All Things Steve

Blue alert! Stolen blues guitar in Delaware

2011-10-20T23:08:00.001-04:00

This is a stolen guitar alert. Since it's a bluesman's guitar, that makes this a blue alert.

The guitar in question is a red Gibson SG Jr., serial number 6000096.

The owner, Tom Larsen, reported his Gisbson as stolen after he last saw it on Saturday, October 8. From his description of the Gibson SG Jr.:

It had a tremolo bar on it with a slim metal shaft topped by white plastic. The P-90 was replaced by a humbucker that had a small toggle switch allowing for changing from double-coil to single-coil.

Mostly, it is very recognizable because of the 30+ years of wear on the finish. The finish was worn off down to the bare wood at the bottom right side (where your right arm would rest).

The case was original and very worn also, with bare wood showing through and duct tape holding it all together.

Larsen had just used the SG Jr. at his gig at Irish Eyes in Lewes, Delaware, on that Saturday night. "It was taken at some point during loud-out," he says.

If you have any information about the guitar, send Larsen an e-mail to "Tom Larsen Band," all one word, "at Gmail dot com."

This public service announcement was brought to you by "All Things Steve."

All in 48 hours

2011-10-16T23:36:00.002-04:00

Yeah, I knew better. It was my intention to leave around 3 in the afternoon on Friday to head east into Philly for my gig with Carmen Magro because I didn't want to hit rush hour. But I didn't make it out until much later and, of course, traffic didn't cooperate.

So, instead of being at the Legendary Dobbs on time for soundcheck, I got there five minutes before showtime. I didn't even say hi to the other guys in the band. No time. I just unloaded my gear and went back outside to move my car out of the bus zone. I grabbed one of the few remaining spots in the $25 garage across the street.

Emerging from the elevator and deposited onto an unfamiliar street in Center City Philadelphia, I had no idea which way to start walking and where to turn after that. I'm normally the worst in the world at directions, but my internal compass went into overdrive and I got there in no time.

A man on a mission, I barged into that joint and darted for the stage. They'd already set up my keyboard for me and even got the volume in place. All I heard were four clicks of the drumsticks, and we launched into our first song. I think we were starting on time!

Carmen's 40-minute set went very well. In fact, my stress level went down almost instantly because there's something in his music that is both relaxing and inspiring. It sure made me feel comfortable as I started testing out some other harmony lines vacated by Suzanne Moore, who was elsewhere.

Suzanne, that night, was fronting her own band with multi-instrumentalist Tom Najarian. Their band, Work Release, had a gig in Bridgeport. So my plans were to get out of Philly and go see them. But my first priorities were a Whiz Wit at Jim's Steaks on South Street, catch some of the Dave Goddess Group's set at Dobbs, and retrieving my gear by driving up a not-so-spacious alley and back out in reverse.

From there, I headed to the Bridgeport Ribhouse and took in Work Release's second set. Tom and Suzanne talked me into playing the third set with them. I'd never even tried to play the Allman Brothers Band's "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed" in my life, and I was doing so in a live setting with Get the Led Out singers Paul Sinclair and Diana DeSantis in the house! Somehow, I wasn't nervous. Diana joined in for one song, Melissa Etheridge's "Come to My Window."

After that, I met up with my college friend Jen for her boyfriend Tim's birthday party. It was great seeing Jen again. I knocked over a beer, drank some of Tim's Glenlivet, and lacked the focus needed to be anywhere near successful at "You Don't Know Jack" on the Xbox. Then, I crashed on an air mattress and we all slept in till about noon.

After breakfast with Tim and another buddy of his, I didn't know where to go. My next gig wasn't until nighttime, so I had a full Saturday afternoon to waste. I didn't know I'd be passing by Valley Forge National Park, but when I saw all the people on the biking/running/walking path I became curious enough to pull over. Realizing where I was, I ended up taking about 100 photographs and moreover just enjoying my surroundings, the temperature, and a nice walk.

A short nap at my home away from home sustained me for a while before it was time to head to the hoppin', happenin' Whitpain Tavern for my gig with the Lords of Nothing. My friend James drove down from the New York area and documented the show in snapshots. He got a few representative photos of the quite attractive crowd we had singing and dancing.

My drive back home gave way to an even briefer nap, and I awoke to my alarm telling me to start getting ready for church. It was my third weekend as acting music director at St. Philip the Apostle, and I had three Masses to play. The first was with a cantor. The second was with the Adult Choir, and it was my world premiere as a choir director with Alyssa Eichen pinch-hitting for me on piano. The third was adding piano to the guitars and voices in the Folk Group. Somewhere along the adventure, I got in some piano straight off of the Cat Stevens recording of "Morning Has Broken."

The Eagles game was probably pretty good. I wouldn't know. I started falling asleep from exhaustion during the second quarter and didn't even see a minute of the second half. But I was awake enough in the evening to head into downtown Lancaster for Alyssa's impressive clarinet recital at St. James Episcopal that combined Brahms, Paganini and Lady Gaga. She has an informal jam session regularly with some music majors, and I might like to be involved even though I'm not even close to a music major.

The Nats in September

2011-09-22T00:33:00.000-04:00

We're the Washington Nationals, and that's what we do. We spend most of the year being dead last in our division, but in September when the division champ is determined, we beat up on the division champ for a while before we go home in October. Let's go Nats!

I'm a Nats fan. Lived in D.C., walking distance from the ballpark, while they made the move from being the Montreal Expos. The day they announced it, I bought my first-ever baseball cap. The first Nats home game in D.C. was a pre-season exhibition game, and I went. It was my second MLB game as an adult, ever. I'd never even cared about baseball, but this was something to do. It was cold out, but I loved the experience. I was a Nats fan. I went so much the next two years that by their third season (2007), I decided to own a 20-game plan. I did the same the following year, and I've been wearing one of my Nationals Park 2008 Inaugural Season long-sleeve shirts today. Yesterday, I wore a T-shirt with the Nats' DC logo. So there ya go. I'm a Nats fan.

Gonna support diabetes research and toast my nation America on Sept. 10

2011-08-16T22:31:00.000-04:00

Outside Stabler Arena in Bethlehem, PA, after Lehigh University's football team hosts an opponent, there is an outdoor music festival called "Rev It Up for Juvenile Diabetes" with ticket sales benefiting the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.

They're charging $27.50 and $39.50 for tickets, and I'm told they're also filming it so they may continue to raise money for the cause in releasing the video for sale.

The main headlining act is Crystal Bowersox, who (most people know better than I do) was the runner-up on Season Nine of "American Idol." She's that blonde girl with dreadlocks, a sweet li'l thang from Toledo.

TV airs a diabetes commercial featuring her and bluesman B.B. King. Having avoided "American Idol" for years, I recognize Crystal only from her 30-second spot about testing blood sugar.

I believe Elliot Yamin is also performing. He was on "Idol" too and I think is also diabetic. And there's a Philly-area guy who didn't make it past the audition stage on "Idol," named Jordan White.

And also, there's area singer-songwriter Carmen Magro, a keyboardist who's hiring me for this special appearance only, so that he can truly act as a frontman for that show more than usual, trapped behind the keys.

In addition to fundraiser, the festival will also be part tribute to 9/11 since the following day will be the tenth anniversary. The 9/11 tribute will come as Carmen and his band, including me, play his inspirational single "America."

It sounds like a pretty cool gig on Sept. 10! (This is what I lost Fatback for.)

My exit from South Central Pennsylvania

2011-08-16T21:49:00.001-04:00

So this is what's up. For the last couple of months, I've been making music in a chunk of South Central Pennsylvania, within about a 35-mile radius from Harrisburg, where singer and guitarist Bobby Schell discovered me and invited me to play with his band.

They're called Fatback. I just played as their member on keyboards twice this weekend; these were my third and fourth gigs with them, respectively.

Saturday's gig (Aug. 13) was a backyard party, a surprise party thrown by a husband to his wife who'd newly earned an M.B.A. from Penn State. This outdoor surprise party would have been a complete disaster if not for "the little tent that could"!

This is on the way to Saturday's backyard party gig under the protection of only a tent underneath a roaring downpour. Only in a place like South Central Pennsylvania would a devoted husband still see fit to withstand two torrents so as to pay appropriate tribute to his wife on the occasion of her M.B.A.!

I pulled into the home's driveway toward the onslaught of an out-and-out storm. Bobby Schell was trying to set up underneath the tent while it's the hardest rain you've felt only once earlier this year.

It let up as the party started, but then it stormed a second time while we were playing. My keyboard was dripped upon. One key hasn't been working ever since.

We were a blues band, not a rock band; otherwise, I am preconditioned to launch immediately into "Riders on the Storm," whether that crucial F# is working or not.

Darn the luck, there just had to be a torrential downpour on the day of our only outdoor gig. But if all I am missing as a result is one note, I'm glad that's all: Drummer J.J. Dugan quipped the next day he was surprised none of us was electrocuted! He said we'd really tempted fate, and you can do only so much of stuff like that.

By Sunday evening (Aug. 14), the rain had subsided to a drizzle with a gentle breeze. A brizzle, if you will (a drizzle and breeze if you won't).

Photo credit: T.L.

About 50 passengers spent a few hours aboard a historical two-deck riverboat cruising on the Susquehanna River out of some Harrisburg docks at $25 a ticket.

Fatback with special guest aboard the riverboat. Photo credit: T.L.

It was a Blues Cruise, and Fatback was the entertainment. And I was entertained too; bassist Dave Harris and I keep each other in stitches the whole time.

Bobby Schell. Photo credit: T.L.

My dad really loved Bobby's soulful singing. My sister loved J.J.'s singing voice while he plays drums. Her husband loved Bobby's guitar. And only a mother could love my keyboard playing!

Steve Sauer. Photo Credit: T.L.

But thanks to my family and their good friends who showed up, there was a great vibe toward the front of the room while we were playing.

There's a lot of video my mom and others shot aboard the riverboat. I'll be uploading that to YouTube eventually.

Fatback really played some amazing stuff -- not just at those four shows I played with them, but also at our weekly rehearsals, which I taped and are really rockin'. We always had a good time.

However, I'm afraid they were all along hoping I'd be somebody a little more permanent than I seemed to be. For one thing, I'd already given them a sheet of dates I wouldn't be available because I was playing other gigs -- all the way over in the Philadelphia suburbs and points eastward.

For whatever reason, they took one of the dates I wouldn't be available and booked themselves a gig with another keyboardist sitting in. I found out about their date when it was publicized along with the name of their special guest keyboardist.

Then, shortly after my riverboat gig with Fatback, I asked off for one of the next two gigs so that I could go take another job north of Philadelphia instead.

I guess they were offended by the notion that they'd be the lower-profile and lower-importance of the two keyboard-playing offers I had on the same night.

So, now, Fatback has issued a Craigslist ad looking for a permanent keyboardist in the Harrisburg area.

These guys are seriously good musicians! Anybody would be lucky to play with them!

Am I surprised at this? No, I realize why anyone in the band saw my other gigs as competition. That's because they were competing for me against an unknown quantity, and Fatback seemed to be losing to the draw of dangling money or promising exposure, or something -- just anything but them.

Update: I've just spoken with Bobby Schell, who'd read the above, and we agreed that I'll still be available to Fatback for whatever other dates we've already booked and will commit to other dates until they acquire a permanent keyboardist. I am currently unable to commit as their permanent keyboardist, which disappoints me. However, I am happy Bobby understands my situation and is willing to keep me on in the meantime.

Moving to the Philly area but watching weekend gigs in NY & NJ

2011-07-17T16:15:00.001-04:00

On Friday, I rode up to New York City with band and crew members of Get the Led Out, a Led Zeppelin tribute band and national touring act.

Almost entirely by chance, my brother in Lower Manhattan was out walking on his lunch break when he read a tweet of mine with a picture of mine taken backseat in the Lincoln Tunnel. A New Yorker by day, Tom asked me suspiciously what I was doing taking pictures inside one of the city's tunnels. I guess I was just hoping for something as cool-looking as these.

For the first time, I met Brian, another of my fellow Led Zeppelin blog authors, who had driven down from the Toronto area. We spent the afternoon walking: first to Times Square, where one of us (I'm not saying which) managed to get his ass kicked by Elmo.

Our walk also afforded my Canadian friend and me a glimpse of one particular national treasure; we didn't step inside, so we didn't get a good idea of how high the ceiling is.

Our next stop is one sought out by Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones fans alike: the building at 96-98 St. Marks Place, on whose steps Mick and Keef can be seen sitting in the video for "Waiting on a Friend," which also happens to be the building you see on the cover of Physical Graffiti.

Finally, Brian and I dropped by the vinyl shop Bleecker Bob's in Greenwich Village, upon my insistence, with the intention of finally fulfilling my dream of procuring the 1967 Jake Holmes record with "Dazed and Confused" on it. It consistently hasn't been there the past five times I've times visited, but once I was able to obtain another Holmes LP, So Close So Very Far To Go.

At Irving Plaza, we headed back to meet the group before their three-hour show.

Most of the time, I planted myself two rows from the stage, air-drumming throughout, between my new Canadian friend and a milfy New Yorker who was impressed I seemed to know every word to "Whole Lotta Love," "The Ocean" and even the rarity "Down by the Seaside." We laughed when we took turns choking on consecutive lines in "Kashmir."

After the show, I rode with the same band and crew members back to the Philly area -- no after-show shenanigans, just traffic into Jersey where they'd closed the two left lanes and made us all go single-file outbound. I slept at the home of one of their guitarists, who woke me for breakfast with jam. (Get it, jam?) We played piano and guitar for a bit until I had to go.

Then I drove over to tour a house in the Philly suburbs where I figured I'd be staying from now on, paying $500 for a room in this woman's house each month until I don't want to do that anymore. The place was nice; I'm sitting there right now typing this.

Once I decided the room would be mine, I hopped into her truck lugging a trailer behind. We went to pick up her boyfriend, the singer in a rock cover band I'll soon be playing with, to get us all to Wildwood, New Jersey, for their gig in a restaurant and pub just off the boardwalk.

They're the Lords of Nothing. I wanted to hear their three sets since I'll be the "permanent substitute keyboardist" starting next week (). It would give me a heads up on what they've been used to with their usual keyboardist, a School of Rock teacher and prog/Zappa fanatic. Holy crap, I'm in for a challenge if I'm expected to play anything like this guy!

Shuffling my projects in Central Pennsylvania

2011-06-25T01:36:00.000-04:00

My last few hours have been pretty interesting.

At 7 p.m., I hopped in my car and drove an hour to Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, at the invitation of Bobby Schell, a singer/guitarist I'd met and jammed with one night before. Tonight, he was hosting a jam session with his blues trio Fatback the night before their gig. I sat in and played keyboard. They said I fit right in so well that I must have been spying on their prior rehearsals. Halfway through, Bobby asked if I would join them at their gig in 24 hours. I said yes.

We'll be doing a bunch of blues tunes: many covers or just jams but also a few really good originals. We ran through some of those originals with my handy-dandy recorder, and they might as well have been studio takes. Their arrangements were tight, and both the drummer and bassist were extra helpful to make sure I knew what to expect next. All I had to do was look at them. I love that kind of situation. That's what is most fun about playing. Since this won't be a paying gig, at least I have that to look forward to.

My gig with Fatback will be at the Blue Front Lounge, 109 N. Front St., Steelton, PA 17113. We start up at 8 p.m. and will probably be doing two hours' worth of music. That's Saturday, June 25.

So as I hopped into my car after this audition/rehearsal/jam with Fatback, I left a voicemail message for my brother-in-law Kevin about the fact that now I have a gig the next day. Kevin is burying his uncle in the morning for a service where I'll be the organist, so I know it'll be a heavy day for him. I thought maybe he'd like to blow off some steam and come out to the gig.

After I left the voicemail, my phone rang. It's Tim, who's been the guitarist in my brother's band for the last 20 years or probably longer. Well, after a while of talking about everything else in the world, Tim finally dropped a bombshell on me: He's quit my brother's band. Thursday night was his last rehearsal with them. They ganged up on him, he said, and he told them he was through. Tim had been talking about forming a new band with me anyway, so now this makes it all the more pressing for him. In the meantime, I spent over half an hour on the phone with Tim discussing his feelings. He ended up saying he probably won't want to play the two remaining previously scheduled gigs with the band anymore because if he did so, tensions would arise that would undoubtedly land somebody a night in jail. He can't afford to take the risk that he'll be the one going in the pokey, so he's probably going to put it that way and tell them that.

Tomorrow, between the funeral-related events and my gig, I'll actually be seeing my brother whose band Tim quit. My keyboard has been at my brother's place this past week. My brother and I are also talking about playing some gigs out together, just the two of us, if we can put together an act. It will be interesting to see what my brother has to say about Tim quitting their band so suddenly after a 20- or 25-year relationship. Tim said their attack on him was akin to Pearl Harbor: "sudden" and "unprovoked." I'm sure my brother will contribute his two cents.

My thoughts go out tonight to my brother-in-law's deceased uncle Jack and sympathies to his family. I'm also sending my well wishes to Carol, who hosts the radio show I work for, as she's been undergoing some medical procedures over the past few days. I'm also thinking of my friend JR, who's also been in the hospital this week and I haven't heard many details. Finally, my thanks and good vibrations go out to Marianna, who hooked me up with Bobby Schell when he was looking for a keyboardist to augment his Fatback lineup. Marianna won't be there for the gig as she's going on vacation, but I'll be sure to tell her all about it when we speak again.

New Orleans not a place for the sober loner

2011-05-04T16:00:00.000-04:00

Well, I didn't enjoy my first night in New Orleans at all. That's because of a lot of things.

First, I don't have much in the way of cash so I'm trying to hold onto what I do have for dear life. Also, I have always hated using ATMs that would charge me fees for using them, especially when I know my bank will do the same. Not that there's really much in the bank available for withdrawal to begin with.

So with no cash, that means no cab. Unless there's a cab that accepts credit cards, which I seriously doubt. But I didn't even ask. So I drove into the city.

Driving into the city is not inherently a problem like it would be in a place like New York. New Orleans is not a terribly busy city bogged down with traffic problems. It does have its share of crazy drivers, however. But the first challenge in driving in New Orleans is finding somewhere to park. Street parking is very limited, and garages cost upwards of $5 with many closer to $13. And who knows if that means paying with cash. Again, I didn't ask.

After circling around a loop a few times last night, I did manage to find one single space -- street parking. There was a meter, but I didn't know if I had to feed it or not. Again, I didn't ask, and I left the meter hungry, which it seems was the right thing to do. No tickets!

But since I was driving, I didn't want to drink. And walking around the French Quarter of New Orleans without a drink in your hand automatically differentiates you from almost everyone else. For the most part, the only people without drinks in their hand are:

1.) the barkers, whose job it is to draw people inside to the bars and clubs where they work;

and

B.) the bums, who are begging for money explicitly so they can get "a cold one." At least they're up front in telling you why they want your money!

If you're not drinking, you probably don't want to be bothered by drunk people either. And that's all everybody is in town, drunk. And with all the competing loud music emanating from inside every club's open door, walking up and down Bourbon Street is absolutely uncomfortable acoustically. It would take several drinks to soothe my ears and make me think of something else.

So what do you do if you can't drink? You eat. You always hear about Cajun cuisine in this city. But it's late, and most of the famous restaurants have closed by this hour, so you're stuck with standard late-night fare: burgers and fries and crap. Disappointing if you were hoping for a bowl of gumbo or jambalaya. Hmmm, this place sells pizza by the slice. It's $4 per slice. If you want a topping, it's $5. Oh, and it's cash only. No, thank you.

Oh, great. There's another bum who wants my money so he can get a "cold one." Why does everybody think my name is Big Guy? Is that the only discernible trait I possess, big? I didn't ask.

Putting up with all of these elements alone is just unbearable. Alone and sober? I'm hopping the next flight to anywhere. Or, I'll just stay and let someone else drive me around and buy me drinks.

A week of music in the South

2011-04-15T04:20:00.001-04:00

Just in case anybody wanted to keep track of my recent outings, here are all the venues I've played in the past seven days.

Friday, April 8: River Market, Little Rock, AR

Saturday, April 9: Airport Grocery, Cleveland, MS

Monday, April 11: Hopson's Commissary, Clarksdale, MS

Tuesday, April 12: Hambone Art Gallery, Clarksdale, MS

Wednesday, April 13: Rust Restaurant, Clarksdale, MS

Thursday, April 14:
(1) Ground Zero Blues Club, Clarksdale, MS
(2) Red's Lounge, Clarksdale, MS

Thoughts on the impossibility of an afterlife

2011-04-07T05:00:00.000-04:00

I see a road sign. I read its message, be it speed limit or a mile marker. I assume, before I pass it, that the sign has another side. In my rear-view mirror, I can confirm it did have another side: It was blank and the signpost was exposed. My assumption that there is another side has always been right. This is confidence.

So one may (errantly) argue an equal confidence that life, too, has another side. They would see it as a logical jump from one assumption to the other. If a sign always has two sides, then life must also always have two sides.

The point of death exists, and it must usher in something else equal to life, its mirror image manifested in the afterlife. Why would one not make this assumption the way one can assume it with the road sign?

Well, the one thing I cannot do without firsthand knowledge is verify the existence of any kind of an afterlife -- not until I die and experience the afterlife for myself (or don't) firsthand would I be able to say with confidence whether or not any afterlife exists. I have no more confidence in this, due to a lack of verifiable evidence of this, than anybody else who hasn't experienced it firsthand.

And if there is no afterlife, I wouldn't be able to say it. I would simply cease to exist, along with my consciousness, my sentience. My body would be buried and return to the soil, providing nutrients for plants and, perhaps, bugs, livestock, humans, etc. The circle of life continues on earth while my awareness ceases to exist.

My existence is exactly as finite as my life. It had a beginning point; this must be true because I don't remember anything from before I was born. The mirror image here is not an afterlife; the mirror image is life's other endpoint: death.

Playing music in Texas

2011-03-21T13:18:00.000-04:00

Lately, I've been getting my solo act down. This marks two weekends in a row that I played solo sets in Texas, and I've been able to recall lyrics, or at least fake my way through by mumbling or inventing funny lyrics about not remembering the actual words. It's been going over like a hit!

But I'd still rather not be a solo act. I just want to jam with great musicians and be the not-famous keyboard player behind somebody famous. Somebody like this cat I met in Nashville, Brian Krane. I'm hanging out with our mutual friend Michael right now, who I think would make a great guitar player for Brian.

Also here is Sep, who I met a couple days ago here in Austin. He wants to be our manager until Brian hits it big. Then it would go down like in "(This is) Spinal Tap," he says, with us suddenly firing him in the heat of the moment.

Turning my back on SxSW

2011-03-16T16:50:00.000-04:00

It is possible to go to Austin during South by Southwest and completely shut out what's going on around you. I can attest; I'm doing it right now.

Oh, tonight I'll probably venture out and catch a show. But not during the daytime! I have a book to write, and I'm gonna get that done during the day. I'll go see a show to cap the evening.

But skip the daytime shows, and you'll find Austin to be very relaxing. Just find a place where everybody hangs their hat at night. It'll be completely deserted during the daytime because everybody's out doing their thing, leaving you with a very comfortable and almost completely empty place to chill in near solitude.

I must also say that a friend and I caught some very interesting musical acts last night -- all for free. Parking lots made money, but musicians probably didn't.

Everything forever changes

2011-03-08T02:04:00.002-05:00

Over a relatively short period of time, my life has changed rather drastically. Seven months ago:

I was still the editor of a publication about residential energy efficiency.
Well over a year had passed since I played even one gig as a professional musician.
South Florida was where I called home, even though basically the only people I knew were my ex-girlfriend and her four kids.
It had been years since I spent any quality time with my family in Pennsylvania.
I had decided to rectify all of the above.

