Paul and Linda. Yet Paul and Linda's lyrics inspired more work on my piece of creative writing about anam cara. John O’Donohue writes about this special soul friend connection in his book Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom: “Often secrets are not revealed in words, they lie concealed in the silence between the words or in the depth of what is unsayable between two people.”  My friend Scrappy Jud Newcomb touches on this connection in his song “Space Between,” (“What the fearless heart has seen/It lives in the space between/ The once and future king and queen”), and that song makes me think of another Celtic term, thin place, a portal to access a magical realm.  Although finding thin places, let alone parking spaces, can be a strain in today’s world of cement, bards can still point the way. 

The bards Paul and Linda inspired me to write more about the magic of love in my novel manuscript yesterday, ironically just in time for some Cardinals to turn Kentucky blue (bluebirds!) for the NCAA games. The final game might transport some Kentuckians to Bluegrass bliss. Ultimately, the soul friend holds the key for the journey beyond the Bluegrass.

Late at night when the wind is still/

I’ll come flying through your door/

And you’ll know what love is for

-“Bluebird,” Paul and Linda McCartney

April Fools

Yesterday I was doing a little spring cleaning and dusted off My Acoustic Memory. In observation of this great national holiday, April 1^st, Rufus Wainwright rings in “April Fools” for us on the MAM blog.

Today as I look at my copy of Rufus’s eponymous CD, I don’t find any newspaper clippings or other souvenirs stuffed in the jewel to remind me how it landed in my collection.  My favorite Houston station KPFT played lots of Loudon Wainwright, and they likely plugged Rufus.

In 1998, the year of the CD’s release, Queen Elizabeth II knighted Sir Elton John, who apparently calls Rufus the “greatest songwriter on Earth” per this Amazon reference. That same year I saw Rufus and his sister Martha at a little acoustic venue on Richmond Road in Houston.  I distinctly recall having my toes stepped on by too many teenagers who arrived late but intent to stand right in front of a young Rufus.  Beck and I had arrived early, in spite of stopping by Taqueria La Tapatia, as was the custom when traveling down Richmond Road, usually on the way to the Menil Collection.

I didn’t like Martha’s vocals so much that night but find them interesting on this recent video of the song “April Fools.” The lyrics on some of the other songs of the CD like “Imaginary Love” keep Elton John from playing the fool with his bold claim.

Cause every kind of love, or at least my kind of love/

Must be an imaginary love to start with /

Guess that can explain the rain, waiting walking game/

Schubert broke my brain to start with

The CD sat in my teenage daughter’s room for years in Chapel Hill, Loudon’s hometown.  I was surprised to find it on my shelf today but certainly happy to have it in my possession on April Fools.

But in the stars and closer to home in any planet/

It ain’t hard for me and dear JoJo to see/

That you will believe in love/

And all that it’s supposed to be

-Rufus Wainwright, “April Fools”

Women Be Wise

This year I’m going to be a wise woman and say what I want. I’m telling y’all what to send me for Christmas cause I want to make it easy on everybody.  So hurry Santa, here’s my list, along with the song that made me want the CD:

Raul Malo, Today, “Let’s Not Say Goodbye Anymore”

Lavelle White, Miss Lavelle, “Tin Pan Alley”

Glenn Campbell, See You There, many songs including “Galveston”

Beulah (Sippie) Wallace,  Blues Legend, “Women Be Wise”

Check out Sippie’s version of “Women Be Wise” and compare it to Bonnie’s cover.  Bonnie Raitt produced Sippie’s album, Sippie.  (I’m smart like that because I listen to KDRP out of Dripping Springs, Texas.) I was still in college when Sippie died so I never got to see her sing live.

I just saw Lavelle sit in with the Resentments this summer at the Saxon Pub.  Correction, she did not sit even though Plank offered her a chair.  She wanted to stand and strut.

Now women be wise/
Keep your mouth shut/
Don't advertise your man

Sippie Wallace, "Women Be Wise"

I'll Tell You What I Want, What I Really, Really Want

New chapter in the MAM blog.  I have a milestone approaching.  I’m about to become a woman of a certain age with a zero behind it. On Christmas.