Bear in mind that at this time seven months ago, I'd just taken a solo road trip through the South, hitting up some places I'd always wanted to go:

Memphis, Tennessee
Clarksdale, Mississippi
Little Rock, Arkansas

I'd never been to any of those places. I couldn't have imagined how much fun it would be to pass through! I met many cool people and learned so much about music in a short time. It didn't take much time for me to decide I was going to make some changes, beginning with quitting my editor job and leaving Florida when my apartment lease expired. But an even bigger move was already in the works: my next return to the South for a much longer road trip.

Before I got to visit with my family in Pennsylvania again, my 1,200-mile drive up I-95 coincided with Halloween weekend and one of the biggest gatherings in D.C. in all of 2010. There was no way I was going to miss Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity. It was especially symbolic for me as I viewed the changes I was making in my life as very positive and all aimed at restoring my own sanity. For one thing, I needed music to be an important aspect of my life once again.

So I spent November, December and January braving cold weather in places like Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and even Massachusetts. I kept pretty busy and saw a lot of family and friends. My parents put up with me for most of the time. My sister's daughters, who are about 13 years apart in age, are the best nieces in the world anybody could ever ask for, and they both think the world of me. The one who's 21 is the top student hairdresser in my hometown, and she cut my hair every month while I was around. The one who's still in grade school is a tiny bundle of love with some real talents and ambitions, and I hope to keep careful watch over her in the future.

Over the same three months, I also saw some business colleagues. Yes, business colleagues! See, since 2009, I've been employed as a consultant for the nationally syndicated radio show "Get the Led Out," which is put together by people in New York and suburban Philadelphia.

I turned 31 years old in the presence of Carol Miller, the host of the show and the long-standing primetime DJ in New York's leading classic rock station, as she finished up her four-hour shift at midnight. I spent that entire shift with her, one on one, watching her work and asking her questions about her long and amazing career and life story.
Back in the Philly area, I met several times with the show's producer, Denny Somach, who will be the coauthor of a book with me next year. We're in the middle stages right now of getting our manuscript together and submitting it all to the publisher. Denny has been published a number of times before, and he says this book will really do great things for my career.
Denny and I interviewed Jason Bonham backstage at his Led Zeppelin Experience concert in Philadelphia. (I also attended the New York show, and my friend James and I got to hang with the whole band after the show.) Denny and I also interviewed Vince Martell of the Vanilla Fudge.

At the same time, I also got back into playing music thanks to some pretty incredible musicians in the Philly area.

One night, I found myself playing Led Zeppelin songs on a rickety old piano backstage at an immensely attended tribute band concert. In addition to hanging with members of Get the Led Out for the third time in about a month, something unusual happened when guitarist Jeff LaBar of Cinderella sat down on the bench next to me and started singing what I was playing.
I also got to play some really well paying gigs with some real pros. One was at the Borgata, the biggest of the hotel/casinos in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Another was my first-ever New Year's Eve gig, in the D.C. area at a bar where the bartender still remembered me from when I last played there with three other bands, in 2007 and 2008.
I also played three times to standing-room-only crowds at a very homey bar and restaurant in Bridgeport, Pennsylvania, with some of the best musicians I've ever had the pleasure of sharing a stage with. It's great when, even with minimal rehearsal, everything just gels smoothly. There's been a lot of that lately!

After all that time planning my road trip, it finally began at the beginning of February. Determined to put bad weather behind me and music meccas in front of me, I loaded up a carful of my earthly possessions, pointed it southward, and started driving. My first destination was Washington, D.C., to attend a Robert Plant concert with some friends of mine. Another friend happened to be in town on business and offered to put me up for a night in his lush downtown hotel room.

Then, I spent a few days checking out Virginia cities and towns like Fredericksburg, Orange, Charlottesville, Salem and Bristol.

One night along the way, I stayed with some friends who are getting married this summer.
I stumbled upon the nation's largest vendor of pedal steel guitars, where one of the staffers tried putting me in touch with a member of Gretchen Wilson's touring band.
A record store I stopped in was playing a very interesting LP from 1968 by a Portuguese garage rock band called Os Mutantes. I ended up buying the music on iTunes.
The Virginia/Tennessee border town of Bristol was a great place to hang out for one day and night. I visited the Mountain Music Museum and yakked it up with a touring cover band, After the Crash.

Elsewhere in Tennessee over the next few days:

In Knoxville, I ate well and stayed with another friend.
In Franklin, I ate well and stayed with yet another friend. Notice any trends here?

I spent two and a half weeks at a hostel in Nashville, forging new friendships with some legitimate world travelers, many of whom were similarly focused on music, travel or, usually, both.

With vast amounts of talent all in one place, we naturally jammed and shared our original music. One new friend even brought me to a recording session of his.
Also while in Music City, I met the Led Zeppelin photographer Frank Melfi, took in a second Robert Plant concert, and went out almost every night to listen to live music. I spent almost every night wondering if there would be any way to get onstage and play. With only one night left in town, I succeeded in playing onstage, only not as a keyboardist but first as a harmonica player and second as a bassist. I'm nowhere near as good on those instruments, and Nashville still doesn't know this.
One day, I drove to just outside Atlanta, Georgia, so I could surprise my aforementioned ex-girlfriend by showing up and taking her out to dinner around Valentine's Day. She was there on business for a few days, and I figured it would be worth the five-hour one-way drive to see her again. I'm glad we did, as we now seem to be getting back together. This despite our long distance. But it's because we've been unable to get over each other, and all the trip did was make me want to give another shot at planning an eventual future with her.

Three nights were all I spent in Memphis, and my keyboard got used the first two of those three nights in town.

My first night in town, I showed up at a dive bar where other musicians were jamming on guitars and others were welcome to sit in. So I grabbed my trusty keyboard and joined them.
The next night as the same place closed, the bartender recommended a place nearby for live music that stayed open longer. Within a minute of my entering the place he suggested, the band happened to be having trouble with their keyboard and jokingly asked the audience if anyone had a backup keyboard. Little did they know some stranger would actually provide!

In the Little Rock area, I first met up with a friend, had lunch, and hopped with her back on the road to continue west to Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Thanks to a publicist, my name was on the guest list for Joe Bonamassa's show at the Brady Theater. There was also a photo pass for my fellow traveler.
My friend and I returned to her place near Little Rock, and she let me stay for a week so I could get some writing and planning done. She also made sure I got into town a couple times to take in some live music.

And then my phone rang. A friend called from a few states away to remind me of somebody in Little Rock he'd always thought I should meet. This person was the trumpet player for the Greasy Greens, a 12-piece band that just happened to be in need of a keyboard player for a weekend gig the very next day. The gig was in front of a 5,500-member crowd of marathoners inside the Clinton Library. This was just on Sunday, and I fit in very well because my great ear helped me through several hours of songs I didn't know but was able to follow without problem. The band wants me back for a couple more gigs next month, and I think they'll both probably work into my schedule.

Where I arrived just before sunset today is in Clinton, Arkansas, at one band member's cabin in the woods with a giant lake in the backyard and only a wood stove inside to keep me warm. (Right now, I can still see my breath.) I'll be here alone for a few days, acting like a hermit while I concentrate on writing that Led Zeppelin book. This is my Bron-Yr-Aur moment, and I'll soon emerge with my Led Zeppelin III.

In summary, Charlie Sheen ain't got nothing on me. Winning!

My first time onstage in Nashville

2011-02-23T05:30:00.000-05:00

From now on, I get to say it happened. I get to say, without lying, that I played onstage in Nashville.

Technically, it is correct. I did get to play, on top of a stage, in Nashville. And I can add that I was legitimately invited, too.

It was short. (That's what she said.)

The song was "Mary Jane's Last Dance." I heard one of the guitarists strumming the rhythm part and knew it was coming. I said aloud to a friend:

"I can play this pretty well on harmonica. (pause) In fact, I'm gonna go get my harmonica and play this song with them."

It was greeted with a "Yeah, you should do that."

So I went to my car, parked just outside and down a few buildings over, on the street corner. In a legal space too, mind you. I parallel-parked in Nashville too! Wasn't even close to the first time.

I digress.

So from my car, I grabbed my harmonicas, which are kept all in one convenient carrying case. On my way back to the bar, I thought about the song and the key they were playing it in -- A minor (I could tell thanks to perfect pitch) -- and pulled out exactly the two harps I knew from past experience I'd need to complete the song: A and G harps. G for almost all of it, and A just for a couple of A major chords that pop up in the chorus.

As I passed by the security who'd just seen me leave, I showed him what I was bringing into his bar. At the sight of some musical instruments, he shrugged his shoulders and let me through. I guess he figured he'd hear about it if I turned out to be unwanted. The place was a slow Tuesday anyway; no harm.

And the band was playing the song. I could tell they were finishing verse one. So, with the correct harp in hand, I went up and played the chorus right underneath the stage, directly at the frontman.

They say this type of behavior once got a guy in Stockholm spat upon by Jimmy Page! But that guy was playing all through Jimmy's guitar instrumental, "White Summer." There isn't supposed to be any harmonica in that. Not even Keith Relf played harmonica on that!

But at least in my case I was replicating an integral part of the song note-for-note. It was "Mary Jane's Last Dance"; you know the harmonica part! Nobody in their band was doing it. Without it there, the song is rather incomplete.

So the lead guy in the band turned his ear and listened to me play. When he heard that I was actually playing it right, he soon called me up to start playing.

They had me do a solo. Honestly, there shouldn't be a solo on the harmonica part. It's just meant to be there to back the guitar for a little while and then drop out so the guitar can really take it home!!! So, I didn't want a solo, but I got one.

Then it went back to the guitar.

I hit the A harp again at the end. Just for fun -- and in case they were going into A major for any reason. They didn't. But it was all right; I just avoided the third like the plague.

Just like when you're playing a measure of A minor with the G harp. You want to make sure you don't hit the F# on that harmonica unless you're actually playing a minor 6 chord!

Anyway ...

So, that was my "Mary Jane's Last Dance" jam onstage in Nashville. And I'm not embarrassed about it at all.

It's the second one that's embarrassing. But I won't tell that story just yet.

I do have a recording of it, though.

Meeting people is easy.

2011-02-07T20:22:00.000-05:00

It's going great in Nashville.

What's been best? Oh, the Southern hospitality. Befriend the bathroom attendants while you're in here. Tip well. Musicians? Make sure they get fed. Bartenders? Keep them happy.

But the locals? Let them treat you. That's my advice for when you're in town.

Enjoy Music Row. Be yourself. Be real. Be friendly. Remember the Golden Rule. You will be taken care of.

Good vibrations.

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My first time in Bristol

2011-02-04T18:14:00.000-05:00

My two hours of driving southward today through Virginia did end up taking me into both parts of the border town called Bristol: the half in Virginia to the north and the half in Tennessee to the south, divided at State Street. Hey, what else would you logically call it?

While I was on the Virginia side, I popped into the Mountain Music Museum and bought some appropriately priced postcards, along with some cheap CD/DVD mailing envelopes purchased elsewhere at the Bristol Mall. And next, I'm headed to one of the two restaurants on the Tennessee side I researched; they'll have live music tonight, or so I've read on the Internet.

Today has been my first time hanging out in Bristol. All I remember from before -- and I remember this clearly -- are some road markers and billboards extolling the status of Bristol as the birthplace of country music, a giant guitar-shaped building that used to be a museum, and also one other particular oddity.

It's the sign that's a tribute to John Bonham. Well, it is to me, probably to few others. As you're nearing the city limits, you're greeted by not one but two signs referring to "Bonham Rd." It was so inspiring to me the first time I drove through that I took a picture of this "Bonham Rd" sign. Driving me at the time was by Zeppelin buddy Brad, who was traveling with me some of the farthest we've ever gone from home to attend a concert. And that concert was Robert Plant, who was John Bonham's frontman and friend for longer than anybody else ever was to him.

Nearing the city limits, I remembered the "Bonham Rd" signs would be coming up. And they were. I saw the first one 10 seconds later -- and the other shortly after that. It was good mental exercise to drag that memory out of the trenches.

What one might otherwise characterize as an forgettable town midway between Roanoke and Knoxville actually turns out to be a surprisingly inspiring place. And not just because of, in my case, that sign bearing a name I admire. Not even because of some guitar-shaped fire hazard either. It's because there's much more to Bristol than meets the passing eye, beginning first and foremost with the Mountain Music Museum, and continuing right now with where I'm headed for dinner and entertainment. Maybe I'll post something about the meal or the band later on.

A drummer's generosity, and a cabbie's wisdom

2011-02-02T15:53:00.001-05:00

Last night, when I realized I wouldn't be getting back inside my car for the evening, I was lucky enough to have a place to go for the night. One of the members of my Building Science Boogie Band also happened to be in Washington, D.C., and had already offered to put me up in his hotel room that night. Free rooms in D.C. aren't offered every day, so I quickly took him up on it! So thanks, Randy, for letting me crash on your very comfy recliner.

Getting to the Fairmont was easy. I just hailed a cab. Even the cab ride was a good experience! I asked the driver where he was from, and he said Somalia. You should have heard those wheels in my head turning: Where on earth is Somalia? When it occurred to me that it is a country in Africa, I asked him what he thought of the revolution in Egypt. He had two interesting comments.

The same kind of revolution happened last month in Tunisia, he said, and nobody was talking about it anywhere (except, I'm guessing, on NPR). The story in Egypt is on the front pages every day and on CNN. (In fact, Obama's White House press conference last night took place just minutes after I had photographed myself out front.)
The cabbie made me imagine that Ronald Reagan was still president, having been in power for 30 years. That's the way people in Egypt feel about Hosni Mubarak. Good ruler or not, they're just sick of the dude, plain and simple.

Where's the best place to park in D.C.? Nowhere.

2011-02-02T15:42:00.000-05:00

Upon arriving in Washington, D.C., by car late on a weekday afternoon with aspirations of retrieving my parked car sometime after 11 p.m., I was faced with a quandary I had never really encountered before: Where can you park?

During the six years I lived in Washington, I never really drove anywhere, and my only other recent parking experience in Washington was just finding a parking space for a few daylight hours on a weekend, and it was a breeze.

But yesterday, when I was nearing the sports pub where my friends were all meeting me, I texted a friend of mine who knows the area, "Where's the best place to park?" I was hoping the answer would come in the form of a parking garage's address, or an intersection like 18th and F -- something like that. But my friend informed me in a one-word text message that the best place to park in D.C. is "Nowhere."

He was right! By spiraling my way around town on the one-way streets, I did eventually find a garage at 1425 New York Avenue NW, that I believed to be not only accessible 24/7 but also rather cheap. But I guess signs can be misleading because when I returned to the garage at 11:30 p.m., it was locked for the night with no entry possible until morning.

This afternoon, the garage charged me $36 to have it parked there overnight and those few hours into the next day. So, I ended up paying a little more than I'd hoped for parking within 24 hours of the road trip's humble beginnings.

My road trip and book project

2011-01-30T14:25:00.000-05:00

This Tuesday, I leave on a road trip that will put me far from home for the next four months. I'll be doing some sightseeing, some soul-searching, and writing a book whose manuscript will be due at the end of April. So over the next three months, while I'll be plowing through the southern part of the Central Time Zone and stopping by every city that is famous for a music scene, I'll also be writing a book.

Specifically, I will be combing through many years' worth of research and interviews to piece together a new book on Led Zeppelin that presents a fresh and holistic perspective on the band. Some of the book will comprise interviews that are so new, they haven't even been transcribed from audiotape to print form. I have a guy in southern Virginia who's going to be doing some of these transcriptions, and he'll be starting that work for me next week. Depending on how quickly he works, he may also conclude that work next week.

As for the writing, I'll be taking that on the road with me as I travel. There will be no shortage of things to see and do along the way that will inspire me to think crucially about what kinds of information should go into the book I'm writing. What is it about music that is most interesting to readers? It will be on my mind the whole time I'll be doing this traveling, watching bands play live, and talking with various musicians and their fans. The input I get from that will help immensely to ensure this book is a compelling read.

Downtown Church

2011-01-22T18:12:00.007-05:00

Patty Griffin and I share a trait in that we've both recorded downtown churches. Hers was in Nashville, and producer Buddy Miller used it for her solo album Downtown Church.

My experience recording in a downtown church happened a few cold afternoons ago in Lancaster, Pa. It was the same house of worship where I worked weekends part of my way through college. And "work" meant getting to play the pipe organ three times a weekend, in front of 300 or more people at a time. Yeah, it's a very audible position.

Just went back to visit on Wednesday and played a few songs for a retired priest I remember from boyhood.

Steve Sauer - The Bells of St. Mary's

On the organ, I presented my rendition of "The Bells of St. Mary's," the once-popular heartwarmer associated with an eponymous movie from the '40s or so. Longstanding tradition mandated it be played exactly five minutes before every weekend Mass. Therefore, over my tenure as house organist, I estimate I played it roughly 936 times and played it precisely the same way each time, from rote memory. Even eight years later, I can still play it from rote memory and muscle memory exactly as I played it then.

This is the same church when I, then a high schooler, played the organ for the wedding of a local writer to none other than Colin Greenwood of Radiohead.

Anybody know where I can upload MP3s and embed them into a blog?

Day 3 of my Slim-Fast diet

2011-01-19T12:55:00.000-05:00

Day Three of my Slim-Fast diet.

Mmmmm. Lunch in a can!

Bube's Brewery open mic night, 1/6/11

2011-01-07T00:02:00.001-05:00

Decided to check out the scene for this open mic night. Second one I've played at in the area, and I saw one of the same players I jammed with before. He's Ric Emery, a guitarist and instructor who's been driving home the point that he runs his own open mic night downtown and I should come out.

So I'm sitting here by myself, got here shortly after 9 and the band has just started up for the night. They're guitar, bass and drums, and they're available for anyone who wants them to play along. Good news for me, because I don't really care for playing and singing alone on a stage. Especially not when players of their caliber could be playing with me.

They do some jazzy and funky stuff that makes me want to jump up there and play keys right along with them. They sounded like Booker T. & the MGs -- only Booker T. was absent. Next up, they played a couple of classic rock tunes. I could tell they were watching and listening to each other, so it reinforced for me how much I wanted to get to join them.

Some singer/guitarists went up there when called and changed the mood to solo acoustic Beatles covers, couple of relaxed blues tunes, some originals that were easy to follow along with, then jam band material. When my turn came, I wanted to return to the original mood. That's pretty much why I still wanted to go up there. I used the setup time to talk to the guys about some song ideas I had. I wanted to start off with some funky stuff.

Namely, "Watermelon Man." On it, I played about five different keyboard sounds: acoustic piano, electric piano, and maybe three different organs. The vibe was good. The band knew all the different riffs. I arranged it, let the guitarist know when he should take a solo, when it was my turn, when it was the bassist's. I took a couple different solos.

It was pretty much the same deal for my second tune, "Cissy Strut," but I stuck to one organ sound. We really rocked out that instrumental. The guitarist was leading me into some really dissonant jazzy territory, and I followed right along behind him, creating some nice interplay. Another dude came up to get a good look at the band, and at the end he applauded and told us he recognized it as a Meters tune.

At this point, the drummer asked if I'd like to do something with some swing. Not my forte, and I wanted to do some singing, so I countered with "L.A. Woman." So this would be my singing debut with this crowd. I have sort of an arrangement I like to do: during the keyboard solo, throw in some familiar melodies with similar chord progressions. In the past, it's worked only with rehearsal in advance. I could tell with these dudes, all I had to do was fill them in on the spot. So they were right along for that one. I think it was probably nine minutes of greatness, hahaha.

That would have been a great one to go out on, but I suggested one more. I wanted to do "Glad," a Traffic instrumental. As I was thinking of it, I thought it was only three chords and would therefore be really easy for any of them to catch on in case they didn't know it. Not so! As I played it through, I realized it jumped around a lot and I didn't think it was working. So I pulled the plug mid-song and announced over the mic, "Tell you what, we're gonna change it up a little. You guys know this one?" And I led them off on "Badge," the Cream song that George Harrison played on. They knew that one! I wasn't sure about the lyrics, but I made some up. I don't think I ever got to the swans in the park though. But at least it worked out and we got some applause at the end.

Now Ric Emery is leading the guys through a medley of Allman Brothers Band numbers with a common key of A. This is a good jam. Glad to be here!

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Born in July

2010-11-09T18:13:00.001-05:00

This 650 ml bottle of Taj Mahal Premium Lager I'm finishing off right now has a manufacture date of 07/10. Which means that the same month I decided to be a vagabond nomad and travel through the United States, this bottled beer was labeled for export out of India into Sausalito, California, and eventually delivered to New York City. It ended up coming here to this Zagat's-rated Indian eatery in Midtown Manhattan that I also decided to stop into. A sign out front draws me inside with its promise of "free unlimited appetizers" from 4 to 7. Since I'm within that window and not far from my 8:00 destination, it sounds good to me. I've just had two cheese slices further up Lexington and was in need of some more nourishment since lunch never happened for me today.

To my surprise, the downstairs bar was totally empty but for a small dish of Indian mint. As I opened the door, the restaurant name Nirvana made me think of the band whose album In Utero I had just gotten into as a kid when their singer and guitarist killed himself. I'm also thinking of a Robert Plant song of the same name and an album of his called Manic Nirvana. I walked into the place, and their young Pakistani hostess seated me at the empty bar. Another employee swept the floor and paid no attention to us.

After a while, another guy -- not their regular bartender -- takes my drink order and pours me a tall glass of beer, the aforementioned Taj Mahal. He asks me if I want to see a menu and order some food, and I tell him I came in for the "free unlimited appetizers." He nods in acknowledgment and walks away. What?

Unlike the man sweeping who doesn't know what else is going on, this hostess is hovering. She must be hard up for company! Not that it's intrusive to me. I'm all alone, and all she wants to do is tell me about her favorite Italian restaurant in town. It's now a place I might try on Thursday before heading out. But all this talk of the copious amounts of pizza I'll be having this time two days later is making me hungry for right now. Is food on the way? Is it hidden in some corner somewhere and I need to serve myself? I can't ask because the hostess is now telling me her life story: She wants to learn bartending but the guys at Nirvana won't teach her because they just want her to be a hostess. I'm just about to interrupt when a young olive-skinned gentleman brings a full plate just for me. It's some chopped up tandoori chicken on naan with a hint of cilantro or some other spice scattered on top. It's like a 12" pizza just for me! Nice.

Now, the bottle is gone and all that remains are a few more sips in my tall glass. I'm considering a second beer. There's something called 1947. I'd like to see the label up close and decide. After this, I'm going to walk into Chelsea for a show tonight.

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Y&R/B&B update 7/9/10

2010-07-09T20:15:00.001-04:00

Y&R: THIS WAS THE BEST SHOW, TOP TO BOTTOM. So much action on today's show! Best last 5 minutes. And great acting from Joshua Morrow, the way he is in complete alignment with Michelle Stafford's exit from the set. The way Phyllis spoke to Nick, you'd believe that was their portrayers' last scene together -- forever!

But no way, it won't be.

Not with the characters' potential custody battle, probably due the same time as the custody battle between G'Day Cain and ex-full-time "save the planet" warrior Mackenzie. Great, great action on this show, and this particular episode was the best.

B&B CROSSOVER ALERT:

Forrester Creations now has a sudden top-level executive vacancy following today's departure by Brooke Logan Forrester, the last of the Logan girls to occupy any position at Forrester. How long until newly relocated Amber Moore has a similar position in Los Angeles?

Brooke's departure doesn't mean the end of Ridge and her. Ridge is standing by her.

Should this change, it leaves the door open for Brooke to come to Y&R permanently. It would be a return for Brooke, as she and Victor Newman have shared highly flirtatious scenes -- IIRC including some footsie in a restaurant and a sustained kiss.

In that colossal metropolitan area called Genoa City, Brooke and the just-separated and newly liberated Phyllis Summers Newman would be free to pal around. Prediction: Those "Uptown Girls" would defy logic and meet at the decidedly downtrodden Jimmy's Bar located just outside of town. (There, Jill would get a scoop and try to write for Restless Style yet again.)

Further, the may be Hope for the Future in Genoa City. If she opts out of Boston and turns instead to Wisconsin, she can shed her good-girl image and compete with Abby to see who can get naked in more public ways faster!

So, B&B crossovers? Eh, you'll find out soon.

Something stinks in South Carolina

2010-06-11T17:42:00.000-04:00

In this map of South Carolina, the counties highlighted in blue indicate where a majority of voters cast their ballots for Democratic Senatorial candidate Vic Rawl in Tuesday's primary. There are only four; from the northernmost heading south, they are Lancaster, Lexington, Charleston and Jasper. The remaining 42 counties went for the ultimate winner, Rawl's opponent, the virtually unknown Alvin Greene.

Virtually unknown, indeed. Somehow, Greene managed to garner exactly 100,362 votes in his favor. His opponent, who ran a standard campaign, collected only 69,853 votes. Greene is the victor in the race.

Automatically, right there, without any other evidence, you can tell something is hinky. Never mind that Greene is an unemployed military discharge with a felony charge.

Greene's post-victory interviews are noteworthy for more than just revealing his obtuse demeanor, jerky tenor, and uninspiring visions. He's also revealed that the only way he campaigned was by knocking on doors, not by running a formal campaign.

Have you ever gone door to door? I've already flyers on household doorknobs and in letter slots in nice neighborhoods and faced the protective citizens who have a right to be suspicious of a stranger encroaching on their property. I was just dropping off reading materials and moseying on, not even sticking around to engage them in conversation. Even so, I felt the unwelcoming, suspicious eye of people in their living rooms upon me a time or three over the course of a few afternoon hours one day.

As somebody who's been in that uncomfortable situation, I can only imagine what it must be like for an aspiring politician who has the burden of engaging people in the luxury of their own homes in enough political conversation to vote for him. Compounding to Alvin Greene's burden is the fact that his face did not share the benefit of being as recognized as that of his opponent.

Greene was not merely underdog. Make no mistake: He was a complete unknown. Vic Rawl, on the other hand, was a career politician whose name and face had been prevalent in South Carolina for years. Newspapers knew him. Televisions knew him. Constituents knew him. This Greene guy? Nobody could have known him.

One hundred thousand three hundred sixty-two votes in his favor. There must be some mistake.

I've seen it suggested that the only mistake here is that people thought they were voting for Rev. Al Green, the singer. Granted, I too would blindly support a senatorial candidate named Jim E. Page or Raw Buttplant, so maybe there's something to that argument.

But when you start considering that knocking on doors was Greene's only method of campaigning, you can't deny the significant hardships that must be overcome to convert strangers into voters. Here are just a few of the obstacles I can think of, from the candidate's approach to the house to the day of the primary.

Nobody's home.
People don't want to open the door to a stranger.
People don't want to open the door to a black man. (I'm not condoning this behavior, just laying out the possibility. Sounds fathomable though.)
People open the door. Greene announces he's running for office, and the door shuts in his face.
People open the door. Greene says he's a Democrat, and the door shuts in his face.
They get through the conversation, and Greene hasn't made a good impression. This is not impossible to imagine based on how he speaks in his interviews.
They get through the conversation, and Greene made a good impression. However, the person isn't a registered voter. Does Greene have his voter registration forms on him to remedy the situation on the spot? Probably not. This is a guy who, when he finally admitted to printing up some materials, couldn't conjure an accurate ballpark estimate of how many he'd had printed. It was somewhere between 100 and "thousands," he said. And I'm piecing together about four of his sentences in a row to summarize his estimate succinctly.
They get through the conversation, and while Greene made a good impression on this registered voter and received firm assurance of a vote for him on Tuesday, the person didn't vote for him on Tuesday for any possible reason. The person didn't realize the primary was on June 8. The person forgot to cast the ballot. The person had better things to do. Any other reason.

Those are the obstacles as I see them. What remains from his door-to-door pitches is that small remaining percentage of those he successfully converted into votes in his favor on Tuesday.

Given the significant challenges, his success rate can't even be 1 in 10. But, for the sake of argument, if it was 1 in 10, for him to have gotten 100,000 votes means he had to have knocked on 1 million doors.

A million doors, this guy? No way. He's breathless 30 seconds into an interview where all he's doing is giving yes or no answers.

Let's be real here. If he got 58.96 percent of 170,215 votes on Tuesday, then there's something wrong with the vote. I want a recount. I live in South Florida, and I know all about recounts.

Good luck with your investigation into what's wrong because something clearly is.

If it ain't broke

2010-06-10T22:33:00.001-04:00

"That's low," I heard a voice behind me say.

At first blush, no. To me, it didn't come across as low at all. Not low, just pointed. And well deserved.

I first saw Michael Douglas in Falling Down. Guess I was 13 or 14. I remember wandering into the "office" room on the second floor at home where Mom and Dad sat at desks every evening while they shuffled through mounds of paperwork that never seemed to diminish in size.

There was a TV in the room, and as long as one of them was there, the TV was always on. Whenever they got some sort of a special deal from the cable company on some premium channels, they had to get their money's worth. So I walked in, it was HBO. Which meant more swearing than usual. Deal was, you can hear it, but you dare not repeat it.

So it's Falling Down. As I walk in, the movie's ending. I'd missed the whole lead-up to Michael Douglas having the worst day of his life and snapping. All I see is the standoff with the cop and the guy takes a plunge. Oh, was I supposed to say "spoiler alert" first?

And his young daughter's standing nearby. She sees her dad in distress. She's too young to understand what's wrong. Her mother, on the other hand, is old enough, but doesn't realize why her ex-husband has gone so far off the handle. She never will.

Me, I never had to worry about my parents breaking up. They were basically joined at the hip my whole life. In that office, they had desks across the room from each other. They went to church together. They went on religious retreats together. They had separate jobs, but I can scarcely think of an evening spent apart except when my mom and uncle would go visit Grandpa for three days and come back home.

Man, I guess I always had that stable home life. Instability was the product of fiction, or something I'd hear about from my friends at school. And most of the rest of the world. I got older and found out most people's parents break up. Some people's parents go nuts. Most people do repeat the curse words they hear on HBO. Most people aren't my parents.

So, I just came from seeing Michael Douglas in another movie. He's now playing New York used car salesman Ben Kalmen in Solitary Man. He starts off as this smooth-talking -- well, you know -- used car salesman who tarnishes every last shred of his good name. The viewer is taken headfirst into his current indiscretions. His past indiscretions? We learn about those in hindsight too.

Ben is one of those protagonists that's halfway between likable and despicable. Whether or not you pity him is your call.

That's the conversation starter. Do you pity him?

Take, for example, when he goes to visit the wife he up and left, who still inhabits the house they shared. Old Ben's there because even though the rest of the world has turned his back on him, he knows he can count on Nancy.

She pours him a drink without asking. Dewar's on the rocks. She knows. He sits down on the couch. He's there for sympathy, and he's there for a favor, and right off the bat he gets his favorite drink handed to him.

Now Nancy, she's no fool. He may have walked out on her, but she'll never let him walk all over her. Which is why she says what she says.

It starts off when Ben says to Nancy, and I'm paraphrasing, "You never moved. You never changed this place at all. Never rearranged the furniture, never even replaced this old couch. Look, even the cushions are the same. Are you just keeping this place the same for the day I'll come marching back home?"

She's too cool to say yes. And maybe the answer really is yes, but Nancy has other plans for him. I admire her handling of the question, her steering of the conversation -- this conversation she's having with a used car salesman, mind you.

She deadpans, "Well, do you like the couch?"

"It's only the absolute most comfortable couch in the world," he spits out without hesitation.

"Then why would I get rid of something that's working? That's only something you would do."

Ben is left there, his mouth ajar, sitting on the most comfortable couch in the world, his Dewar's on the rocks in front of him on a familiar coffee table he used to kick his feet up onto, in that same position for years and years, back in the days their love for each other was never questioned, back in the days before he ever needed to borrow cash from his wife and daughter, back in the days when his love for his grandson was never questioned, back in the days when he was a known success and a respected celebrity in town, not a complete and utter known failure and embarrassment, now mulling over his immediate options, namely whether to take another sip of the drink his ex-wife has made for him or to attempt sending a rapid-fire remark back her way.

With no good decision apparent to him, Ben does nothing but sit and look straight ahead, Nancy's jab at him echoing in his mind.

"That's low," I heard a voice behind me say.

Low? Come on, Ben deserved it. In more ways than one. First, he set her up to make the comment. He should have known it was coming.

Second, when you walk out and do stupid things, you deserve to be told how stupid the things you're doing are. Hell, she was being nice. Nancy has been nothing but reliable. Dependable. She never did anything that would have split them apart. They would have been like my parents, together forever, if not for him.

Whether or not this guy deserved pity, he definitely deserved that jab. I say good for her!

WaPo: Cat Stabs Stephen Strasburg; MLB Debut Postponed Indefinitely

2010-06-08T16:09:00.002-04:00

Washington Nationals | BREAKING NEWS

Cat Stabs Stephen Strasburg Hours Before Slated MLB Debut

By Dave Sheinin
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, June 8, 2010

WASHINGTON -- This afternoon's stabbing of first-round draft pick Stephen Strasburg will preempt the 2009 first-round draft pick's Major League Baseball debut indefinitely, the Washington Nationals front office announced in a statement.

Strasburg is in "good condition" following the five stab wounds to his ankles received early this afternoon, team manager Jim Riggleman told reporters at an impromptu press conference assembled to brief reporters on the situation.

District police say a small cat wandering inside the Washington Nationals clubhouse stabbed the would-be Nationals pitcher in his ankles five times at around 3:30 p.m. Police identified Strasburg's assailant as Betzy Macaroni of Arlington, Va.

Believed to be 10 years old, Macaroni resides in Arlington, Va., with her owner, Jim Macaroni.

The black-and-white cat works as an assistant coach for the men's basketball team at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University in Blacksburg, public records show.

A photograph believed to have been taken minutes before the attack show Macaroni sitting on a Washington Nationals blanket next to a plastic knife. Police said they are investigating whether the knife shown in the picture is the same plastic knife that punctured Strasburg's ankles five times this afternoon.

The right-handed pitcher's 100+ mph fastball has been the talk of national sports media over the past several weeks and months, leading up to what would have been his first start tonight. The 21-year-old prospect's long-anticipated debut was slated for this evening's Nationals home game against the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Strasburg could not be immediately reached for comment. The 21-year-old was treated for his injuries at the clubhouse by a team physician and will not be admitted into a hospital, said Riggleman.

He said Strasburg's injuries were not major. "Thank goodness it was just a cat and she couldn't reach anything higher than his ankles," the manager told reporters.

A police report says that one eyewitness to the stabbing said he heard a cat exclaim, "Hi! Go Penguins! Sure!"

"I think the cat meant to say 'Pirates' instead of 'Penguins,' but I'm not sure," said Riggleman. "I'm told she was hanging out with a penguin, like, as in an actual penguin. You know, the aquatic bird. I'm not sure what he was doing up here in the Northern Hemisphere."

This cat, which unlike most domesticated animals, is known for speaking English. She appears frequently as a guest caller on cable news programs such as "Larry King Live" and "Rick's List" with Rick Sanchez, and even on some programs that as a rule do not take calls from viewers.

See related coverage:

Thomas Boswell: A Cat Stabbed Stephen Strasburg? On Today of All Days
Eugene Robinson: Black, White? Who Cares What Colors This Cat Is?
Tom Shales: Only a Female Would Be Stupid Enough to Stab Stephen Strasburg
Courtland Milloy: Go Ahead, Pick on the Cat Because She's Black, 'Sure!'
Gene Weingarten: Seriously? A Cat? You Can't Make This Stuff Up
Fareed Zakaria: Um, Hi, North Korea Just Dropped a Bomb; Is Anybody Else Following This?

A tribute to Mr. January, Orson Mobley

2010-01-18T19:38:00.001-05:00

Q: I know, when our guests stay at the Mobley Hotel, that they give the best in service and hospitality, and I know a lot of that is because of founder Edgar Mobley's uncompromising commitment to quality. Isn't that right?

A: [nods affirmatively]

Q: And they also have a fine staff, too.

A: Oh yeah, as a matter of fact, they do, Allan.

Q: Yeah. Now, did they announce employee of the week yet, Nick?

A: Oh, yes, they did, Al! The employee of the week is none other than Orson Mobley! You know him as tight end for the Denver Broncos, but the real Orson comes alive back at the Mobley Hotel. They call him Mr. January, and we're happy to say this year [1991] he's not wasting those red-hot biorhythms on a boys' game. He's working his dickens to the bone at the Mobley!

Q: That's terrific, Nick. Congratulations to Orson and all the Mobleys. I understand Orson has quite a reputation around the Mobley, but how much of that, Nick, is fact, and how much is myth?

A: Allan ... there's ... plenty of each!

Myth: Orson is all sizzle and no steak. Sure, he keeps the Mobley's stucco exterior looking terrific, but indoors, the shower curtains smell like Show World, and you can get a nasty case of pinkeye from the washrags.

Fact: Orson is a man of rare compassion. He buys bruised bananas because he feels sorry for them and gives free haircuts to orphans.

Myth: Orson worked his way through college by working as a wad model for Frederick's of Hollywood.

Fact: That was his brother Eugene.

Myth: Orson dips cats in quinine because he likes to hear them sneeze.

Fact: That was club soda.

Myth: As an innkeeper, Orson Mobley is surly and incompetent. He steals from the till, hates children, and drools like a parson when a young woman enters the lobby. When it comes to scrubbing out the crappers, it seems like he's always on break.

Fact: Orson sees to it that all the guests are cozy and entertained. Some days, he sits in the lobby for hours, heckling the sleepwalkers, and doing that thing where he peels a banana without using his hands.

Myth: Some nights, Orson puts on pounds of pancake and his dead brother's wedding dress and stabs squirrels with a pen.

Fact: Orson's plans for next month? He's going to crochet a Mobley banner from the employee lint bank and make enough hot fudge sundaes to feed the world.

Dear Duncan,
The above is from "Night After Night with Allan Havey," and it is utterly brilliant. I can't thank you enough for introducing me to this alternate reality.

Your friend,
Steve

Gatecrashers decline invitation to testify - washingtonpost.com

2009-12-02T23:03:00.000-05:00

Wow, it'll be the first Washington invitation they've declined!

Gatecrashers decline invitation to testify - washingtonpost.com

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Yippie Museum Cafe, NYC

2009-08-07T22:43:00.001-04:00

There were more musicians and staffers here than paying customers until we walked in. The five of us balanced out the paying/nonpaying ratio when we say our asses down, but it went back down again when two of us didn't order anything. The emphasis was on coffees, and at 75 cents apiece, I wasn't sure if I could afford one. In my pocket I seized a grubby handful of folded up ones, but inside the pocket they stayed. A leather couch vacated, and I made my home on the top left corner of it, straddling the side with my left leg underneath a tall tabletop. A tall slender woman in a sundress filmed the jazz musicians from the second set forward. No need to capture the first, I guess. The only stray noise in the place was from the quarter tip left atop a table. The rest of the noise came from the instruments tapping along together in harmonious cacophony. "It's like a flow of consciousness," the drummer told me while on a break. As he said this, his high seemed to wear off and he became serious, looking me straight in the eye and gesturing. I pictured a seesaw with a moving fulcrum and the sides all trying to find the happy medium. The balance would always be there. I never did get to ask the drummer if he knew what I was talking about. Here he is talking about months spent abroad and old contacts from the field of jazz befriending him on Facebook, and here I am getting off on his beats and originally thinking he was counting to 64 during the last piece.

Seinfeld restaurant?

2009-08-07T18:13:00.001-04:00

Washington Square Park, NYC

2009-08-07T17:57:00.001-04:00

What Michael Jackson meant to me

2009-06-28T23:45:00.005-04:00

As I grew up, there were three artists I could reliably count on for making great new videos on MTV whenever they had new songs. They were Tom Petty, Madonna and Michael Jackson. As I think back on the chronology of it all, I guess it was Michael Jackson who started it all.

His earliest videos made him iconic. They defined his image. His face may have changed behind the hats he donned throughout his career, but his look always remained unique to him. His dance stylings were second to none. His obsession with touching his crotch ... OK, I guess that was a little weird.

His pop music made deep impressions on me, I admit. He was the king of pop, no doubt, and whenever he came out with a new song like "Smooth Criminal" or "Black or White," I was right there, first on the receiving line. The new video's debut was usually heralded as a world event on MTV or even prime-time network television. I was always tuning in for those.

He made pop culture enthralling. I remember watching the entire "Black or White" video when it premiered. It was not only appointment television, but it was the kind of thing I would count down to. I think I remember watching "The Simpsons" before the "Black or White" premiere and knowing I'd have to go pee during the last commercial break to settle in for the video. His videos weren't three-minute songs, that's for sure. You always knew something great was coming, and that it could take a while.

That's how "Black or White" was. The video may have aired in full only that once in the United States. It started off with Macaulay Culkin at home, his dad (played by George Wendt) telling him to turn down his music before he returned to his armchair, where his relaxing was uninterrupted despite him being blasted off -- his armchair intact -- to a faraway land that had Michael Jackson dancing with some tribe. I mean, I was eating this stuff up!

Only after he landed did the new Michael Jackson song start to play. And there it was, one infectious guitar riff, one blues pattern transformed into a rock-pop genre bender, and full of his trademark vocal workouts. It was that stuff that did it for me, not as much as the dancing. Just knowing what his music was about and how to reproduce it if I ever needed to.

He was a great dancer, I knew, and back in the "Smooth Criminal" days, I remember dancing along and my year-old nephew Ben, barely able to stand up inside his crib without grasping onto the sides, dancing along with me and Michael. But at whatever age I was, I knew dancing wasn't for me. I could appreciate what Michael was doing on the dance floor and knew it was something for other people to do. I could just see myself in his band, one of those off-camera people helping out with the music. Or maybe I could just see myself as a fan, telling him how great it is when the music breaks down and we hear, "I'm not gonna spend my life being a color." Even I knew what he meant. This was great stuff!

At the end of his song, after one person would change before our eyes into another, came the reason this video probably never aired twice. It was when Michael veered into a back alley behind the set where they were filming some blonde dancing for the video. Another great transition like the one that gave way to the song's beginning.

Now with the soundtrack completely silent, Michael got on top of a black car, started dancing on it, busted out some dance moves that in turn busted up the windows, and he turned into, literally, a black panther. Any symbolism there was lost on me. All I knew was he was a kitty, slinking around and acting violent. This was good stuff.

I don't remember whatever else happened, and I'm sure I could turn to YouTube to replenish my memory, but it doesn't matter. My point is this stuff was important enough for me to tune into and keep watching. Michael Jackson held my attention, on and off, for about a decade.

There was some kind of vicious backlash against Michael for this video, I guess for the way he destroyed the car. I didn't understand why. It didn't make me want to get up and dance, much less go break the windows of any car. I considered myself an impressionable kid, but did that mean there must have been other kids so impressionable that they would immediately run to the Honda Civic in their parents' driveway and let loose? That didn't seem possible to me.

But I also noticed that whenever someone on the news reported on the violence in this new Michael Jackson video, they'd cut to the clip of him doing this crap on the car and they'd show it. Suffice it to say it was OK to air it again as long as the voiceover explained how bad the message these images gave to viewers was.

The same thing happened when Madonna, in "Like a Prayer," started making out with a multiracial Jesus in a chapel. Everybody saw it as an abhorrence, so what better to do than replay it 17 times on the local news? "The furor over a blasphemous new music video. Story at 11." There, now it was appointment television. Make sure you go pee at 10:55 because you'll want to be back in time for this!

This kind of hypocrisy existed long before mild-mannered Bill O'Reilly learned how to pout over sex on TV and pepper his segments with file footage of bikini-clad bimbos on spring break as an example of exactly what he argued should never be aired on television. It's the kind of hypocrisy I love, which, too, makes me every bit as hypocritical.

Michael Jackson created videos not just for his fans but for everybody. People who claimed to despise his art still saw the videos anyway. He really had that kind of universal reach. This made him the sole king of pop in a way that nobody to this day has succeeded him and doubtfully ever will.

Mixing algebra and camping

2009-05-27T10:57:00.000-04:00

It's true, it's true! It really is the equation for imaginary numbers! I took this photo over the weekend whilst camping with Dessie, her kids, and her colleague's family and friends on the edge of the Florida Everglades. Cool weather prevailed for our Saturday night stay, although Saturday afternoon was full of thunderstorms. We managed to stay dry and happy. It was lovely.
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Lorenzo Wolff: My Problem with Led Zeppelin

2009-05-23T10:22:00.000-04:00

http://www.counterpunch.org/wolff05222009.html

Lorenzo Wolff revisits the first Led Zeppelin album and finds that it doesn't affect him. Not the same way Appetite for Destruction by Guns 'n Roses and The Battle of Los Angeles by Rage Against the Machine do.

OK, fine enough. It's his opinion. I'm sorry he doesn't feel the power described by the dozens of interviewees (myself included) who spoke to author Frank Reddon for his 40th anniversary retrospective tome, "Sonic Boom, The Impact of Led Zeppelin - Volume 1, Break and Enter."

But Wolff doesn't stop there. After he butchers Jimmy Page's last name (and fails to mention the first names of either Page or Robert Plant, a courtesy afforded both of their bandmates), he criticized the way he thinks the four of them played on the album. He writes: "Everyone is listening to themselves, making sure their runs are cool enough, that their fills show just how much time they've spent practicing. The problem with this kind of introspective attitude is that it leaves no room to listen to the other musicians, let alone the song itself."

It seems like he presumes to know what it was like in that recording studio so soon after the band's formation and only a handful of live shows. This is a guy who's done so much research he can't spell the guitarist and band founder's name right.

Yet somehow, Wolff describes what is missing from a replay of the album is any sense of humanity. He's the one that doesn't know anything about the musicians on that album or what it was like making it. Of course he's not up on their humanity!

His piece is a new low in reviews.
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The storm is coming

2009-04-17T16:26:00.000-04:00

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

The Colbert Coalition's Anti-Gay Marriage Ad

colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor

NASA Name Contest

Good Friday

2009-04-10T20:05:00.001-04:00

When I grew up, Good Friday was always one of those days on the religious calendar that my family would go to church at noon and be in a somber mood for three hours. No phone, no electricity. No eating meat. Just taking it easy and remembering the hours between noon and 3 p.m., when the religious commemorate the crucifixion and death of Jesus during that time.

Today during that time was a similar chronology for Dessie and her son and me as we took her dog Shelby to be euthanized. She was an old dog and had horrible arthritis, and Dessie's family's impending move to a fifth-floor townhouse apartment would have made it impossible for Shelby to continue to live with her human companions. So, Dessie did what had to be done. We'll miss this family friend. Dessie keeps saying Shelby was a good dog and loved us all.

I had a friend out in Colorado, Christie, who died in January. She and I talked on the phone for hours on end, on several occasions, about the subject of death. Calling her was a natural thing to do when my last natural grandparent died, because I knew she would have some consoling words for me. She definitely did. Likewise, last year and into this year, I had planned on making her the first phone call I would make when I received the inevitable news of Aunt Rose's passing. That changed when Christie up and died of breast cancer in January, preceding Aunt Rose in death. So, Christie and I couldn't speak over the phone, as I had planned, when Aunt Rose died a month later.

However, I think having known Christie, and having had those conversations we had before, made it a lot easier to deal with Aunt Rose's death. And I saw a signal a few times today that made me think of Aunt Rose. Looking for signals is something I never did until Christie told me to be on guard for them. But it was definitely there, this iguana that I associated with Aunt Rose. And because of this, I told Dessie that either Aunt Rose was taking care of Shelby now or Christie was. Christie was a dog person for sure, and Aunt Rose was an animal person.

For those with faith, the Good Friday story ended happily three days later when their friend Jesus was said to have risen from the dead. Those who had faith back then said, "Yeah, that's just like him." Those who didn't have faith said, "Rose from the dead? Impossible. Show me the proof." I guess now, dealing with a dog's death, the leap of faith is that there are other people now taking care of that dog. Shelby just has new friends now, and they're taking great care of her. And she actually has a full tail now, not just half of one (I'm not sure why that's all she had here).