Today Johnny Goudie, the Cuban-American music phenom who brings you the incomparable podcast "How Did I Get Here?"  posted an Esquire article about music.  It’s worthless.  We don’t have to pay for it anymore.  Musicians don’t make enough to buy mayonnaise much less a mansion.

Help me help myself.  No, help me help musicians.  I want music for my birthday.  Want to know what to get me for my birthday?  Music.  Tune into the blog between now and Christmas and I’ll drop you a major hint about what I want for my birthday. Please give me a CD for my birthday.  Now I’m begging.

Some of these CDs I’ll be asking for in upcoming blog entries are ones I used to have.  Some of the CDs I want will replace albums my parents sold at yard sales so they could pay for my college education (back when proceeds from an album could pay a tuition bill).  Sob.  Some will replace music  I gave to friends. 

Please send me a CD.  Don’t worry if someone else sends a duplicate.  I’ll put it into the hands of a friend who also needs music.  These CDs will not go to waste, I assure you.

Some of my requests will make you scratch your head.  She wants that?  I can already hear Dan Ardia saying, “That’s derivative crap!” Well, yes, Dan, some of it is, but it’s all about the acoustic memory on the MAM blog.  I’m taking a trip back in time.

Today I’m sitting on the bus in my acoustic memory.  In real time I was in CVS buying riboflavin for migraine prophylaxis (at a certain age, prophylaxis is required for less and less) and I heard this song from the 1980s.  Takes me back to a yellow school bus with a stereo.  The Centre soccer team was traveling to play a team from Eastern Kentucky. Those mountain women put bruises on our shins, and Joe Jackson slipped angst into our hearts.  Yes, I want Joe Jackson Night and Day.  Thank you, CVS for my acoustic memory.  

And while you’re making all my dreams come true, shop at CVS.  It’s in my retirement portfolio.

We are young but getting old before our time/

We’ll leave the TV and the radio aside/

Don’t you wonder what we’ll find/

Steppin out tonight?

Joe Jackson

"Steppin Out"

Mad About Men

I can’t stop watching that television show about the Madison Avenue advertising agency. You know, the one based in the 60s that chronicles Don Draper’s sorry life.

The harder they come, the harder they fall, and this bird fell late.  Season 6 marks my first year of indentured servitude on Sunday nights.

Did you hear that song on Mad Men?  What song, you ask.  Any song.  Think about it, what song do you remember hearing on Mad Men? I’ve dissected away the draw of scenes where folks smoke and drink ad lib. What remains are a few nice suits and some darn good songs. They’ve hooked me with the songs. It’s acoustic memory central.

I just finished Season 1, and “My Special Angel,” (written by Bobby Helms but made known to me in the late 60s by the Pennsylvania group the Vogues) stands out as the most tongue-in-cheek song selection of the whole season. After learning that the neighbor threatened to kill the Draper dog if it attacks another one of his birds, we see Mrs. Draper in a pink peignoir, coiffed and manicured, of course, shooting the neighbor’s birds out of the sky with a shotgun while we listen to Bobbie Vinton sing “My Special Angel.”  

I can hardly wait for the Season 6 finale tomorrow night.  I don’t care what Don Draper does.  I’m just in it for the songs.

You are my special angel/

Right from paradise/

I know that you’re an angel/

Heaven is in your eyes

“My Special Angel”

--Bobby Helms

She Came in Through the Bathroom Window

A bird flew into my bathroom this morning.  She gave me a quite a start when I entered the room and heard her fluttering about. The bird brain thought about nesting in my drying lingerie before trying to escape through a skylight.

I'd carelessly left the window open after taking some photos of pink blossoms. But really the mistake was all hers.

The moral of the story is don't fly into every open window, especially when the beauty of the tree outside trumps the beauty of the woman inside with the broom.

She came in through the bathroom window/
Protected by a silver spoon/
But now she sucks her thumb and wanders/
By the banks of her own lagoon

"She Came in Through the Bathroom Window"
--J. Lennon, P. McCartney