Abe Lincoln fanatics

2009-03-31T15:53:00.003-04:00

Spent the day with the kids. All in a day's work!

All things "Mr. W"

2009-03-26T20:38:00.001-04:00

An almost inexplicable nickname I earned last weekend ended up being one of the highlights of the week. I now respond to "Mr. W," a name whose use, I hope, is limited in scope.

Dessie's sister, Ashley, came to town for a week with her 5-year-old daughter, Olivia. I was meeting both for the first time, and Dessie and her three youngest kids were seeing them for the first time since the time they spent visiting Ohio last summer.

Waking up from a nap when we got to where they would be staying for the week, Olivia was shy with everyone right at first. Our little girl of 8 exhibited a nostalgic, almost parental relationship with her cousin, two years her junior. Olivia's the cutest little thing, and her face is a miniature replica of her mom's. Within minutes, she was revived and animated, laughing with the girls, chasing and being chased from the sun deck to the house. We adults kept to our own group, shielding our eyes and allowing that behavior to continue for a little while. Ashley became the first to get sick of the running around, showing the first sign of an impatience I would recognize often over her seven-day stay in our area.

The seven of us got some grub and went bowling. After we selected our bowling balls and rental shoes (after which we noticed barely anybody rents shoes anymore -- what's up with that???), the next step was to enter our names onto the electronic scoring machine. We were paying for only one hour of bowling, the first five minutes of which consisted exclusively of typing in four kids' aliases, names like "Captain Vengeful" and "Stretchmark." (Not those exactly, but wouldn't they be cool names for next time?)

It was in the cumbersome process of doing this that we recognized how difficult it is to type with that junky keypad -- overly sensitive one moment and virtually unresponsive the next. Names as long as "Layla" and "Steve" would have taken another full minute each to type in, so I suggested we just go with the short and sweet "R" for her, and I would be "W." Just random letters that purposely didn't coincide with our own names, yet neither signifying anything either.

Once Olivia got through the awkward not-knowing-who-I-am phase of a little while, she came out of her shell toward me. Forgetting the name under which I had been introduced to her only once hours earlier, she instead called me "W" because, after all, that's what the screen says my name is, doesn't it? Cute! No need to correct her. She added the "Mr." later on, out of courtesy, and the name stuck through the rest of our action-filled weekend and the rest of the week she and Ashley were around.

The very first time Olivia called me that, I couldn't help but think I had made a mistake in choosing a good one-letter name for myself: too reminiscent of an awful president who just left office. But I don't regret the name. Olivia's 5 now, and that's probably one of those things she'll never forget every time she talks to me in the future, and she'll never let me forget it either. It's painfully cute when Olivia says it. That, and her Aunt Dessie is sometimes "Mrs. R," which is equally cute. They're names I made up!

One absolutely wonderful thing about Olivia (a.k.a. "Fuzzball" or "Snowflake") is that she's still in a young and pure stage of life when she still trusts human beings. That disintegrates eventually, tarnished usually first by parents' well-meaning lessons about talking with strangers, and compounded by experiences with thieving schoolmates, jilted lovers, oblivious drivers, uncaring bosses, soulless corporations, unhelpful customer service, elevator music, corrupt governors and the like. Back when you're unaffected by any of that, you have such an inherent sense of well-being with everyone you meet. Olivia is still the sunshine girl riding in the shopping cart at the grocery store who smiles and waves hi, effectively melting the hearts of virtually everyone around.

Except for those responsible for elevator music -- they're just plain evil.

Dessie reminds me it's too late in her kids' lives to feel that way and have such an affinity toward me. That, and I'm fighting the additional uphill battle of being a stepdude to three little kids who still don't know why their mom wants to be with anyone other than their dad. I know it's tough, but there's a long-term award ahead. Keep your eyes on the prize!

A return to baseball

2009-03-16T20:47:00.000-04:00

This morning, a radio DJ informed me the Washington Nationals would be playing a spring training game against the Florida Marlins. The stadium is less than an hour from me, and I had nothing better to do, so after thinking about it, I decided I had an afternoon date at Roger Dean Stadium!

It was good to see the guys again. Lastings Milledge looked great at the top of the order. Austin Kearns had a good eye and smooth moves. Garrett Mock impressed as a closer. The real heroes were starting pitcher Shawn Hill and reliever Jordan Zimmermann, a newcomer. Josh Towers wasn't bad as a reliever either; I can't figure out where he was last season, but I welcome him.

I got pulled over driving my girlfriend's car on the way to the stadium. Apparently, her registration isn't up to date. Well, it would be if today were last June, but the state trooper didn't agree with my argument. So, it looks like I have some fines to pay, and I also must strongly encourage her to get that registration thing taken care of!

The kids are doing well. I sometimes don't get 100 percent acceptance by all of them, but hey, life would be too boring if everything worked out perfectly all the time! Which is why that cop pulled me over, eh?

If I could choose a place to die: Tribute to Aunt Rose (1931-2009)

2009-02-08T09:23:00.002-05:00

Aunt Rose died this morning. The word came a short while ago from my brother Mike, who's a pharmacy technician. Together with his wife Helen, who's a licensed practical nurse, he has been returning the favor to a woman who always went out of her way for her nieces and nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews, and great-great-nieces and great-great-nephews. Mike and Helen took Aunt Rose into their home for the past month, attending to Aunt Rose's needs in their own makeshift hospice setting. There, they've kept her alive and in great spirits and out of most physical pain, and they've dished out more than just medicine and liquids; their best treatment is a healthy regimen of love.

As many relatives as could make it filed in and out of Aunt Rose's room this week. I was so happy to be one of them. When I saw Aunt Rose last weekend, she was grateful to see me. It's that whole absence making the heart grow fonder thing. She had always been happy to hear my voice on the phone whenever I called, but to see me in person and have me kiss her hand were additional treats for her. And it worked both ways too. Hearing her voice on the phone was one thing. I knew she was still with it, that she still had a cogent mind on her shoulders. She attested to being somewhat frustrated that her instant recall was sometimes diminished, but she also never had an unkind word to say, even about the less-than-ideal living conditions of her previous nursing home and being awkwardly shipped around from one place to a hospice to a nursing home. Aunt Rose always looked at the positive. "Well, at least the food was good." What a saint.

The photos here are from my third birthday, in 1982, and this week. The latter is the last picture taken of her and me together. My niece Nikki took that shot when I asked her to, on Thursday. I wouldn't have even thought of getting the shot were it not for a request from Dessie back in Florida. She'd never seen Aunt Rose and wanted to know what Aunt Rose looked like. I even doubted whether any pose would be good enough since she was in a hospital bed and there was no real way to get close to her without sort of stepping behind the bed or something like that. All I had to do was try. And Aunt Rose put her hand on my cheek both times we posed for a picture. Since I'm an idiot, I had my eyes closed for the first photo and Nikki had us get back into position and retake it.

A lot of family members were over visiting with Aunt Rose yesterday, and she was hanging on through it all even if she wasn't totally aware since she was more often asleep than not, and when she was waking up she was a little disoriented. And in the thick of it all, Nikki said something that kind of makes sense. She said she thought Aunt Rose might not want to die in front of everybody, that she wanted to go alone, so as not to worry everybody. That's Aunt Rose for you, taking on even death on her own. And that's what happened. She died at probably about 3:15 a.m., peacefully and alone. When Helen last saw her, Aunt Rose was breathing normally and not with the apnea that had ruled most of her last couple of days. When she last checked on her, there were none of the sporadic heavy breaths and 20-second periods of silence. Helen said Aunt Rose was just peaceful, calm. What a way to go. If you could choose a place to die, this must be one of the better choices.

I'm going to miss Aunt Rose, but not as much as had I not been prepared for the news of her passing. And Aunt Rose was prepared for this too. Thank goodness for that, and thank goodness for Aunt Rose. She never had kids of her own, but she sure influenced a lot of kids in our family. We saw in her true generosity and serenity.

Man, I love music

2009-02-02T16:33:00.001-05:00

So far today, I've been stranded at my parents' place with nothing to do but play the piano. Left to my own, without an audience, I played whatever came to my head. Turns out I am inspired musically by Friedrich Chopin, Jimmy Page, Jethro Tull and various blues musicians. I played a surprising version of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" with an arrangement not unlike that of Chopin's Prelude No. 3 in E minor, which Page has also played live and in the studio, and I led from this into Tull's "Locomotive Breath" with a pentatonic lead over some of Chopin's chords (again, in the brilliant way Page played that prelude). Chopin fit nicely into the piano intro to "Locomotive Breath" too! I love the chords to Prelude No. 3.

I got to meet Aunt Rose yesterday. It was excellent visiting with her. I learned that she was a good writer. Something compelling she wrote in 1954, on the topic of selling the Lancaster area, won a competition and was published in a local newspaper. She earned a $100 award for it that was presented to her by the local mayor. A cropped photo of this occasion appeared in the newspaper, and a larger version of the incropped photo is in a frame in her room. So great to see her!

Then I learned something else about Aunt Rose too, once three of my brothers and their significant others were in the room and toy musical instruments were divvied out to everyone present, including two of my brothers' kids. She likes music too, and she sang along as we played "When the Saints Go Marching In," "Bridge over Troubled Water" and the hymn "Be Not Afraid."

Music can provide consolation and cure boredom. Music can do lots of inspiring things. Thank goodness for music! I'm so glad to have it in my life.

Tonight, I'm meeting up with some friends I first made in kindergarten and knew all the way through high school. I have some more such meetings scheduled for this week. That should be cool.

But I miss my girlfriend and her kids. I was happy to see a photo of Layla and me on a dresser of Aunt Rose's, and I want to get some photos of us and the kids on my parents' shelves and piano (the equivalent in their home to a fridge in other people's homes).

Ah, remember the Usual Suspects! And family next week

2009-01-30T10:05:00.000-05:00

Got a nice e-mail earlier in the week from Matty Knuckles, one of the guys in the Usual Suspects. He was letting me know how things have been going since I left the band upon moving to Florida.

Coincidentally, Matt wrote to me on Jan. 25, three months to the day since my last show with the band. That last show was at the University of Maryland, inside the alumni center just before their Homecoming game. It was raining cats and dogs for that last gig, but we were indoors. That Homecoming game was outdoors. It was a whole lot nicer indoors!

The last dude in the band I saw was the other Matt -- Matty Fingers -- when he dropped me off at a train station after the gig. He wrote me today to let me know of an e-mail address change and then to tell me about this video he'd just posted online:

It's a compilation of clips from my first gig with them, which was on Feb. 16, 2008, at the Fish Head Cantina in Arbutus, Md. Most of this stuff has been online before, but I was surprised to see and hear what starts at 3:06. We get a good half-minute of our reggae version of the song "Hotel California." And of course that song is now more important to me this month as I've just finished playing the entire Eagles album of that name onstage note-for-note three times.

But it was always a great number to play live with the Usual Suspects, and I didn't know any other band to make a reggae version of the song. That changed on Nov. 23, 2008, when Dessie and I were relaxing on Islamorada with a Red Stripe on lounge chairs by the water's edge, and the reggae band playing nearby launched into a similar version of that tune around 4:30 p.m. Upon hearing this, I busted out my BlackBerry and sent off a quick message to my former bandmates, although it didn't send until after midnight, when my handheld's Internet connection was restored.

This weekend, I'm doing some cool stuff.

On Saturday, I'll be assisting with an interview of Mark Stein, original lead singer and keyboardist for the Vanilla Fudge. (I saw a reformed version of that band at the 9:30 club in D.C. back on Jan. 18, 2005, pretty much headlining over Canned Heat and Mountain, with Pat Travers joining some Fudge members for a closing set.)
And Sunday being Super Bowl Sunday, I'll be catching an early-morning flight up north, ultimately to see my family for the first time since October, watch the big game, catch up with some friends, spend the better part of a week up there, and once again visit Aunt Rose, who's been sick for a long time.

Then on Friday, I'll be picked up by a buddy in the D.C. area and spend most of the weekend with him. I probably won't even be inside the District while I'm around, and I probably won't see many of the people, places and things I mentioned in my long litany of goodbyes in October. But I'll be back to see my buddy Brian, and that's cool enough for now.

Malfunction, or the swooping sound from hell

2009-01-27T14:54:00.003-05:00

For the past few days, I've been back home in Florida after my Hotel California tour. I was looking for some semblance of normalcy, but instead I spent Sunday night in an emergency room with Dessie (she's OK now) and Monday trying to recover from not sleeping overnight.

Then last night, I couldn't find the plug for my laptop and didn't remember packing it with me when I checked out of a hotel in Gainesville on Thursday. Housekeeping confirmed that it was recovered in my room, and so now that ever-important $30 piece is being shipped to me at half its value.

In the meantime, what I do all day long -- use it to write and connect to the Internet for my muses -- is more of a challenge. But I do remember, and may never forget, the single biggest obstacle to my successful performance on this tour: a stupid malfunction on the main keyboard I was using.

Swoop!

It's a downward swooping noise that sometimes comes out. I heard it once over the course of six days using it for the Houses of the Holy shows in December, and I thought nothing of it. These things happen, and it did only once. It was in a rehearsal, not in front of an audience, so no sweat.

I'm using the same board on the Hotel California tour, and I got through the first day and the first concert without hearing the sound at all. I wasn't even listening for it, as it had totally slipped my mind from before. It was only that once, and it was long forgotten.

Forgotten until the second day during rehearsal.

Swoop!

What was that? Was it something I did? Did I accidentally press some button near my hand that makes it do that? Did I press a key too lightly, or too hardly? I tried several things that might trigger the noise, and nothing worked. And nobody else had heard it because I was using headphones and wasn't plugged in to the PA.

This sent up a red flag, so my inclination was to alert Nick, who was much more familiar with the keyboards I was using. But was this really important enough to be brought to his attention? After all, it was something that happened only once that day, and nothing I was doing would trigger it again. Besides, I had already bugged Nick a few times in the previous 20 minutes about some other issues with the keyboard that were under my control. Maybe I ought to let this slide.

We finished rehearsal, and the sound hadn't recurred, but it was still on my mind. Casually, I approached Nick later on. We shared some small talk about the concerts and about some other gear, and I mentioned the phantom swoop. He knew the sound I was talking about. He said it happens on that keyboard from time to time, and he assured me it was no big deal.

Life carried on, and we played the Lake Worth gig. We're on the second song, and I'm playing a string sound. Mine is a really delicate part with long, sustained chords. In fact, the whole song is like that: It is a slow song with subtle instrumentation that at times can be almost nonexistent. Toward the end of that song, while four singers are intoning "ooh" harmoniously, there's a strange sound nobody expected to hear.

Swoop!

Onstage, people look around. Somebody said afterward he thought someone was setting off a firecracker.

Swoop!

Only a few seconds later, the sound comes out again. This time, most of the musicians all turn toward me. I shrug my shoulders and adopt a quizzical look on my face as if to indicate that I have no idea what is causing the noise. I also gesture, with my unused left hand, toward the keyboard, as if to name the culprit.

As the song ends, having featured this pair of alien spacecraft landings, I'm not sure how the audience will react. But they applaud and cheer just like they had for the opening number. Good. They didn't notice. Or maybe they thought the noises were part of the song.

Swoop!

I become a little more suspect as the night goes on and the noise makes itself known again. Would the audience fall for this being a part of that song as well?

Swoop!

And that one?

Swoop!

All throughout this album? Because of this malfunction, the show goes from near-perfect to near-perfect with an annoyance.

Swoop!

Hoping there's some solution to this problem, I turned off one of my machines between songs and turned it back on again. I don't know if that reset some portamento setting or something like that and made the noise go away, but thankfully, that was it for the night. There was no more swooping noise after that, but still, that was six too many. Doesn't that keyboard know I could lose my job over this if it makes me look bad? Or is that what it wants?

Backstage after the show, the conversation turns squarely to the one distraction that kept it from being near-perfect. Everybody's imitating the phantom swoop and asking me about it and making jokes about it. Even though Nick assures everybody that the noise is the fault of a keyboard and not mine, Lake Worth seems destined to go down as "the swoop show" on the Hotel California. We're all laughing and having a good time about the noise that reared its ugly and unwelcome head six times that night.

Next night onstage, in Jacksonville?

Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop!

I lost count after the first 600 times in the first two songs only. Now our tour finale is plagued with this noise. My fellow musicians onstage keep looking over at me as if there's something more I can do. And I shoot them back this exasperated look. I truly want to go home. I'm making them look bad because I'm sounding bad, and I have no control over it.

Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop! Swoop!

After a viciously noise-plagued instrumental orchestral number featuring only Nick's keyboard and my malfunctioning one, he looks over at me from across the stage and mouths the unmistakable words, "Stop playing that thing." So now what? Just give up playing? Actually, he means I should figure out a way to ignore my main keyboard and play all the same parts on the one on the side. So that's what I do. And no more of that horrid sound effect gone wrong. It's early in the show, too, that he demanded this switch of me, so there was a lot of time to get over it and start thinking positive about how good the rest of the show was.

That is, until we got backstage. Now nobody is even saying any words. All they are doing is swooping at each other! And at me! And I'm speechless, almost hurt, as if I had just pissed my pants and everybody is calling me "Pisspants." I worry aloud to one of my bandmates that I'm going to be famous not for the notes that I'm playing but for the notes that I'm not playing. She assures me that's not the case, that everything is fine. Nick reiterates that it's the keyboard's fault and not any human's, and that I sounded good otherwise. So I'm feeling a little better, which is good because we still have some encores to do. And all I have to do for them is sing (and do a little hand-clapping). No keyboards! And it goes well, so I'm glad to put that whole ordeal behind me.

In the middle of my strange day yesterday, I got an e-mail with updated lineups for upcoming Classic Albums Live shows. It seems that in addition to a few more shows this year that I was already planning on, I was assigned to some others including a Pink Floyd show in May and a Beatles show coming up sooner with the Miami Philharmonic Orchestra! Dessie I had been planning on attending that show anyway, but now she'll be going to see me! This is sweet. I'm also flying to Newark for another Zeppelin show in May.

So the good news is this newbie's tour last week was a success, and the glitch that plagued this last tour didn't count against me. The powers that be are impressed with me and willing to keep me on through the spring. This is excellent news! I'm looking forward to my new assignments.

One of which is advertised at the right.

Taking copious notes is key

2009-01-23T06:55:00.002-05:00

There was a time back in high school that a music teacher encouraged me to try out to sing in Diocesan Chorus. I don't know how, but I made it. Vocalists from all over the area congregated early one morning and spent the whole day just learning one song after another. I remember there being a lot of Latin. The itinerary was very strenuous, allowing us only so much time to learn each song and then call it quits.

The final activity of the day is the concert. Our parents would have to come out and get us home anyway, so why not have a little performance before they go. And some other folks come for the concert too because it's been talked up in the local churches ahead of time.

Singing for that is a trip. You are standing next to some strangers, hoping they'll blend in with you. If you partake two years in a row, or three or four years in a row, you'll recognize some people. But I did it only the once, so I knew only the people from my school. And we were quite outnumbered.

So that's similar to the situation of meeting up with these guys when we're playing with Classic Albums Live. I knew Nick pretty well because we had played six shows together in December, and he's the guy who's been coordinating all the Florida shows. Other than Nick, I had met Joe and Marcus once each when they came out to those Zeppelin gigs last month.

One of the guitarists is Rob, whom I met very briefly under the same circumstances, but I also watched him play a Zeppelin show in November. He's part of the reason I joined this whole thing! So now I get to play with Rob and chit chat with him backstage. He certainly knows how to do voices. He was just doing Pete Townshend's speaking voice. He also speaks in a British accent, all prim and proper, when he's goofing around. He used that British accent to great effect when he handled the litany of "numba nine"s in a performance of the Beatles' White Album. And we were also sitting around talking about Van Halen, and the guy lets loose a perfect David Lee Roth vocal line.

Then there are the other three, exceptional players. Our female vocalist came in on schedule a day after everybody else, and she wowed me. Two other guitarists were there too, including one who's only 19 and whose dad drove him up. Other dude flew in from San Diego with less than a week's notice as a last-minute replacement. He was right on.

The difference between Diocesan Chorus and Classic Albums Live is we all know the material ahead of time. Diocesan Chorus shows up and learns the stuff all really quick. (Wait, I'm now questioning whether or not we did have the sheet music ahead of time. I can't remember.) Anyway, we've been practicing this rock stuff our whole lives, not to mention playing it on constant loop in the month leading up to a show.

I take copious notes. I jot down things that I'm learning on the spot. If we talk over harmony parts, I'm jotting it down in ink so I can refer to it at the show. Because the show is right after rehearsal. And then my notes are there for the second and third shows too. I would never remember everything we discussed without those notes.

What's funny is no matter how hurried we are in our little rehearsal time, we are so prepared by the time we take the stage in front of the audience that we can really relax. All we're doing now is keeping promises. We said we'd do such-and-such, and now it's time to honor those promises and follow through with it. No sense in talking a big game if you aren't going to provide the onslaught.

We brought it hours ago in Gainesville, I'm pleased to report. And next, Lake Worth is up for round No. 2 of Hotel California. Then, Jacksonville gets our third serving.

Johnny-come-lately, the new kid in town

2009-01-22T10:49:00.003-05:00

Everybody's new sometime. Today, I'm it.

Yesterday was a travel day. I didn't know exactly what was in store. I knew I was hopping into someone's rented van and heading north. The details of where we were going to go and how many people we were picking up were a bit shady. I knew we were bringing musical instruments and sound equipment. I thought some of my stuff would be along for the ride, but it wasn't. Then I met a bunch of guys in Orlando and helped them load a bunch of gear onto a truck.

Hell, this could have been organized crime. We could have been stealing equipment. I have no idea whose stuff this is!

We split ourselves into two cars and drove up north some more and ended up in Gainesville. We checked into a hotel and ate pizza and announced what time we would congregate today: noon.

It really is pretty cool what we're doing and how the whole thing is organized. And it's all on the up-and-up.

What we're doing is taking our stuff to the Phillips Center at University of Florida and rehearsing for our show there tonight. We're playing Hotel California, a collection of nine songs by the Eagles including the hit title track, "Life in the Fast Lane," "Victim of Love," "Pretty Maids All in a Row," and the song that describes what I am now, "New Kid in Town."

I've never been on a tour before. I've played plenty of gigs before, and the most successful run was a three-consecutive-night residency at one venue. That didn't include any loading or unloading for me. Everything I was going to use was already set up. This is a whole different enchilada. I've also never traveled so far for a gig. We're eight hours north of my place in Boca Raton. As Dessie pointed out to me by phone this morning, that's halfway to Washington, D.C., isn't it?

It was really strange being introduced to these folks last night. I traveled far, but some of them traveled even further, hopping on planes in Toronto and flying into Orlando. But here I am in the middle of all of this, meeting these people whose names I barely knew, and barely knowing who plays what instrument. All I know is we're all going to be playing music together soon, and it's going to sound an awful lot like the Eagles.

That's what brings us together from all these different places: the music.

When I used to work as a journalist covering the indoor air quality industry as my beat, I would attend various conferences all over the country. People would fly in from all over because of their common bond, some aspect of buildings. They were all on a mission, or several missions: to educate themselves, to network with others like them, to catch up with colleagues past, to protect or change their lifework, or maybe simply to escape the office or home. Point is they'd all show up for one reason or another and see some of the same faces each time.

This music thing is kind of like that. Only difference is we are flown out here on the promise of a big paycheck in addition to our hotel with continental breakfast and complimentary wi-fi access. That's because we've been deemed worthy of the task at hand; each of us must go out and recreate integral parts of the Eagles' landmark album and other numbers from their catalog.

We're the type of guys who pay attention to how many times a rocker played the rhythm this way and then switched to a slightly different rhythm on the seventh time. Like on "One of These Nights," the piano chords are simple. I can play them with my left hand behind my back. It's just how many times to strike them and on which beats that I have to pay attention to. Once that guitar solo is over, the piano chord pattern is twice as long. He hits the chords not only on beats 2, 3 and the & of 3 but also on the next measure's 1, the & of 1, and the & of 2. He does that pattern six times before adding another one on the second beat 4 for the CMaj7 chords and two additional between-the-beat strikes on the GMaj7 chords (or, since my part omits the tonic, the Bm7 chords). He does that, and I'm going to replicate it. It's my job to know that and to do it just the way he did.

And people love this stuff. They've been posting for months about how excited they are for this Classic Albums Live tour. We're in Gainesville today, down in Lake Worth tomorrow, and finishing up in Jacksonville on Saturday. Some of the band is playing a bunch more shows in Canada after that. Me, I'm just heading home, having done my part.

It's great being brought in for this. I'm already booked on a few more gigs, with some of the same musicians, and then the summertime will probably be full of these shows. Then somebody else will be the new kid in town. But there doesn't seem to be any harassment of Johnny-come-lately. We're all equals in this environment. No jealousy, few gripes. Just know your part, show up, and do your part -- all while dressed right. These seem to be the rules. Adhere to them, and you'll be fine.

I like it.

Top 10 events in my life I didn't expect in 2008

2008-12-31T19:20:00.001-05:00

Phone the neighbors and wake the kids. Or is it, Wake the neighbors and phone the kids?

Well, either way, get ready, because here are the top 10 events in my life that I didn't expect in 2008.

Hang on to your wigs and keys. Here we go.

10. Getting a Hollywood vet as a boss.

An upheaval last year at the leadership of the Foundation for Biomedical Research resulted in the hiring of a new vice president. Fresh off of a year working for the U.S. government in the literal war zone of Iraq, Paul McKellips was one of those larger-than-life figures who's compelling from the moment you meet him. Like him or hate him, this cigar-chomping font of creativity who for years labored in Tinseltown sure commanded one's attention. Ignoring Paul McKellips is impossible. In my case, I approached him with caution, but the moment he said he worked as an uncredited crew member for the hit TV show "Moonlighting," a favorite of mine when I first idolized Bruce Willis and had a crush on Cybill Shepherd, my suspicion of him immediately subsided and I resolved to myself, "You know what? I'm gonna like this guy."

He had impact on me, but so did the four guys I saw in New York City early this year in something I could not have foreseen last year ...

9. Seeing Clapton, Winwood, Shaffer and Letterman all in one day.

There may never be a 24-hour period with more influential celebrities, and if there is, I don't know how I could handle it. One day in February, my brother and a nephew and I hopped into a car to take a train in New Jersey up north to Manhattan for an evening of entertainment. I'd nabbed us a trio of tickets to Madison Square Garden for the first of three performances by Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood, reunited onstage for the first time since they were Blind Faith bandmates in 1969. To make the excursion even more wild, I somehow also acquired tickets to the same day's taping of "Late Show with David Letterman." Both Paul Shaffer's CBS Orchestra and the Clapton-Winwood band played "Them Changes" by Buddy Miles, who died the very next day. Also appearing in the Clapton-Winwood band was Chris Stainton, whose piano playing for Joe Cocker's Grease Band was nearly as influential to me as a young keyboardist as both Shaffer and Winwood turned out to be. Clapton was an early influence on my singing. And Letterman? Well, I'm writing a Top 10 list, aren't I?

Which brings us to ...

8. Stepping into the unemployment line.

The boss and I were lock in step when we simultaneously realized how uninspired I was in my senior writing position for the Foundation for Biomedical Research. I had just come off a weekend of leisure in which I wrote morethan 2,500 words all about music when I realized that it is my passion and it would be great to pursue a career in that passion. My boss told me the same thing. He let me go but did so compassionately, offering to help me reestablish myself under his guise. He told me about how he drove to L.A. without a job and conned his way into writing for a TV series. Inspired that dreams do come true, I spent the rest of my summer trying to figure out exactly what my dream was.

So then, there was ...

7. Checking out Nashville.

I did a lot of exploring this great land of ours this year, and most of it was in the Central time zone. I endured some awful Greyhound bus rides to spend some time in Music City. Using some contacts I had there, I always had a place to stay and friends to show me around. Plus, I didn't mind jaunts by myself. I even became a regular at one of the honkytonks on the main drag. PBR was affordable and surprisingly tasty to this beer snob. I checked out the Nashville music scene and dispelled any notion that it was all about country. Hank Williams and Johnny Cash are important but more out of a debt owed to tourists expecting them. Otherwise, it's just all about making good music, and doing it well, rather than strict adherence to any particular genre. When I interacted with most of the musicians I saw, to find out to what extent I would fit in if I moved there, I discovered three concrete skills or traits I would have to develop to blend and be competitive. That would take time. So while I didn't entirely rule out making a living as a career musician, I decided against moving to Nashville, at least for the time being.

One of these trips helped me accomplish another unexpeccted feat of 2008 ...

6. Seeing Robert Plant and Alison Krauss five times.

Five times all in the span of April through July, I saw Led Zeppelin's lead singer teaming up with the bluegrass sweetheart aided by a band of some of Nashville's best. And that band gelled as time went on, much to my pleasure, witnessing a better concert each time. Plant, who may have been a tad intimidated at first, was really coming out of his shell on that tour. I'm sure he was soaking it all up and making the most of his time. It was great to see this firsthand and report my conclusions to the folks reading me at www.LedZeppelinNews.com. Even if it wasn't the best news for anyone wanting to see Plant fronting the world's best rock band, it was great for those of us who loyally followed him. In doing so, I made my first voyages into Knoxville, Chattanooga and Atlantic City. My second time at Merriweather Post-Pavilion was Plant's second time performing there; the first was in '69, the only time Zep shared the bill with the Who).

My summer of exploring also turned up one other unexpected discovery ...

5. Falling in love with a woman who has four kids.

Now there's a big surprise. I've always been open to falling in love but never quite open to kids. My biggest fear of raising kids, though? Changing diapers. These kids are all out of diapers! They're too old for them! The youngest is 8, and the oldest is twice that. Sounds great! Not only this, but I got some new grandparents out of the deal -- great news since last year my own supply of parents' parents depleted for good. And the girlfriend? Her name, Layla, helped attract me to her, but it was everything else about her that drew me in and made us inseparable. We just spent a few days in the Florida Keys this month. I hadn't been that happy since Election Night!

Layla and I met at a conference in August that also provided another unexpected highlight ...

4. Performing "Abbey Road" and "The Dark Side of the Moon" in their entirety with an amateur group that sure seemed professional.

A little bit of coaching via e-mail and long-distance telephone, plus one long onsite rehearsal, was my method of getting this ragtag group of garage-band building scientists, who meet annually at a conference anyway, to practice up a prescribed list of tunes they like. We worked out and ran through a bunch of crowd favorites from the Stones, Bob Marley and, of course, Derek & the Dominos (added at the last minute to help me impress Layla). They were also game for pulling out two complete albums, and neither is all that easy: "Abbey Road," the Beatles' best studio set, and "The Dark Side of the Moon," Pink Floyd's most popular. Our performances of these took place in front of 100 or so lingering partygoers. Each was a highlight of my summer. That sure set the stage for what transpired in December ...

3. Performing "Houses of the Holy" in its entirety with a professional group.

Led Zeppelin is my favorite group of all time, and that's no secret. Whenever asked what my favorite album of theirs is, I often reply with "Houses of the Holy" (that is, if the "Complete Studio Recordings" box set doesn't count). The variety and expertise on that album are second to none. So when I was asked to join up with Classic Albums Live for a six-show performance of the entire album and a slew of other Zeppelin songs, I jumped at the opportunity. There was no reason to be nervous; I was made to feel right at home within the band because I was a good player and exuding the requisite amounts of professionalism, aptitude, confidence and likability. Those shows were amazing. Best of all, I've been asked back.

2. Moving to Florida.

My six years in the D.C. area were great, but there are cheaper places to afford rent. I had already decided to move when I met my girlfriend over the summer. Since I had just ruled out my first choice of Nashville, I was back to square one. She was living in Boca Raton, FL, so I decided to visit a few times to check it out. Good excuse to spend some relaxing time in a state I'd been in three times previously but only for business trips. When my second investigation concluded that indeed I liked the Sunshine State -- surprise, surprise -- my next move was to cut the distance between Layla from 1,000 miles to four. And so, I headed down I-95 by myself on Halloween night with a U-Haul full of everything I could fit into it. The plan was simple: Florida would work so long as I could afford to live there. Rent was cheaper in Boca than in D.C., so what's the problem?

That's what I found out when rent was due ...

And the No. 1 event in my life I didn't expect in 2008:

1. Paying double the rent.

One little unresolved problem up in the nation's capital was the issue of my lease, which was valid through May 31, 2009. I couldn't just leave on Oct. 31 without paying November rent unless somebody else was taking over on Nov. 1. But that wasn't possible since the management company insists on renovating the house between tenants and doing some other maintenane work. Once all that was done, it was December, and few likely tenants emerged, with nobody sealing the deal for an expedient transfer, freeing up my end of the deal. I'm facing the proposition of paying my third consecutive month of paying for rent in two parts of the country, all while unemployed and making virtually no income. Yay! But it all works out, doesn't it?

All right. Take care, folks! Have a happy 2009! Hope it is an interesting one!

Dessie's kids, the music stars

2008-12-20T16:35:00.003-05:00

I had the pleasure of shooting a video for the kids last weekend and then making it into something presentable on YouTube for them. Here's the fruit of that collaboration.

Dessie's kids

2008-12-15T19:35:00.002-05:00

In my last post, I remarked that Dessie's friends are now my friends too as a result of hanging out once at a party. If only kids were that simple!

Dessie's kids are great. And they're my friends too. But you can't substitute the word "kids" for "friends" in a sentence about making her friends mine. It doesn't work that way.

Her kids are still very much attached to their father, who sees them almost every day and likes to keep tabs on what they're doing in between their sleepovers at his place and their impromptu phone calls to him just to say hi and then go silent. So yeah, he's still involved.

In their lives, that is. Well, by extenstion, in Dessie's life too. I don't mind that. In fact, I just suggested to her that they should all go to my gig this Thursday night. Her, him, and their three kids. OK, so part of that reason was so I could use her car.

But no, I haven't met the guy yet. He knows I'm a musician, and he plays guitar. Heck, he's been sharing that with his son, whose playing is a level above that of the average 11-year-old. So I figure, what better venue to present myself to him than when I'm doing my best work? And, in case I make a bad impression on the guy (or if I already have by dating his wife), there will be 100 or more witnesses to save me.

Point is, I'm glad to be involved in these kids' lives. And they're his, not mine.

But I had the opportunity to play Mr. Mom to them last night when I was over and Dessie was overly tired after dinner. I suggested she go to bed and I would take care of the kids and get them to bed when it was time. She was so sleepy that she had little reason to turn down the offer. I'm so glad I could lend a hand to her. What would she have done otherwise? No need to think about it.

So I got them to put on their PJs and brush their teeth. They helped me clean up the living room, which was something their mom wanted done. Then I got them to turn in. Two slept in their mom's bed with her, and one cuddled with me on the couch until we were both asleep. Overnight, I helped move two sleeping girls into their beds.

I'm not a parent, but I'm an involved adult. I realize that makes me nothing more than a babysitter. But I love these kids, and that's what makes the difference.

Awesome-weather friends (hey, it's Florida!)

2008-12-15T17:00:00.002-05:00

This past week has been great for me. And I'm not just talking about the three killer shows I've just played with Classic Albums Live. (My accounts of the second and third shows are on my other blog, LedZeppelinNews.com.) It's also been cool just getting established in other ways here in Florida and with my girlfriend.

Dessie has this group of friends, basically some girls who all went to high school together. She didn't go to the same school and didn't even live around here when she was in high school, but she's been absorbed into their little group nonetheless. So they have these parties, and people show up and have a good time, and whatever.

Dessie asked me to come to their Christmas party after I was done with my Saturday night gig. And that show, by the way, happened to be the best concert I've played in my life. So I'm coming from that, I'm heading out on 595 to get from Hollywood to Coral Springs, and the mood is right. I just can't wait to see Dessie and tell her about the gig. At that point, I don't even care about meeting her friends.

So I get to the party, and what do they have on the stereo system inside? Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy. Well, good choice in music. But it's precisely the album I had just played onstage three nights in a row and was practicing for a month before that. I thought, Who's the wiseguy who put this on to annoy me as I arrived? But no, it was just by sheer coincidence that that's what one of the hosts picked! Like I say, good taste in music. And I got to turn up "The Ocean" at 1:38 and point out the phone ringing in the background. I had to play that part twice for the two guys listening with me because neither heard it the first time!

Anyway, I gladly accepted the co-host's invitation to take over the music selections for the rest of the festivity. So, we shifted forward two decades and listened to Cake's Fashion Nugget, Lenny Kravitz's 5, Beck's Odelay and Mogwai's Ten Rapid. These are classic albums of the future.

It was great interacting with all the folks at the party. Dessie's friends are now my friends. And it's a pleasure being able to say that. It's something I lacked in previous relationships. I always had those friends who looked at me funny as if they were suspicious of me. Not so with these folks. I think they can tell how genuinely happy Dessie has been the whole time we've been together, a marked improvement over the neutral status quo of the past few years. I'm glad I can make her happy, and I'm glad these friends like me. So I'm looking forward to more parties like that, and just hanging out in general.

Cranium is a great game, but cheaters never prevail. This means you, Heather!

While I'm on the topic of my new friends, I did have a few friends for a while that I knew only from the Internet that I have now met in person since I've been down here. And then I ran into one by accident the day after meeting him! Had I not met him in person the day before, that chance meeting would have happened but would not have been known to either of us. And one friend and I are talking about launching a band. We'll see!

More later... I want to write about Dessie's kids! They're the absolute best.

Classic Albums Live, Houses of the Holy: Soundcheck rehearsal and performance one of six

2008-12-12T09:54:00.001-05:00

Some last-minute scurrying to figure out a way to get myself to play the keyboard parts of Led Zeppelin's pivotal album Houses of the Holy, and a few other songs we included as encores, paid off. Yesterday was a wonderful day, meeting some very talented and very professional musicians and having the immediate chance to play a proper show with them to an attentive audience.

Now I just have to keep the momentum from that initial experience alive for another week and two nights for the five remaining performances on our schedule. Classic Albums Live tackles the fifth Zeppelin album in its entirety again tonight and tomorrow at 9 p.m. and then again next week with the same schedule (Thursday, Dec. 18 at 8 p.m., Friday and Saturday, Dec. 19-20 at 9 p.m.) on the stage of Paradise Live at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood, Fla.

The only band member I knew at all before yesterday was Nick Hildyard, who executed lead vocal duties for Classic Albums Live last month when I saw and reported on their handling of Led Zeppelin's 40-year-old debut album, note for note, cut for cut. And I knew him only because after he read my critical analysis of their performance, he contacted me, figuring I have a pretty good ear and must be a musician. When I told him I was indeed a keyboardist, the first thing he did was rejoice at having discovered another local keyboardist.

Then, without hesitation, Nick invited me to try my hand at Houses of the Holy, which I of course jumped at. For one thing, I'd just moved down to South Florida, and all the musicians I knew were still 1,000 miles north of me. An opportunity not only to get onstage again but to play a better gig than I'd eve had before? Sure, it was going to take some work to ready myself, but it was a challenge I would have been foolish to turn down.

Nick and I got together a couple times between early November and yesterday, and he also often checked in on my progress by e-mail while he was off flying around to distant Classic Albums Live shows in Canada and the United States. Busy guy, but accommodating and also pretty relaxed. I told him I was worried about some keyboard sounds not being totally accurate, but he said not to worry. He lent me a midi console with hundreds of instrument sounds on it.

Unfortunately for me, I never was able to practice with that console on my own because it was incompatible with my primitive keyboard equipment at home! In fact, we discarded my keyboard altogether yesterday because of its limitations. We were at a professional gig, so we were going to use only professional equipment. Nick provided me with some good stuff, and I took some time onstage at our afternoon onstage setup sorting out what sounds would be good for what songs and making copious notes to boot. Now I was starting to sound like the John Paul Jones Orchestra.

As I auditioned this plethora of sounds in my headphones, most of the rest of the group rolled in straight from the airport, where they'd just flown in from Toronto, home of a six-night stint playing nothing but AC/DC's Back in Black. They were jet-lagged and complaining of ringing in their ears and admittedly in need of showers, but it was time to get themselves musically ready first. I was told that we were on an accelerated rehearsal schedule because normally we meet each other a day in advance of our first show rather than the day of it. That wasn't possible this time, so we wouldn't be able to run through everything before showtime. I don't think anybody wanted to anyway.

These guys were getting in, and I shied away from interacting with them except just to introduce myself by name and say it was good to be making my Classic Albums Live premiere with him. I honestly expected them to be inaccessible and arrogant, but no: They were as friendly as Barney the Purple Dinosaur and as neighborly as Fred Rogers. Then, when they heard me play, they were as complimentary of me as my mom!

In Classic Albums Live, these performers don't specialize in any one particular group. They're jacks of all trades. The seasoned veterans have each played dozens of different albums by a wide variety of artists. One Houses of the Holy guitarist, Tom Mcdermott, was pretty new to the thing, but he already had albums by the Eagles and AC/DC under his belt. But they are as competent and fluent in Led Zeppelin's music as any Zep tribute band member I've ever encountered. This made it as awesome to talk with them as it was to play with them.

Of course, I don't think they were expecting to hear that this unknown 29-year-old keyboardist had interviewed John Paul Jones seven years ago, almost to the day. Our bass player, Johnny B., was tickled to find out from me that he's not the only bass player in the world who likes to stay close to the drums when performing live; Jones says the others in Zeppelin would encourage him to play at the front of the stage but he would find himself drifting back toward Bonzo's kit within a song or two.

In the case of our drummer, Rick Vatour, it's with good reason. Those two play off of each other unbelievably well. They possess the same chemistry that Jones and John Bonham did, and that Jones evidently has rediscovered with Jason Bonham for quite some time. Johnny B. and Rick Vatour form a tight rhythm section, one that really can't be described as tight but loose like Led Zeppelin's was. This is only by virtue of the fact that Classic Albums Live reproduces with precision the run-through of every song as it was laid down in the winning take in the studio. They aren't improvising; they're faithfully reciting the improvisation that was rendered on tape and played back on home stereo systems and on radio stations billions of times through the ages.

At the show last night, I sat onstage, unoccupied at two keyboards that were useless to me for seven minutes or so, while the band around me ran through an encore version of "Dazed and Confused" when it occurred to me, during Dom Polito's violin bow section with vocal responses, that the real action was happening on the bass and drums. These two guys were essentially playing a duet with each other, not taking their eyes off of each other. They had it all meticulously written out for them in their minds and memories, and the playbook was 40 years old. It was incredible to see, and I look forward to seeing that again soon.

The show wasn't without its gaffes, the majority of which can be blamed on the rookie on the keys. They were things I recognized right away and did what I could to correct them or file them away for future reference. A few notes into my "No Quarter" introduction, I recognized that I didn't have the phase filter on my Rhodes piano sound, but fixing that was just a quick switch away. I inserted one clavinet phrase too late at the ending of "Over the Hills and Far Away," but I won't make the same mistake tonight.

And I committed a song structure error during "Kashmir" that also used to trip up John Paul Jones during live performances to the point that he would have to refer to his own handwritten notes about the song structure at his keyboard to help him from getting off track. Perhaps that's good advice for me too!

I went over some of these blunders with my bandmates after the show, but they were more interested in congratulating me on doing certain things that I did that most keyboardists they've worked with don't. For one, Johnny B. said I was correct in playing low notes on the Rhodes piano sound during the verses of "Stairway to Heaven." He said most keyboardists wrongly believe that's a bass on the record, and he said he was surprised to have finally found a keyboardist who agrees with him that there's no bass in the song until the third verse after the 12-string and Rhodes enter.

Meanwhile, the only constructive criticism I received from Classic Albums Live founder Craig Martin wasn't musical at all. It was on my wardrobe! I shouldn't have exposed the Foo Fighters T-shirt I was wearing underneath my button-down, and socks and shoes should have replaced my flip flops. (Hey, the guy's Canadian, not Floridian, so I'll give him a break!) But Craig did tell me that I had "big eyes and big ears." By this, he meant I was capable of following the other musicians' lead, being ready to interpret musical cues whether by listening or keeping my head up, and blending in accordingly. Craig said, "That's what it's all about." Yes, it is.

And that's something I've been trying to convey to all my bandmates throughout my years of playing. It's the ability that made Led Zeppelin a band of such great performers, and it's what kept them together all the years they were. It's probably what Jimmy Page is experiencing with the Jones-Bonham rhythm section of the 21st century and is drawing that trio back to wanting to work together again, whether or not they're joined by Robert Plant. It's a good thing that magic was there for Tom Mcdermott and me as we worked with the polished band of Nick Hildyard, Dom Polito, Johnny B. and Rick Vatour for the first time. Since our rehearsal time was so limited, it was excellent to go out onstage at showtime and be able to present our magic act to "The Ocean" that had gathered to witness it.

Excited and terrified at the same time

2008-11-30T20:41:00.006-05:00

Funny how things happen. After less than a month living in Florida, I was invited to play with a highly successful musical venture when it covers my favorite album by my favorite band.

My last live gigs were on Oct. 25, when I finished up my tenure with both the Usual Suspects and Trademark with two shows on the same day before I moved south 1,000 miles from the D.C. area.

And now, Classic Albums Live is having me on board in two weeks when they perform Led Zeppelin's LP Houses of the Holy, song-for-song, note-for-note, start to finish (plus some encores) over six nights in Hollywood, Florida!

How I stumbled across this is worthy of mention. I went to see Classic Albums Live tackle Zep's self-titled debut on Nov. 6, and I wrote my assessment of it over on my other site, www.LedZeppelinNews.com, where it was noticed a few days later by the singer. He commented on my blog:

"it is our sincere pleasure to reproduce those incredible songs as they were recorded. nobody in the band minds not improvising. it's not our place. we didn't write it. we will leave the improvising to Jimmy. There aren't a lot of people out there who can replicate the studio solos note for note. I am honored to perform with players who have the ability."

Then he contacted me privately and asked what instrument I play. He could surmise from some comments in my written review that I must be a musician with a good ear and some chops. After I told him I play keyboard, he asked if I would be comfortable sitting in with them when they play Houses of the Holy at the same place in Hollywood, Fla., on Dec. 11-13 and 18-20. And of course, I jumped at the opportunity and told him I would start studying the album right away. Nice assignment.

I'm both excited and terrified at the same time because of how difficult and intricate it is to play an album with meticulous attention to detail. I just saw them pull off the Beatles' White Album last night, and that eight-and-a-half-minute soundscape that's normally my least favorite cut on either disc was the best one performed live. So I don't know whether I should be encouraged by the way they pulled it off or intimidated.

The problem runs deep. Led Zeppelin liked to jam, and so do I. Led Zeppelin never played a song the same way twice, so why should anyone covering them? That's what makes Zep music so amazing, in my opinion, its malleability! And this rules my mindset. I've never been one to memorize any instrument's "part" exactly as is and play it back verbatim. But that's what the Classic Albums Live format dictates its onstage musicians will do.

I don't want to screw this up. So far, I'm sounding good in rehearsals on my own, and I have a great MIDI console lent to me to practice with and for use at the show. And I'm looking forward our first rehearsal, which is the soundcheck on the day of the first show. That's when I'll really know how well I'm playing. I'll find out if I measure up to my bandmates that day, and they'll find out too.

The current Beatles White Album series marks the Classic Albums Live debut of this one bassist. He did great when I saw him last night. Good for him! That'll be me pretty soon. If I can impress my peers and the audience over the two weeks of these Houses of the Holy shows, who knows where or what I'll be playing next! So I just have to pull this off.

Houses of the Holy should be a good starter for me: Now that I've seen how seamlessly "Revolution 9" can be duplicated live, "The Rain Song" and "No Quarter" seem like a cinch.

Update: Just minutes after posting this, I found an interview with Classic Albums Live founder Craig Martin that makes me feel more comfortable with this mission. The key paragraph for me is the one that says this:

I'll tell you one thing about the series that's really cool, and that's a lot of the players are in their 30s and 40s or even late 20s, some of these cats. And you know, the music business has changed so much, and a lot of them are coming face-to-face with the reality that their dream of making it, or even carving out a living, is getting tougher and the door is slamming – if not closed already. Classic Albums Live allows these guys a place to come and flourish and meet their full potential and keep on challenging themselves and teaching themselves. We keep a really tight crew of musicians that we get involved with here. We're not into egos or anything. It's a very selfless thing we do, and we take it very seriously. This music is sacred to people. When we boast note-for-note, cut-for-cut, we better be able to back that up, because you know this is like church for some people, and we're carrying the gospel. So these musicians come and they are able to have a career again. I'm able to offer them work, decent venues for decent pay, and it's really rewarding that way.

Yay.

Wishful thinking: Led Zeppelin filmed in 3D

2008-11-30T18:34:00.008-05:00

A question for all you Led Zeppelin fans out there: How would you like to enjoy your favorite musicians in 3D?

If only this weren't just something I'm dreaming up. Maybe these thoughts of mine will go straight from my blog to Led Zeppelin's ears, and maybe it would be something to consider.

How about Led Zeppelin performing a reunion concert, another one just like last year's one-off show, and broadcasting it live all around the world with pristine sound, stunning 3D images, and with camera angles you wouldn't be able to experience from the floor or in the stands?

I started thinking about this when I was reading this Reuters report about some new technological advances that are making fact out of science fiction.

I don't know if any diehard sports fans have ever envisioned they could go to a movie theater and watch the big game on the silver screen in 3D. Seeing quarterbacks Philip Rivers and JaMarcus Russell throw passes in a 3D setting may not have been a lifelong goal for gridiron fans on the sidelines.

But this technological advance is real, and it is here. They're trying it out. And technogeeks will surely pack the three participating theaters on Dec. 4 when this unprecedented display of live 3D football occurs in private showings for industry insiders.

From a Wall Street Journal article on Nov. 24:

This isn't the first time the NFL has participated in a 3-D experiment. In 2004, a predecessor company to 3ality [Digital LLC] filmed the Super Bowl between the New England Patriots and the Carolina Panthers. When Sandy Climan, 3ality's chief executive officer, shows the footage, "people crouch down to catch the ball," he says. "It's as if the ball is coming into your arms."

Cool. But will there still be tailgating?

This marks the arrival of something monumental that was predicted less than a year ago by Michael Lewis, chairman and cofounder of Real D. He's quoted in this Wall Street Journal piece as having "long advocated the transmission of live events to theaters in 3-D."

One past example of him making this prediction came in February, when the Associated Press reported his opinion that "3D technology eventually could expand [to] turn theaters into venues showing live concerts and sporting events."
The article explains that Real D was the company whose technology was employed in separate 3D movies showing pop starlet Miley Cyrus and rock band U2 at the time. The AP quotes Lewis as saying:

"There are a lot of places, a lot of small towns where we have Real D in place where U2's not going to go, Hannah Montana's not going to play there. ... They'll be able to see it in theaters, and in my view maybe with a better seat and better experience than if they were actually there live."

And that's a common theme among people who, as I did, experienced the movie "U2 3D" in IMAX theaters this year. Seeing that film in February stands out as one of the most memorable and moving moments in my life this year. And yes, I felt like I had some better views of the stage than I would have as one of tens of thousands of fans stuffed into a stadium.

Here's what Richard Harrington of the Washington Post had to say back in January:

In "U2 3D," the band seems so . . . up close, personal and dimensional, it's as if they're slipping off the screen into your lap.
Welcome to the future of the concert film, where you'll duck your head as the Edge's guitar neck pops out with such immediacy you'll want to retune it! Or you'll want to slap hands with singer Bono as he reaches out to you in the middle of "Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own."
Even better than the real thing? Maybe not, but surprisingly close and accessible.
Director Catherine Owens, who has collaborated with U2 on the band's elaborate concert visuals for 15 years, recalls a discussion with a colleague that "the future of entertainment would be that bands don't actually have to go on the road -- somehow they'll be holographically beamed. And we were joking around, 'Not in our lifetime.' But in a funny way, this film is that."

The Wall Street Journal says Real D "has rolled out 3-D systems in 1,500 theaters around the world" and that "some live events, including opera broadcasts and circus performances, already pop up on screens at theaters across the country."

But have there been any live musical performances? If not, this could be a frontier for Led Zeppelin.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Robert Plant said this and Jimmy Page said that. Of course I know it. Robert Plant only said he's against touring with Led Zeppelin for now. He never said he wouldn't do another one-off concert with Led Zeppelin. And I'd be surprised if Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones have written off that possibility either.

Wouldn't it leave a permanent historical mark if Led Zeppelin became the first group ever to perform a concert shown in 3D simultaneously to 50 countries?

I don't care if it's a one-off performance. That's fine. Fans would get more mileage and satisfaction out of this one-off performance than they did out of the O2 show, and Led Zeppelin wouldn't have to worry about disrupting Plant's anti-tour stance.

People who just want to see Led Zeppelin, complete with Robert Plant, will go and see the 3D film. Movie tickets are more affordable than concert tickets.

Theaters can keep showing it over and over again. Midnight showings. In 3D. All over the world. For a decade. Maybe forever. As long as there is a demand for it. And few bands have the cross-generational staying power of Led Zeppelin.

Heck, it would be in the spirit of Led Zeppelin to do three concerts, shoot all three in 3D and broadcast them live worldwide in 3D. That way, the band can improvise every night and change things up the way they always did. A longer guitar solo here, a melody line shift there, an impromptu jam one night, you name it.

This would give fans like Eddie Edwards of The Garden Tapes something to look forward to in repeat showings. And to really keep the fans on their toes, the theaters should never indicate which of the three concerts they are playing on any given night. Fans might never realize it could be one of the three until they start noticing the differences on their own.

This would be a throwback nod to the ingenious plan to release six different In Through the Out Door LP covers in 1979. Since the album covers were hidden underneath the seal of a plain brown bag, and because the plot was initially a guarded secret, consumers had to buy multiple LPs before they knew they were possibly collecting six different covers.

I'm just thinking aloud here. But I hope my words don't fall upon deaf ears. I hope Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, Robert Plant and Jason Bonham take this into serious consideration.

The technology has arrived to present 3D concerts live on a large scale. We have a barrier to break, a frontier to bust through. History will be made whether or not Led Zeppelin is on board. I just think it would be a whole lot cooler if Led Zeppelin were on board, and I'm sure a lot of other people would agree.

This could only further cement Led Zeppelin's already immense position in the history of music, plaster casters and all.

You thought playing at the Olympics would lend some visibility? Just you wait.

'I Beat the System'

2008-11-20T12:19:00.004-05:00

This is a song I wrote on July 26, 1995. Its protagonist, though riddled with guilt, senses vindication to come. I had a primitive recording of myself playing and singing this song within a few days of writing it, but that recording is long gone. It wasn't until this past week, over 13 years later, that I finally re-recorded it. This time, using Garage Band, I had the luxury of adding more than one vocal track. The electric guitar is sampled from "Jimmy Olsen's Blues" by the Spin Doctors. A few days after I finished this new recording, I shot and compiled the video. Here it is in its entirety for your enjoyment.

Music, video added to 'It Is Without Remorse'

2008-10-27T20:56:00.003-04:00

I came up with the lyrics Aug. 10 and spent the other night writing music for it and then making a video for it.

Lord, was I born a ramblin' man?

2008-10-24T20:17:00.002-04:00

It's a ritual I know so well by now: Rent the truck, pack the boxes, drive the truck, unload the boxes, return the truck, get situated. I have it down so well by now I'm not sweating it. There are only a few days left before I move 1,000 miles from the nation's political capital to its, uh, retirement capital, but I'll be fine.

After some counting, I've figured out this is my eighth time moving in eight years. And that's not counting in and out of dorm rooms for the three years before that. I'm such a pro at conducting this ritual.

But there's more to relocating than just the process of picking up and going somewhere else. When you move a great distance, you have to say good-bye to familiar people and places things and get used to unfamiliar ones. When you've had experiences as great as I've had with the people and places of the D.C. area, it's not easy just to pick up and move on.

The past two weekends were great ones for me personally as I reflected on the friends I have and where I am headed. The weekend I wrote about already, celebrating Canadian Thanksgiving, was spent with one of the very first friends I gained upon moving to the D.C. area, my great friend Brian, who has been like a big brother to me over the past six-and-a-half years -- and who even let me pull in some hours at his company when I needed it. We shared some drinks last night, cranking our favorite band, Led Zeppelin, on Finn Mac's jukebox with the World Series on the big screen.

Last weekend was one I spent in Washington with my girlfriend, Layla. She met some of my other closest friends on Friday night, and I took her out on the town for a full day on Saturday to be her tour guide and show her exactly what has kept me interested in D.C. for so many years. Pleased with her taste of the town, she hopped a flight to return home to Florida on Sunday morning, and I'll be joining her in the Sunshine State when November begins. It feels so good to say that.

Oh, and I cast my absentee ballot for Barack Obama by mail this afternoon, which also makes me feel even better about the future.

So I now say good-bye to Jan and Kristin and Betzer, Chris and Aprille, Duncan, Karlin and Tracy, Todd and Whitney, Ed ("Otter"), Archie, Jeff, Nick, J.D., Viddy, Doug, Seth, Robbie, Dorsey, Will and Christine and Ainsleigh, Chef, Petrick, Brandt, Clay, Ben, Glenn, Diane, both Joshes, Fuzzy, Paul, Frankie, Mary, Matt, Louise, Adrienne, Megan, "Hersh," Jess, "Merit," Bill and Joan, Celia, Brian, Irene, "Who the Hell Is" Angela, Kate, Katie, Charlie, the Bay Street Girls, Jesse, the Usual Suspects, Trademark, World Peace Party, the G-Tones, and all my other bosses, co-workers, friends, musicians, SigEp fraternity brothers and bartenders in the D.C. area whose company I appreciated and who had the patience to put up with me.

I also say good-bye to Chuck Brown, the Washington Nationals, Noah's Pretzels, the Washington Post, Metrorail, the DC Delta chapter of SigEp, the SigEp Feds, Zipcar, the Brickskeller, RFD, Ben's Chili Bowl, Five Guys, Wok 'n' Roll, Fado, Blues Alley, Bohemian Caverns, the Black Cat, the 9:30 club, the Rock & Roll Hotel, the Birchmere, Wolf Trap, Merriweather Post Pavilion, Lincoln Park, Stanton Park, Thunder Grill, Union Station, Union Pub, Schneider's, Jacob's Cafe, Tunnicliff's, Yarmouth Management, Eastern Market, Finn MacCool's, the Ugly Mug, Capitol Lounge, Hawk & Dove, Tune Inn, Banana Cafe, the D6, the X2, the 38B, the N22, the Circulator, the MARC train, the Freer and Sackler Galleries, the Botanic Gardens, the Sculpture Garden, the Smithsonian Museum of American History, the Air and Space Museum, the Corcoran Gallery of Art, Farragut Park, Georgetown, Glenmont, the Stained Glass Pub, Clarendon, Restaurant Week and, of course, being called for jury duty every two years on the nose. Every one of these D.C.-area institutions has provided me with lasting memories -- even in the case of a certain winery on 8th Street SE whose name I never really knew in the first place but whose proprietor recognized me by name every time I walked in, right from the very first time I ever bought alcohol in D.C.

I've already celebrated Thanksgiving this month in Canada, but I barely even thought about any of what I'm thankful for. I'll have another chance to celebrate Thanksgiving next month in the United States, and then I'll do it better.

With a list like that of everything and everybody I'll miss when leaving the D.C. area, and with Layla by my side and a future bright ahead of me with memories yet to develop, this "Ramblin' Man" won't be singing some Allman Brothers Band chorus about being born in the backseat of a Greyhound bus -- because I certainly wasn't.

I ought to be singing about myself the same ELP refrain I associated with my grandfather when he died last December after having lived a long, fulfilling and rewarding life: "Oh, what a lucky man he was."

Guess it runs in the family.

Canadian Thanksgiving

2008-10-13T11:39:00.002-04:00

Just getting back into D.C. after a milestone weekend in my life and also one of those rare meetings of the minds.

The weekend started as a friend of mine, Brian, left work with me early on Friday to book it to the airport. We flew to Buffalo where one of his industry contacts picked us up and took us out to eat in Buffalo. She picked up the tab for Brian and me. Then we stayed in the presidential suite of a swank hotel. In the morning, we met the sales manager for a complimentary buffet breakfast.

As soon as Brian and I said good-bye to her and grabbed some coffees, in walked the woman who was coming to pick us up and kidnap us for the weekend across the international line. Brian had been Lou Anne's guest last year, so they recognized each other, and our meeting in the hotel lobby -- 30 minutes ahead of schedule -- was unplanned and coincidental. (As in, no cell phones were used in the making of it! Go figure!) We all went up to the presidential suite to sit and talk for a while before grabbing all our stuff and heading on the road.

Getting into Canada, I didn't have my passport, but my photo ID supplanted by a birth certificate worked. (I was just afraid it wouldn't be sufficient to get me back into the States! But it did.) We were coming up to celebrate the early-harvest Thanksgiving holiday with them with a meal on Sunday, one day early. So the first stop we made was a little grocery store where Lou Anne needed to pick up the humongous turkey she had ordered ahead of time for the following day's meal. Brian and I checked out the selection available at the liquor store next door. There were so many beers I hadn't ever seen or tasted before, which is very uncommon for me. I felt like a fish out of water.

We stopped at Lou Anne's farmhouse, where she gave us the grand tour and made lunch. Then she asked what sightseeing we'd like to do. Niagara Falls is in short driving distance, and although Brian and I had each been there before, it's really worth seeing again and again. This was my first time standing on the Canadian side and looking over at the U.S. side though. After that, we had a drink inside the Hard Rock Cafe and ducked into a casino for some rounds of craps, which I now know I understand even less than I knew I did. Once we hopped back in Lou Anne's car, I took a short nap in the back seat, and Brian dozed off in the passenger's seat. The afternoon was capped off with a tour of a winery in Niagara-on-the-Lake before we returned to the farm.

For dinner, we were finally joined by a fourth personality entering the mix. Lou Anne's brother, Frank, who's now a published author. Lou Anne is the editor of his book, and they're now working on a second volume with a third shortly to follow. They share synergy and passion in their work, but she has all these cracks about the hassles of editing her brother's work, and his humor is very self-deprecating. Frank makes himself the butt of every joke, and Lou Anne is eager to go along with the gag. I played the piano and organ for everybody. Even my friend Brian was surprised to learn I am more than a little decent at it. All three of us males are really deep into an appreciation of Led Zeppelin, so we stayed up pretty late discussing our common interest over drinks.

On Sunday, we had a quick breakfast at the farm. Lou Anne stayed back to prepare Thanksgiving dinner while we three kings went over to Frank's place to check out everything he has collected related to the band. There was enough to do for hours, and we really only scratched the surface of a thriving glacier. In the middle of the day, we broke for some outside time and fresh air. Conveniently enough, Lake Erie is just across the street from Frank's place, so we hopped a barrier and sat on the ledge dangling our feet over rocks and the lake. We could see Buffalo just on the other side of the water. Frank says this ledge is his place to get introspective, so he and Brian took a few minutes away from the Internet and cell phones to think about where we are in life and what we're doing. Me? I took a load of photos of the scenery and of the three of us.

Dinner back at the farm was wonderful. The three additional people who joined us resulted in a fusion of personalities. The company was excellent, and the food couldn't have been better. There was very little difference between that meal and the ones I grew up eating on the same holiday but on Thursdays in late November. I encouraged Frank to bust out his acoustic guitar and play whatever Neil Young and Led Zeppelin songs he knew so I could jam with him. That went unbelievably well.

This morning, it was awful we had to leave so soon. I hope to be back again someday soon. It's not really Canada I'll be missing so much as Frank and Lou Anne. They are just some really great people, and I'll now respect their friendship much more.

Rote memorization, and a noise complaint

2008-10-06T13:54:00.006-04:00

"I pledge allegiance/ to the flag/ of the United States of America;/ and to the Republic,/ for which it stands:/ one nation,/ under God,/ indivisible,/ with liberty/ and justice/ for all."

I was first introduced to these poetically arranged lines of prose in kindergarten. It was through rote memorization that they became a ne'er-understood ritual for schoolchildren 180 days of every year. For one thing, we certainly didn't know what words like "allegiance" and "indivisible" meant, much less why our allegiance was being pledged literally to something symbolic, a piece of cloth. Years later, we were privy to (and perhaps in solidarity with) arguments against the pledge's use of the words "under God."

I think I can count on one hand the number of times outside school I have been in the presence of a pledge of allegiance. The pledge seems irrelevant to me as anything. It's simply a recitation of a pledge whose underlying meaning I fail to grasp fully. I understand pledging oneself to his or her nation. I understand supporting the troops fighting for his or her nation. However, the flag? Does questioning why one would pledge a personal connection to a piece of cloth, no matter how symbolic its stars and stripes may be, make me unpatriotic?

A gig I played in Maryland at a partisan political function made me think about that conundrum and more. I've lived in the politically charged capital area for six years. In that time, I watched many hours of political television and read many column inches of political periodicals. But as for actually participating in our democracy, I can claim only that I voted a few times, spread a few self-created e-mails mainly about the District of Columbia's lack of voting representation, switched my political party affiliation once, wore a few buttons in support of particular candidates, and had drinks with some of the capital's movers and shakers. At times, I may have unknowingly sat next to a member of Congress on the Metro. A few more times, I've been an impartial reporter watching as lobbyists and private-sector constituents made points to their elected officials, but that's about it. In all, I would say I'm politically aware and yet not politically active.

Yesterday, I had a front-row ticket to see how the other half live. With a set of 88 keys in front of me and ready to see if a bunch of white-haired Republicans remembered how to twist again like they did 50-plus summers ago, I saw first how political activists conduct themselves when they're among themselves. And you know what? I'm glad I haven't been politically active.

The Grande Old Party officially kicked off its afternoon picnic with the pledge to allegiance, followed by an improvised prayer led by one of the moose hunters hand-selected only seconds in advance after the first two turned down the offer. It being a prayer, I wasn't all that surprised to hear God's name invoked. But my jaw dropped when I heard Jesus Christ mentioned as our lord and savior. (OK, so I looked around and didn't see any Jews, Muslims or Buddhists crying foul, so maybe the prayer leader was safe.) But then my jaw took another fall when the prayer went on to thank God for John McCain and his pick of Sarah Palin and for the policies that are right to lead this nation down the correct path. Since when does God -- yours, mine or anybody's -- give a shit about Wall Street bailouts? I was later fed the lame excuse that she was nervous and didn't know what to say; my problem with her prayer has more to do with what she didn't know NOT to say.

The prayer ended with a restrained "amen," and following a perfunctory rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," it was time for the band, including me, to entertain with the Coasters' "Young Blood," the Rolling Stones' "Brown Sugar" and other assorted love songs. Since the Republicans in our band were dedicating every other song to Sarah Palin, I took it upon myself to interject what I considered a mild anti-Republican jab into "Superstition": I followed up the line "Seven years of bad luck" with an improvised "and going on eight."

I'm not big on rote memorization, and it seems like that's all Sarah Palin was doing in that first interview with Katie Couric when she seemingly tried to spout off every talking point in existence in the span of one sentence. Sarah "Punchline" Palin's performance in the later-aired interviews were similarly unimpressive, such as when she was at a loss for any Supreme Court decisions with which she disagreed, or when she couldn't name a newspaper she reads. And I thought the lackluster performance that saw Palin visibly squirm in her chair was a point everybody, regardless of political leaning, could universally concede.

There were no such concessions from the people I talked to at the event yesterday. One blamed the interviewer, Couric, insisting Couric is "a B-I-T-C-H." (Yes, the person who said this spelled the word aloud to me, either because the word is not appropriate in polite company or because it bestows more punch when spelled for emphasis -- i.e., "Katie Couric is not just a bitch; she's a B-I-T-C-H." The distinction here must be crystal clear.)

I don't see how Couric's demeanor could be the culprit for Palin's embarrassing performance. I will agree we didn't see the same squirming when Palin took to the podium facing off Thursday night against Joe Biden, even if she did rail against debate moderator Gwen Ifill on more than one occasion. But the fact that she didn't monumentally falter on that Washington University stage in St. Louis only intensifies for me how poorly she did, in contrast, when she was lobbed Couric's non-"gotcha" softballs. The only way Republicans see fit not to agree on that point is by sidestepping the issue and instead focusing on an irrelevant point -- exactly the way Palin herself insisted on changing the topic and not addressing Ifill's questions during the debate. I find this to be disingenuous and dishonest.

I also felt the same way about one of the messages I saw relayed on the back of two T-shirts on display yesterday. Shortly after I picked my jaw up off the ground following the so-called prayer, I saw two backs emblazoned with pictures of Barack Obama and Osama bin Laden, with only the rhyming portions of their names in writing, and the second letters of each highlighted in a different color. It said, "The difference between OBAMA and OSAMA is just a little B.S." Disingenuous, dishonest, disgusting!

Now, it's not that I disagreed politically with the things said at yesterday's event that has me up in arms. And it's not that I would have rather hugged some trees and attended a Muslim marriage of two lesbians. It's just that these political activists are so philosophically divergent from me that I struggle to understand their behavior on the most fundamental level. One woman who appeared to be in her 70s or older came up to the band during a song in our second set and emphatically cupped her ears and otherwise signalled that we were too loud for her liking. I signalled back, shooing her away, because she was right next to our sound system, the single aural vantage point at which we were loudest. When the song ended and her excessive-volume protests were still continuing, I immediately pointed the speaker and informed her, "That's a speaker. Of course it's loud here. Don't stand next to the speaker." She responded in the only sensible way one could: by taking my advice and retreating. Wow, what a novel concept!

The woman's retreat doesn't mean she eschewed victory, for what is victory? How can it be defined in any confrontation? How can victory be achieved in a war whose stated goals have shifted whenever the original mission was declared accomplished and the new goals were judged irrelevant or unattainable? I don't claim a personal victory over the woman with an unworthy noise complaint; in the end, I believed it was logic and reason that triumphed.

There will be a victory after all the votes are counted on or shortly after Election Day. It is my hope that the winner of this presidential election is the one who espouses superior logic and reason.

It's been an amazing week

2008-09-26T20:04:00.000-04:00

It's been an amazing week for me personally and also for some of my favorite celebrities.

I'll give a day-by-day rundown, starting with the weekend.

On Friday afternoon, just as I touched down in Florida, I checked my e-mail to find a dubious news article from The Sun, a British tabloid, claiming that the members of Led Zeppelin were determined to tour in 2009 whether or not Robert Plant was to be included, even to the point of having someone fill in on tour who had been sitting in on vocals while the others rehearsed. I didn't know what to make of the report, but I posted it right away to my site, www.LedZeppelinNews.com, which was the right thing to do . The story was out there, and it was a big one that could not be ignored, even if it was patently untrue. I made sure to note that the story wasn't necessarily true at all.

With that decision behind me, I looked forward to the rest of my weekend. I was in Florida to spend the next few days in the Miami area with my girlfriend, Layla. It had been a month since I was down there to see her last, so we hugged while her gas tank was filling up with $75 worth of the stuff. I suggested we eat at a Thai place for dinner. We joked that it was our first actual date with each other. I guess it was, but it was a successful one since we took our time and were the last customers to leave.

On Saturday, for breakfast, we started off the day with a trip to a Jewish diner. She said to expect their bagels to be better than any I'd ever had before. If they were, I didn't even notice. What struck me the most and stuck with me all through the meal was the first thing delivered to my table: the orange juice. It was freshly squeezed, and you could tell from the taste. It was better than any stuff from a container. I guess Florida is known for its orange juice, and maybe I'd never had a Florida orange freshly squeezed. Great stuff!

Also, the hostess at the front recognized the name of my fraternity on my T-shirt. She said her boyfriend is a SigEp too, attending Florida State but away from campus this semester doing an internship.

In the afternoon, I had an appointment at the Florida DMV. I got my driver's license transferred to that state and registered to vote as a Florida resident, which will come in handy very soon. In the shade that evening, Layla and I watched the sun set on lawn chairs right at the edge of Biscayne Bay. Once the sky was almost completely dark, we noticed that a cloud above Miami was illuminated by the lights that are constantly on in the city.

That night, we went to Delray Beach. On our way to the boardwalk for a stroll holding each other's hands, we stopped by a cute little gallery on the main drag where some large framed photographs of classic rock artists were on display. James Fortune shots of Led Zeppelin were the highlight for me, as Layla knew in taking me out there. After our walk, we people-watched from our seats at a cheap Italian restaurant. The food was delicious and plentiful -- enough to feed us lunch on Sunday afternoon!

Layla had never seen "An Inconvenient Truth," so she had asked me to bring my DVD with me to Florida. We watched it Sunday morning. It's funny that even while listening to the movie's dire message, we were still able to make out as though it were a romantic flick.

We drove around for a while that afternoon and wound up at a sports bar where the Packers and Cowboys were on TV. I'm not particularly fond of either team, but I love it when Tony Romo embarrasses himself. The game had a few great moments in that department, and the despicable Terrell Owens (I'm an Eagles fan) was pretty much worthless throughout the game, but the Cowgirls still somehow managed to pull through.

Layla helped me slam a full rack of ribs, but what was really fun was our second bout of people-watching for the weekend. We even watched a racewar break out right in front of our table, at the front entrance! Three cop cars were dispatched to the scene, but they were too late to apprehend either of the fighting parties.

I forgot my phone charger down in the Miami area, and by the time I realized it, it was too late to turn around and get it. So when I got back home Monday, I spent some time looking to purchase a new charger. Thanks to my friend Eddie, we got one, and I also picked up a copy of Rolling Stone at the same time. David Letterman was on the cover, and I had heard he gave a rare interview in the issue, so that copy was mine. His guest on his show that night was Bill Clinton, and that got things rolling for a good week of headline-grabbing appearances. The best moment on Letterman's show came Wednesday night due to a non-appearance by presidential candidate John McCain. I missed Thursday's episode, with Paris Hilton as a guest, but the first 45 minutes of Wednesday's were so riveting that it would be hard to top.

On Tuesday night, my duty was to go and welcome 11 new SigEps at American University. I was happy to take part given the quality of the men who have been recruited there before. And on a bittersweet note, it may have been my last such moment like that over there, at least for a little while, since I'll be down in Florida.

Wednesday was dominated by Letterman's skewering of the absent McCain (joined by Keith Olbermann, who was a great pick), and Thursday night was once again dominated by Led Zeppelin. The Sun was breaking another story again, this time positing that Robert Plant wanted back in if the other guys were so determined to go out with or without him next year. So far, there's no official response to this either to confirm or debunk the story. Theories abound as to what that really means. All I know is I want to report the truth. For the time being, I'm reporting this rumor and, as before, cautiously noting that it is just that.

That brings us to today. I'm currently at a yacht club where I'm wearing a long-sleeved black button-down shirt and black pants with a tasteful necktie. I'm here with the band Trademark as part of the evening's entertainment. Unfortunately, I'm doing this in lieu of the once-jeopardized first presidential debate between McCain and Barack Obama. I am doing the gig tonight under slight protest, but I was glad to receive a good-luck call from Layla on the way here.

This weekend, my rental car and I are going up to Pennsylvania to visit my family, unbeknownst to my dad, whose birthday is next week, but known to my mom, who's helping me keep the visit a surprise for the soon-to-be-76-year-old. The last I talked to him was when I broke the news that I'm moving to Florida. I could tell over the phone the guy will miss me.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld

Moving to Florida

2008-09-18T13:29:00.001-04:00

Early last month, I was on my annual summer trip to Massachusetts, with my future up in the air. I was considering relocating from D.C. to that area, where a longstanding job offer had been extended my way by some down-to-earth people who would make excellent bosses. I intended to have some conversations up there to explore that career, but those conversations never developed.

Simultaneously, I devised a crazy idea about being a traveling bandleader at conventions that had nothing to do with music but, statistically speaking, probably had some amateur musicians in their ranks who could form a band around me to entertain the convention's attendees. Not knowing how such an idea could get off the ground, I shelved it.

But something very fortuitous came to me while I was in Florida: I fell in love with a woman named Layla. Her name symbolizes a great song. In fact, it is for that song her hippie mom named her in 1973. And while I consider myself well-versed in classic rock, Layla actually knew the story behind that song in more depth than I could yammer on about. It was easy to fall in love with Layla, and she wasn't expecting it at all when I planted my first kiss on her lips one night in Massachusetts. The kiss certainly wasn't unwelcome by any means, and it was the following day when we explored our romance further.

It has been growing ever since those early days of August. She has become a big part of my life, and I hers. We now talk on the phone for long periods each day, usually starting and ending each day together as if we were in each other's arms, just as was true when we both were visiting Massachusetts and when I spent the following week at her house in Florida. My desire to be with Layla, and possibly to spend my life with her, helped me to decide where I will be moving once I leave D.C.

I have found it is surprisingly much cheaper to live in Layla's neck of the woods. She will be picking me up at the Fort Lauderdale airport tomorrow early in the evening, and we will be spending our first weekend together at a house her grandparents own in the Miami area. It will be a great opportunity for Layla and me to share some one-on-one time and for me to give the green light to my plan of relocating to be near her and sort of start over.

The plan is to find an apartment in or near Boca Raton with a fraternity brother of mine from college who wants to relocate down there from Pennsylvania and then making the move around my birthday, Nov. 12.

In the meantime, the expiration date on my D.C. driver's license has long been Nov. 12, 2008, and it doesn't make sense to shell out the money required to renew it only if I would be forfeiting it in a matter of days or weeks in favor of a Florida driver's license.

Also, I became cognizant of the Oct. 4 registration deadline for Florida voters to participate in the 2008 general election. Given my inclination to vote for one major party ticket over the other, and also given the contentious nature of Florida votes, I am going to obtain my Florida driver's license and voter registration this Saturday afternoon in Broward County, ensuring I can vote in the Florida election either in person on Nov. 4 or by absentee ballot, thereby lending my support to my candidate in a jurisdiction where the vote would be much more meaningful to him than in the overwhelmingly one-sided D.C.

And if life down in Florida doesn't work out for the long term, that's OK because I will have just spent the winter near the tropics and a short drive from the Atlantic Ocean! I don't see what could be wrong with that.

Note that my plan does not involve moving in with Layla straight away. This is for a number of reasons. I have learned from past experiences of hastily signing leases to share confined living quarters with the girl to whom I was engaged and, a few years before that, with my one and only college girlfriend -- although I kept that living arrangement over my senior year of college secret from much of my family at the time.

I have learned much about relationships over 10 years of dating, and I do not believe I am currently repeating any mistakes from my past, such as ignoring red flags. Sure, Layla is responsible for four children of her own and still has to deal with their two fathers. That's all the more reason for me to play it cool and not become heavily involved in their lives overnight. The kids are all at impressionable ages and must be approached cautiously. The three youngest still don't know Mommy has a boyfriend, and they won't know that until they first get to know me as a person. I have met only the oldest kid, who's somewhat of an emotionally withdrawn 16-year-old boy, but not the three youngest. It is a delicate situation, and imposing myself on them by suddenly showing up as a stranger moving in and sharing a bed with Mommy is certainly not an appropriately delicate response. So, when I get into town, Layla and I will drastically alter our long-distance relationship and then start "dating like normal people." She has a great head on her shoulders and, from what I can tell, is a reasonable mother. All of this was easily agreed on mutually, rationally and naturally.

So, I move to Florida. No, I don't have a career or even a local job lined up to begin as soon as I get there, but the part-time and freelance work I am doing now are things I could do from anywhere by telecommuting. I am scanning the job circuit in the region too, in case something absolutely perfect for me pops up as either a full-time career or additional freelance or part-time work. I do intend to make a living and have more income than expenses, which is something I have not been doing all summer long in D.C. The cheaper rent in Florida is sure to help me out in that regard.

So, there you have it: my long journey that took me to where I am today and is leading me to an exciting future that's sure to be different from everything I have known. I am moving first and foremost for myself. But I am also moving for Layla, for her four kids, and for our next president, Barack Obama. God bless America!

The career musician who wasn't

2008-09-18T12:54:00.001-04:00

For six years, I have been living comfortably in the D.C. area -- first in Silver Spring, Md., and then on Capitol Hill. In my writing jobs, I had stability, which is what I had in mind back in the college days in Pennsylvania when I selected communication studies and journalism as my fields of study.

I've been adept at performing music my whole life, earning me several first-place plaques in piano and organ competitions before I could drive, and also landing me paying gigs at countless weddings, funerals and other religious services. I was still in high school when a family in my church community asked me to play their daughter's wedding; she was marrying the bass player from Radiohead. This milestone event brought the groom's brother, the group's keyboardist, up to the choir loft for his first-ever jam session on a pipe organ. He asked me to pull out the stops while he was playing so as to vary the sound.

For all my efforts, the biggest recognition I ever received for my music, aside from the weekly praise I would enjoy weekly from churchgoers who were impressed with my abilities, was a one-time write-up in my local Sunday newspaper back in Pennsylvania. It was an honor to be written up like that toward the end of my stint in high school, but it was not the pinnacle I was hoping for. I was a rock musician, but I was playing a church organ on weekends. It wasn't helping me earn real success, as defined by the rock musicians I admired. I was a fan of Eric Clapton and of Led Zeppelin. I valued the musical integrity of those musicians and their achievements in going on tours that pack stadiums and playing on records that sell. That's what I wanted.

Enter college. Majoring in music performance seemed to earn me little more than a piece of paper that essentially tells the reader little more than "this dude can play." I didn't see how a degree would earn me a record deal or a steady paying gig. Majoring in music education seemed beyond my grasp, so I didn't study music in college.

I did, however, keep on playing at that time. And maybe that's when I was the most creative of my whole life. I was able to contribute to the composition of an album's worth of original material with a band of some longtime friends who had picked up their instruments in their teen years. Heavily influenced by Pink Floyd and Radiohead, we dubbed ourselves The Interface and recorded a 40-minute self-titled debut that I believe would hold up to critical scrutiny if it were ever heard outside our immediate circle of friends. But what stunted our growth was the lack of urgency with which we transformed our recordings into CDs that could be used to promote us or purchased directly by fans. By the time our CD manufacturing occurred, the bandmates were splitting. An error on the CD, namely a gap between tracks that should have been seamless, made me furious. The band was a waste, I said, with a taste of sour grapes.

In school, I went for the degree that seemed to hold more promise of professional stability. I graduated cum laude and relocated, on a whim, and found work. I was busy, and I was no longer playing music. My then-roommate, a non-musician who had been my best friend since high school, recently told me it was killing him to see me going so long without doing anything musically at all. I eventually involved myself in a classic rock cover band, which it took three years for me to realize was a dead end. All the while, I was supporting myself on my comfortable existence in which a full-time writing job ranked first in my life.

This June 10, when I suddenly found myself without a job, all that talk of stability disappeared. With few ties holding me in the D.C. area, I realized this could be a unique opportunity for me to skip town and try something completely different that I have been longing to do. I spent a few months devising a plan, using a savings account I had earned over time to fund some trips to Nashville and elsewhere so I could find myself and discover my next move. I was rather determined Nashville was it. I wanted to pursue the career of a professional Nashville musician. I visited twice to watch and communicate with some of the musicians whom I would be emulating and, ultimately, against whom I would be competing for work. After doing so, I realized some of my shortcomings that I must work to alleviate. If I spend a year improving in the areas of owning and operating better musical equipment, memorizing and performing the words to songs, and marketing myself and my abilities, then perhaps I will be in a better position to succeed in the highly competitive Nashville scene in late 2009 or early 2010. Hence, I decided against immediately pursuing that dream in Nashville.

But I have to do something, and I cannot continue to linger aimlessly in D.C., while I deplete my savings account. Earlier this month, I began working some freelance writing jobs and a part-time administrative job. And all throughout this year, I have been playing some paying rock music gigs, mostly on the weekends. But my expenses are exceeding my income, and that savings account will soon go dry. The rent here is too much for me to afford, so I have to move somewhere more affordable, and the sooner I do, the more likely I'll be able to escape going into debt.

This is why Florida is coming into play. That, and my new love down there.

How did the hotel not kick us out?

2008-09-10T17:22:00.003-04:00

These four video clips my friend Eric made are representative of the noise a wedding party was helping me make in the front lobby of a hotel this Saturday night for several hours. How we did not get kicked out or told to hush is beyond me.

Nonetheless, here's me taking requests -- quite literally. You know when someone says "Free Bird!" It's not a serious request. But I just thought it would be good to confound the people when I actually started playing the thing -- in nearly its entirety.

As you can see, I went straight from "Free Bird" into another request, which was Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer." And yeah, that's my version of the chorus: "It doesn't make a difference if it's boogies or snot."

Somewhere along the line, somebody requested "Light My Fire" by the Doors. This picks up toward the end of the song. I was having a conversation with someone while I was performing separate-style solos to replicate the sounds of Robbie Krieger (guitar) and Ray Manzarek (organ).

I really thought the hotel was going to put the lockdown on us and have us go on our way -- with or without force. So I played "Bohemian Rhapsody" thinking it might be the last song before that happened. It's here in two clips:

Part 1:

Part 2:

The hotel, surprisingly, never did show us the door. We kept on rocking out for hours. I'm not sure exactly when it all ended. As you can see, I was having several drinks throughout it all. Don't you worry: My body reminded me of my substantial intake the next day.

Sarah Palin = Tina Fey + Principal Victoria

2008-08-29T19:04:00.002-04:00

It's uncanny.

Tina Fey will have to work on her Principal Victoria imitation and drop by the SNL set for a few guest star appearances in opening sketches and vice presidential debate parodies.

My compliments to Elton John

2008-08-21T12:43:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I rag on Elton John because I am sick of his status as one of the two most popular piano players of our time, with Billy Joel. Nobody else is comparable, and it frustrates me that strangers want to lump me in as a devout worshipper of not just either but both.

But today, I'm gonna give Elton an adulation: Side Four of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road is one of the strongest album sides of all time.

"Your Sister Can't Twist (But She Can Rock 'n' Roll)": Funny stuff.
"Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting": The musical focus on this major radio hit is not the piano but a monstrous distorted guitar riff that has survived many rough 'n' tumble Saturdays.
"Roy Rogers": I thought I was listening to a Nashville chart-topper for a few minutes.
"Social Disease": Bernie Taupin's comical lyrics glide off of Elton's tongue in this perfect example of how the musical arrangement of a song should vary from verse to verse. It also makes me want to sit down at a piano and write such inventive chord progressions.
"Harmony": This stunning album closer makes you think the Beatles reunited for a moment.

Big props, Elton. Nice album. Side One is just about as compelling.

Any requests?

2008-08-20T20:44:00.002-04:00

My two regular bands, the Usual Suspects and Trademark, are expanding our playlists. And I'm in the planning stages of two other musical acts simultaneously, so of course we're looking for suggestions.

Trademark wants to do more crowd pleasers from rock of the '80s and '90s.

The Usual Suspects is up for anything in the rock world that is crowd-pleasing, and particularly danceable.

My new project with this guy Henry is so far focusing mostly on classic rock, including some things we've never heard bands play.

My new project with Karlin is open to anything and everything -- obviously, we want people to enjoy it and shake their asses.

Requests, please?

Why Abe Lincoln was staring me in the face

2008-08-20T07:14:00.002-04:00

Lately, I've had some great musical experiences onstage. I'm proud to announce that I haven't played a bum gig in August. However, as I'm sure to complain, the availability of gigs and my satisfaction with them never guarantee I'm going to make money doing this. But, just as Weezer intoned in "Buddy Holly," I don't care about that.

On a great note, I started out the month up in Massachusetts, where the Building Science Boogie Band really took Summer Camp by storm, performing lengthy sets of some really complicated music. The five core members hail from Colorado, Washington, Wisconsin, Maryland and the District of Columbia, but we don't let the distance separate us musically when we play together once a year. And we don't hold back when it comes to musicianship or challenging ourselves to proceed to the next level. We have some audio recordings I hope to be sharing soon as I'm sure they will attest to the quality of the music and the enjoyment of our captive audience as we performed.

When I came back from Massachusetts, I was immediately back in the groove performing with Trademark one night and a newly revamped lineup of the Usual Suspects the following afternoon. The Trademark show at McGinty's Public, an upstairs bar tucked away in Silver Spring, was the group's best with me around. Two of the guys in the Usual Suspects came to check out the gig and smooth-talked the manager into getting their group, also with me, a date on the calendar. Then we were playing together at an autism research benefit in a few hours, this being my first meeting with our new drummer. It was his second gig with the band, however, as they had played a show with somebody filling in on keyboards for me while I was up in Massachusetts. I was impressed with the new drummer, and we entertained a bunch of bikers who were helping the cause. It was great to see all those tattooed people dancing while we rocked out tunes by Tom Petty, Cracker and Stevie Wonder.

From there, I hurried out so I could hop a flight to Florida for a week that included some heavy romance and a successful job interview. It seemed like a five-day glimpse into a crystal ball. Much more on all of that later. I'm just writing about music for now ...

Oh, I guess I could mention I wished I could have sat in with some musicians I was enjoying in Florida. All on that Thursday night, I saw four bands playing down there in four different locations, and the last group was having members of one of the groups I'd seen earlier sit in. No keyboard was available on their stage, or else I would have asked to sit in. I would have fit in perfectly with the arrangements of some rather obscure tunes I recognized.

Also in Florida, I caught up with a friend in the Led Zeppelin fan community online I have known for several years (and whom I also booked one time to write an article on plants at the professional dayjob I held between 2002 and 2007). It was this friend who suggested the places I could go to catch some good live music while I was around, and his advice proved fruitful. He also told me about this little-known recording studio I found some time to visit; one of the guys there is Keith Rose, who was an assistant engineer on the album Jimmy Page and David Coverdale made together.

When I left Florida, I hustled back home because I had a gig in some town in Maryland called Eldersburg. It's one town whose name I had never heard before, but one thing I now know about that place is it is definitely in Ravens territory. Baltimore's football team was losing a preseason game to the Minnesota Vikings on the big screen, although a bunch of men and women in Todd Heap jerseys forgot those troubles when area wonderboy Michael Phelps racked up his eighth medal.

The DangerTones helped keep the celebration alive when our second set started as we picked up mid-song on "Love Shack" by the B-52s, which was playing on the house sound system while we were resuming the stage. The bass player, assumedly because he considers himself a truly serious musician (my perception anyway), did not participate in the impromptu jam. I, however, was the cause of it all. The drummer, guitarist and singer all helped keep it going.

When we were finally done with "Love Shack," the bassist returned to his spot, where all night long he would cue me in on precise song arrangements, accents, dynamics, endings and the like. That's what I love about live music: when the performers are able to follow each other. Whether I'm participating or sitting in the audience, knowing this is happening among musicians is what gives me the greatest enjoyment.

This certainly happened with the DangerTones, a group whose singer was the only one who knew me. I'd never seen or heard the group before, but I was familiar with everything on their set list and confident I could pull off this gig filling in for their unavailable keyboardist. I provided backup vocals whenever needed -- and maybe once or twice when it wasn't needed but helped anyway.

But now here's the one problem with that gig, which paid me $100. I had to rent a car to get myself there and back, which made me mindful of how much transportation was costing me. For the use of my neighborhood Zipcar for 7.5 hours at $9.50 an hour, I paid about $75. I also spent $20 at the bar, which brings my net gross for an evening's work to a whopping $5.

And that is why Abe Lincoln was glaring at me on the long trip back home to D.C. that night. He was on the five-dollar bill I earned, mocking me and taunting me as I guided the white Scion xA south on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.

Honest Abe says I'll never make it in performing live music. Well, screw him. To hell with what he thinks.

Let Teddy win!

It is without remorse

2008-08-10T22:34:00.003-04:00

It is without remorse that I placed this bet
It is without hesitation that I boarded this jet
It is without second guess that I headed your way
It is without question that we'll share this day

I've longed to be near you, to be by your side
In our moments together, no fears we hide
We'll calm each other as waves abound
We'll marvel at length at the peace we've found

It is without remorse that I've come to this place
With the same excitement as when I first saw your face
It is without alarm that I call you my own
With your hand clutching mine, we've no reason to moan

Just trust in me, Dessie, and we'll never fail
We'll weather each storm, be it rain, sand or gale
But battle these odds, we will in due course
And conquer we will: It is without remorse

Update: Music and video added to this text as of Oct. 25

A modern-day Harold Hill, but with legitimate credentials

2008-08-07T10:23:00.003-04:00

This year's Summer Camp was so beneficial for me. Not only were the anticipated amounts of delectable food and amazing fun exceeded, but this week away was also accompanied by plenty of opportunities for self-reflection.

One conclusion I have reached is that my original plan of packing everything up for a one-way trip to Nashville to stay and afford a living with the expectation of landing spectacular gigs was probably not quite on track. It takes more than just the one skill of playing mean keyboard solos to accomplish what I was thinking, and only after I develop the full package can I pursue it. That's not happening in October 2008. I'd rather take that chance at a later date, if following that dream is even applicable or necessary to me in the future. The new line of work I'm now planning may help me to hone those skills while I'm instilling them in others.

At Summer Camp, I inadvertently developed a template for a conference bandleader. In advance, the first task was to identify the members of the ragtag band we were forming. Playing at the conference one year inspires new performers to wipe the 30 years of dust off the guitars they've kept stored in their garages and cellars.

Next, those musicians and I participated in nominating an arsenal of songs for the musicians to rehearse individually. I offered some of my own suggestions but did not hijack the list to bear an undue amount of my personal influence. It was primarily the product of group consensus.

On site, I coordinated rehearsals (including a full day of rehearsal before other attendees arrived in town), picking and arranging set lists, splitting up parts, and directing the musicians on the fly. There's no doubt I made myself the bandleader while we were there. First of all, somebody had to. Absent of the expert intuitive skills musicians develop only through the live music experience, the band had to have a crash course in improvising onstage in a cohesive unit. Essentially, the lesson can be boiled down to say only that a good band member is always cognizant of cues that spell out the progression of the song.

I'm satisfied and impressed with the performance of this band not only in tackling an array of typical bar-band cover material but also two pieces of unlikely choices: the two rock albums I recreate in their entirety when I'm playing by myself. These two pieces, Pink Floyd's The Dark Side of the Moon and the Beatles' Abbey Road, are complicated overtures for any skill level. Their inclusion was not something I dictated to the group. On the contrary, the band members who'd witnessed me playing those two 45-minute sets in their entirety by myself were the ones to challenge themselves and strive for perfection.

This year, I even questioned the band members as to whether Abbey Road could really be performed from start to finish or if they wanted only to play the medley on the album's flip side. Their inclination was to stick to their guns and play everything. It turned out to be a wise decision. Those guys really put in a lot of work. They were just that determined to put on a great show for an audience of their peers, and it really showed in their performance. And I was there to direct and inspire.

Taking full advantage of the testimonies and recorded footage that exist of our performances this year, I will begin proposing the Summer Camp band template to the organizers of other conferences, based on the statistical assumption that every large crowd must have enough willing and able musicians to form a pickup band for the purposes of entertaining their peers.

The meeting planners would ping their members for the closet musicians. They would contact me directly, and I would assess their skill level, their strengths and weaknesses, and their current and desired music catalog. Remaining in contact with those musicians and continuing to monitor success in individual rehearsals throughout the advance time is crucial to the project's success.

As a band member myself, I would fill in whatever gaps exist on bass, drums or my longtime specialty, keyboard. (Finding guitarists and singers is never much of an expedition.) Finally, I would conduct rehearsals and direct performances just like I did at Summer Camp this week. In return, I would be paid a talent fee and reimbursed for my expenses. The number of conferences I can book determines the viability of this template to make a sufficient living for me.

Between conferences, I would of course promote my services using the Internet, including with YouTube clips as well as through feedback from participants and, yes, fans. In addition, I would have stretches of time for other projects such as side gigs either at home or on the road, professional freelance writing and proofreading, composing books, online newsletters, etc. -- all the other things I am confident and comfortable doing.

This is my new plan, and I like it.

Outside the box, it hits me

2008-08-03T03:35:00.001-04:00

The past few hours were something spectactular. It was an amazing night, playing some wonderful music for a bunch of people, with some great musicians, in an intimate atmosphere, with some casual drinks flowing.

There wasn't much that could have gone better than planned. We spent all day Friday and all day Saturday rehearsing everything we could fit in satisfactorily. Then I picked the songs that would work best, and we played 'em!

The gig is one that has nothing to do with music. It's the annual conference for the Westford Building Science Symposium. I mean, who'dathunkit? Bunch of guys and gals in the world of energy rating, environmental protection, and whatever else, also happen to be mean, closet aspiring musicians? What luck!

There's one in every crowd, right? There are a few, and I got them all together.

I was up here doing the conference four years ago this summer when my plane tickets were paid by my employer back home. I was the press. I had to cover the conference as a journalist. What's going on here. Meet and greet, get storyline ideas, summarize the lectures, spread the word about our newspaper, and recruit potential authors for scientific articles. That was my job.

Little did I know there was so much fun to be had away from the office. The people seem always to be in a good mood, and there's so much food up here prepared by a conference attendee and a full staff of volunteers and hired help, and much more in the way of drink.

Such was the case when, just one year ago, I was no longer doing the press thing, and I needed to make a decision about what I should do with my time. It was the easiest choice I have had to make, my whole life through. I was returning to Summer Camp, this time on my own dime.

I did it then, and I'm doing it again now. The thing is such a good time, the cost is outweighed by the benefits immensely. I am so glad Summer Camp is my thing.

It's the music that's the best, though. I mean, the food is incredible, and the drinks are out of this world. But more than I am a fat bastard who needs to shed a few pounds, I'm a rock star, first and foremost, who needs rock 'n' roll more than food, clothing and shelter!

Forget the rest. I'll take rock for $400, Alex.

What I've done here in Westford, over the course of four years, is somehow connect with the half-assed musicians in the crowd, and it didn't take much convincing to get them to practice up some songs throughout the year so that we could tear it the hell up out here. And that's exactly what we're doing. They ain't half-assed musicians anymore. They've now worked themselves up to people who know what they're doing!

Tonight, we played a 25-song set, hand-picked by me, of the best stuff we've played together, either in rehearsal the last couple of days or at last year's iteration. We picked 'em, we played 'em, and we nailed 'em.

Of course we did. We're the Building Science Boogie Band, dammit!

Crucially, we had one last-minute entry into the set list, by the name of "Layla," and it honestly floored me how well it came together. I must have talked the bass player through the song for two minutes by the time we tried it out in front of an audience including the tune's worthy namesake, an attendee at the conference. The guitarist wasn't even around for the run-through or the rehearsal, and we just went for it. Amazing, we pulled it off. It was just smashing. I mean, sincerely.

Wish there were more days like this. And there will be. We're here through Wednesday night before we head home to all our different locations across this great nation of ours (and maybe even further, in the case of the several Canadians and one Australian I know to be wandering around in our midst).

But really, I wish there were more days like this. I want to do this for other conferences. I think work like this ought to be recognized and paid for. I think somebody who runs a conference and wants to do something that's never (or seldom? scarcely?) been done before needs to contact me and have me coach their musically inclined attendees into exuding confidence and playing their hearts out, semi-professionally, for a crowd every year.

Hasn't been done before. I want to be that guy. I know I can be that guy. Whoever is reading this and, as a result, wants to make a buck or three hooking me up with the realization of that ultimate goal is more than welcome!

More travels ahead

2008-08-01T03:21:00.001-04:00

What is it about me that makes me want to travel up north this time of year? It's summer. Who would possibly want to head up to New England and risk taking a few degrees off the temperature for a week or so?

Well, that's what I'm about to do, for better or worse. Let me sacrifice a little warmth for some ... mosquitos.

I'm not fooling anybody. The main draw up there, when I get to Massachusetts every August, is mosquitos. They bite. They ain't no damn fun.

I go up there because I'm a glutton for punishment. I remember the summer of 2005. I got my airfare covered, and I went up there to write about a conference. I found out it was such a good time. I went back in 2006, same deal. Only more fun.

Go back in 2007? Paying my own way, this time. Just as much fun. But not reimbursed a cent. I couldn't come up with a single printable word about the experience. That Hunter S. Thompson shit don't fly with that publisher.

Take us to 2008. I know I'm not getting paid. I know there's no reimbursement. The only reason I'm going is because it is going to be so much fun. I'm going to play with a bunch of musicians, and we're going to entertain. That's what's on my agenda.

Right now I'm on the road, taking a shuttle to the airport. I'm going to be in Manchester, New Hampshire, by morning, and in Westford, Massachusetts, by afternoon. And everything is going to be cool.

I guess that it for now. More when I get to the airport. I had a good time in D.C. tonight, and I ought to reflect on that.

And they call that justice

2008-07-29T11:31:00.002-04:00

A New York Times article today summarizes a newly released report "prepared by the Justice Department's inspector general and its internal ethics office." The headline gives away the gist: "Report Faults Aides in Hiring at Justice Dept." Here's the lede graf:

Senior aides to former Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales broke Civil Service laws by using politics to guide their hiring decisions, picking less-qualified applicants for important nonpolitical positions, slowing the hiring process at critical times and damaging the department's credibility, an internal report concluded on Monday.

And here's a key paragraph, in my estimation:

The pattern appeared most damaging in the hiring of immigration judges, as vacancies were allowed to go unfilled — and a backlog of deportation cases grew — while Mr. Gonzales's aides looked for conservative lawyers to fill what were supposed to be apolitical jobs.

Oh, that's great. Let's put all this essential justice work on hold so that we can get some good ol' "god, guns + gays" Republicans in these positions, regardless of their qualifications. Because, obviously, Democrats, by virtue of their party affiliation, are incapable of demonstrating loyalty to a Republican president.

But this kind of vetting process wasn't exclusive to a circle of White House officials and aides to Alberto Gonzalez. It was contagious among Washington right-wingers during this administration.

When it came to filling the ultimate apolitical position in government, and the decision was twice left up to the president and Congress, it was Republicans who strove to make sure Bush's Supreme Court nominee was sufficiently conservative.

Come on, weren't they aware of the extent to which the White House's Supreme Court appointees had been vetted on that particular issue? They wouldn't think of letting anyone less than conservative slip through the cracks.

How dare the Congressional Republicans second-guess the nomination of White House counsel Harriet Miers, an ultimate conservative whose loyalty to the president could never once be questioned, even if her qualifications for sitting on the high court were lacking a bit? Boy, talk about disloyalty to your president. It's called trust, people!

We all wanna be big, big stars

2008-07-28T02:03:00.002-04:00

I wanna be a lion
Eh! Everybody wants to pass as cats
We all wanna be big, big stars
Yeah, but we got different reasons for that
... I wanna be Bob Dylan
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky

I just spent a few hours thinking aloud in front of my parents and answering questions about where I'd like to live and what I'd like to do, and never once in that time did I invoke the wisdom of the Counting Crows. But then I sit down to blog about my psyche, and a few lines from "Mr. Jones" are the first things on my fingertips. Congratulations for seeping in, Adam Duritz.

Actually, I've just also sifted through a voicemail message and a few e-mails regarding the G Tones' membership. Karlin quit Sunday afternoon for his valid reasons. Shortty is naturally concerned about the short term, because he booked us some studio time for this Thursday and a gig next Friday. He doesn't want to have to go through the embarrassment of canceling either or both because our lineup is in turmoil. So, since I expressed the same frustrations with the band that made Karlin quit the band and may ultimately make me decide the same, Shortty called me to see if at least I'm still in for those dates. I will probably tell him I'm in. I did agree to the studio time (although I somehow wound up with a conflicting appointment with a personal friend), and I did agree to the gig. Of course, so did Karlin, but he's now un-committing himself for those.

He has been talking to me for a few years about the ticking clock that represents whatever time left he has to make it big in the music scene, if something is ever going to happen.

He said it to me last night before the gig, too. We were on the half of the bar designated as the "stage" because it's simply a bunch of open floor between a jukebox against one wall and a pool table near the opposite wall. Karlin sat down next to a monitor and behind a speaker, hiding from the view of the other half of the bar so he could wolf down a turkey sandwich that was his for full price at the bar, along with a regular Red Bull because the bar doesn't stock the sugarfree kind he prefers. (The bartender hadn't heard of a sugarfree Red Bull and even scoffed at such an idea: "What's the point of having an energy drink with no sugar?")

It's a far cry from what I would consider "backstage."

My concept of backstage mostly comes from the dressing room depicted in "This Is Spinal Tap," with the finger food that annoys the guitarist. I think of cushy rooms with hearty spreads of complimentary food, beverage and other assorted amenities. I think of security making sure we won't be mobbed by fans.

And other things we just don't have when we play in bars and are out there with the common folk. The kind who drop us a request, inscribed on a napkin, for "Time in a Bottle" by "Jim Chroce" [sic]. Totally not up our alley.

The luxuries and facilities we lack are what was on my brain last night before the gig when I said to Karlin, "When are we gonna play a gig with an actual backstage?"

"I don't know," he answered, "but it's gotta be soon, if I'm gonna make anything happen for me musically."

There he was again, emphasizing that ticking clock concept.

He and I look back often on the fact that we remained faithful to a classic rock cover band called World Peace Party for more than three years, based on a perceived likelihood that someday we would be more than a garage band with a grueling rehearsal schedule.

That someday we would emerge from our pit of basements and start opening for national touring acts whenever they played our big local venues.

That somehow we would be perceived as better than a typical bar band.

(Although it never added up in either of our minds about how we get to that position if we weren't ever performing out, because don't we have to have something to show in order to be compared to typical bar bands? Then why the hell weren't we ever playing out?)

We gave that dead-end group three years of our life and got back nothing in return by the time we quit this year. Karlin and I had two other notable side projects through that time, of which neither came to fruition. We have been disappointed with the next project for which we gave more than half a year. While my patience is running out, Karlin's has already depleted.

He wrote me today, after he quit the G Tones, elaborating yet again on that ticking clock. "I don't have the time to waste anymore; if something's going to happen for me musically, it's gotta happen NOW. I can't wait or waste my time."

Nearly word for word what he'd said to me with a $6.95 turkey sandwich in his hand and a sugary $3 Red Bull on his bass amp next to him.

I have to figure out what my future is too. Like, where am I going to live, what jobs should I shoot for, do I need to go back to school and learn some new skills or fine-tune the ones I have? The parents reiterated to me tonight that I am welcome to move in with them "indefinitely" while I figure all that out. I want to be more independent than that, but I wouldn't turn down a free room while I was looking for an apartment and making other arrangements. I really don't want to be one of those guys who lives at home when he's 30.

As for what I want to do for a living next, I was explaining to my parents a few specific musical occupations that would satisfy me. And I also spoke of a particular writing opportunity that would also satisfy me. My dad asked how either would do the trick as the two are so divergent: Being a touring musician, he said, requires only a few hours a day of playing music, which is having fun and sounds carefree, whereas writing requires more time, different assignments, with pressing deadlines. How could one person whose dream job seems so stress-free possibly be just as happy taking a high-stress job? I feebly responded that they satisfy different parts of the brain, I don't know. Something.

One point about being a musician I kept revisiting while I was talking with my parents is the idea that I'm sick of playing to rooms with more empty chairs in them than people when I'm perfectly capable of playing to hundreds and thousands at a time. That, to me, would be really fun. I love traveling and seeing new places (as long as it's not by bus). I love playing with other excellent musicians. I love making audiences happy. And I don't care if I make tons of money or become a household name. I just want to make enough money to get by and to be the keyboard player for someone who might just be a household name.

But I have no idea how to make that happen. And until I figure that out, I'll be playing gigs where my bar tab exceeds my pay, where we don't have a backstage, where the number of empty chairs exceeds the number of asses in seats, and where the performance sounds like a rehearsal. And I'll be looking for employment at some writing job that I hope keeps me happy, at least until the itch once again becomes so unbearable that I have to scratch one more time.

Summer band resignations, and what lies up the road

2008-07-27T16:12:00.003-04:00

Think I'm gonna spend a few days with my family to step outside of my own problems for a few days. My last few live experiences have not been as pleasing as I'd hoped, and now the G Tones are about to take a hit with the resignation of our bass player, Karlin, and possibly me too.

And I don't know what's going on with the Usual Suspects as I was told on the phone earlier this morning not to come to practice today because they have another keyboard player who's rehearsing today to fill in for me on a gig I can't make while I'm up in Massachusetts. And they already have a new drummer I haven't met, somebody stepping into the shoes of the guy who quit shortly after our last gig and then fired off a bunch of grouchy e-mails.

But I can put all this behind for a few days and go visit, among others, my mom and dad. My mom is fresh off her birthday yesterday, and they have kindly offered, as they always do, to let me stay over at their place for a couple days. My parents have been eager to double-team me on the phone the past few days, in anticipation of my visit, to talk to me about how I'm doing since I've been unemployed.

Then also up there in PA is my aunt with cancer, whom I would like to see again and again in what are probably her last few weeks or months. And I'm also supposed to meet up with my high school-educated niece who has just moved out of her parents' place and into her first apartment. I'd like to try talking her back into college. She had planned on going a while back, but life got in the way, and now I don't know if she's been thinking of it at all. Oh, and her uncle is one to talk. Look at all of the wonderful things he is doing with his college degree right now.

Why do I even do this?

2008-07-27T04:02:00.002-04:00

Sometimes after a gig, it's difficult to think of the good points. That's when there were enough bad points alone to generate a story for friends. I can't help but come from this gig, my second night in a row playing out, with a bad taste in my mouth.

This gig had its moments. I ought not forget that we did so well on so many parts of so many numbers, that we had a decent crowd there, that I feel like I personally played some of the best keyboard solos I have in maybe a year. I really had some good control in "Breakdown" and "L.A. Woman."

But the flip side of that is that other parts of the same songs did not go as well as perhaps they should, and that only one person -- my buddy Rob -- came as a result of my talking up the gig among friends beforehand. Sure didn't reel 'em in tonight.

Definitely the biggest disapointment of the night was the sound. It sucked for the first set. And all we played were two sets. So for half the show, we sounded horrible! My levels were inconsistent. Karlin said his bass tone sounded like crap to him in the monitor but was trusting it sounded better to the crowd. Tony said he couldn't hear himself on guitar all night. And Shortty, our drummer, said he couldn't hear anything because he didn't have a monitor. I don't know if Spills had any complaints, but more so than any individual complaints we had was what was obvious to the crowd there. The mics were going in and out, and there was awful feedback all throughout everything.

And that's what we got for booking a sound guy. We never had such problems when we went without booking a sound guy at the same place the last time we played there. We had hoped that by hiring a sound guy and by paying him half of our take, we would get an improvement in sound over when we did the sound ourselves there the last time. Well, that's not what we got, and so we told the sound guy we didn't feel it would be worth it to pay him in full. He didn't want to give us a discount and in fact told us to keep the money. He walked out on getting paid at all.

As a result, I went from making $25 to making double that. Twenty-five was also my bar tab, plus I tipped on that. So, I mean, if we had paid the sound guy, I would have ended up losing money on the gig (but yeah, because I "needed" a few drinks and some bar food). Heh. As it is, between the two gigs this weekend, I pocketed almost enough cash to pay the Usual Suspects the $40 each I owe them from our last gig in Manassas earlier this month. Well, no, scratch that. I need to pay them $160. I have $106 in cash. Guess I need another $60.

Oh, and I owe something like $50-60 to the bartender at Okra's in Manassas. Accidentally walked out on my bar tab there on July 4.

So, remind me why I'm in this business again?

I'm practically on tour now

2008-07-26T18:55:00.002-04:00

If it's a tour, it's an unconventional one. It encompasses two metropolitan areas with only one venue in the second one (and it's far from the hub), several different bands I'll be playing with, and most of the dates are limited to weekends.

But it still kind of feels like a tour because between yesterday nd th end of next month, I will have played 12 shows. That's, like, an average of one gig every two or three days for a month. I don't think I've ever gotten so much use out of myself before.

Well, if yesterday was opening night, it wasn't a marvelous opening night. Barely anybody was in the audience, and I could seldom hear the guitar. Some of the on-the-fly song arrangements (particularly endings) could have used some tweaking.

Not the biggest surprise in the world given that this band is a revolving door of musicians who never rehearse together but consider themselves professionals capable of performing classic rock standards onstage.

Last night was probably my fourth or fifth show with that band, and I have never once played with exactly the same lineup. Go see that band, and you never know what you're gonna get.

But I found it funny that on almost every song, a common routine emerged: After two verses, they're looking to me to solo. Thank goodness I was feeling confident about my own performance. And after the first set, I adjusted to adapt to some constructive criticism: I needed to turn myself down during verses and the guitar solos. So I did that, but I was still unable to hear the guitar solos. The ax was drowned out by the bass amp next to me, and I think the guitar level should have been turned up more anyway.

Tonight's another show, but a different group. One that doesn't hide behind the pretense of not needing to practice collectively. Yeah, we actually rehearse! And when we did two days ago, it sounded pretty good. Fine enough to go out and do better than last night's band did.

The one thing that we can't directly control, though, is how many people show up to hear us play. I did tell people about the tour, but nobody has told me they will or won't make it to any particular show.

My gracious host, and my precarious situation (part three)

2008-07-24T01:16:00.001-04:00

Continued from part two...

Day three in Nashville, cohabitating with my attractive new roommate, Karyn. Morning. After using the shower, Karyn dressed in the bathroom. Just like the previous morning, she again kept quiet and resisted turning on the lights near the beds.

Because I had enjoyed better rest, I was coherent enough to bid her good morning. We talked about how well we slept, and I commented that she hadn't laughed. She said that must have been because she passed out right away, which I verified.

She told me there was a free continental breakfast downstairs in the lobby until 10, and I said I would probably "rock that out." She asked if that meant I would be going downstairs with her. She was already fully dressed. I was in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts I really wouldn't want to be seen wearing in public. I shrugged, donned the pants I had on the night before, and said I was ready whenever she was.

From this moment on, I felt strangely as though we were a married couple. And she was my hot wife. She looked hot in that little dress she had put on for work. But I didn't tell her so. I tend not to, following the advice of some aloof guy I used to work with. Girls like mystery, he says. If you don't pay them the compliments they expect, they wonder what's wrong with them that they haven't earned your compliment! It drives them nuts, he says, and then the next thing you know, you have them eating out of your hand!

Not that this technique has ever worked for me, mind you. Ever since this guy started training me in his ways, I haven't gotten far along enough into any relationship to deny compliments. Nevertheless, I thought Karyn looked hot. Better than she had in D.C. when we met up four days earlier. But I wasn't telling her that. Also didn't want to rock the boat.

But because I felt like there we were, in some hotel lobby, cinnamon toast and the morning paper, cups of coffee and tea, and time to see her off to work, we were married. In an out-of-person experience, I could see myself as the disaffected husband giving her a peck on the cheek before she left. That would have been so fitting! So right. But for another couple at another time and at another place. Not us, not now, not here.

I did more of a wave as she took off to go about her day. And I watched in awe as Karyn and her hot little ass trotted toward the front door.

I'm back in bed two hours later when I get a text message from Karyn. She named a time and place for lunch and said she would pick me up at the hotel. Fine with me. As usual, I had no plans of my own. My doubts about moving to Nashville were keeping me from getting up and out there, experiencing Nashville and finding my destiny. But I liked her idea instead: Blow a lunch hour together.

This was my day for hopping back on a Greyhound, so our time together was limited. And it would be good to talk about the night before. And now that I didn't have any more chance of being deprived of an overnight stay, I could speak with her more candidly about whether or not I should have been more proactive with her at any time during our stay.

She pulled up in her rental car at the front door of the hotel right on cue. I hadn't been waiting outside for even 20 seconds when I saw Karyn behind the wheel of her Cobalt with Illinois plates. And it wasn't all that hot out for a change, just nice.

Karyn and I headed off by car to Sonic, more fast food that was new to me. I let her order her own lunch, and I just duplicated whatever she got. I was in a copycat mood. It ended up being a chicken salad with huge portions. She also ordered some mini bites -- three fried apple bites with cinnamon dipping sauce (labelled "drizzle") and three fried macaroni bites. She knew what she was talking about!

We also each ordered specially made caramel mocha something-somethings with tons of sugar, tons of sweets, tons of whipped cream, tons of calories, and an extra shot of espresso. These came in a cardboard container she put up front, right behind the gear shift. There's no indoor dining at a Sonic; you eat inside your car in their parking lot or drive off and eat it elsewhere. Like, for locals, at home. Or in our case, some other parking lot. Well, as she put the gear in reverse to back out of our space at Sonic, she crushed both of the caramel mocha something-somethings, and off came both lids as both sugary concoctions spilled down the sides of the cups and out into the box, and eventually down onto the Budget car's plastic interior.

We laughed hysterically about this repeatedly for the remainder of Karyn's lunch hour. Between bouts of laughter, I took a moment to tell her I wanted to hook up with her the previous night but kept myself from doing it because I didn't want to jeopardize my housing situation. She said that was a good enough reason not to. We even laughed about the stupidity, or simplicity, of my reasoning and the whole precarious situation I had been in for the last couple of days.

We did get some more alone time together in the hotel room in the afternoon before she got me to the Nashville bus station. In fact, I considered it a slightly encouraging sign when I received her text message, saying, "c u soon. fluff the pillows." Very interesting!

With nothing else to lose, I pressed my luck with her quite a bit more than I had before. Sorry to disappoint, but I must leave the rest to your imagination. I will, however, say this: The only restraints were the ones two consenting adults put on themselves. We emerged happy and unscathed, and I believe we will see each other again soon.

My gracious host, and my precarious situation (part two)

2008-07-24T00:29:00.001-04:00

Continued from part one...

Day two in Nashville, cohabitating with my attractive new roommate, Karyn. Morning. Karyn showered and dressed and left in the morning without barely making a sound and without blinding me with any lights inside the room. I didn't hear any alarm go off either. Her movements wouldn't have disturbed me at all if I had been asleep in the first place. But as it was, I was having a hard time falling asleep, and whenever I did, I was waking up from some stupid dream and finding it difficult to go back to sleep. It wasn't a good night for me, but I made up for it after she left. I slept like a baby.

She called once in the morning, but I was in bed and by now sleeping soundly so I didn't know it. After two missed calls I didn't know about, there was a tap at the door. The loud rings of my phone didn't make me stir, but somehow, this gentle knock did the trick. It always does in hotels. And since I knew I had put the "do not disturb" sign up after Karyn left in the early morning, I figured it must not be housekeeping at the door. I'd better check it. Especially in case it was my breadwinning roommate, who would be locked out because I had latched the door shut.

I answered the door, and yep, it was Karyn. She had forgotten her laptop in the room and needed it for work later in the day. She had called twice to let me know she would be coming back for it. She asked what I was up to for the rest of the day. I said my plans were up in the air but that I would probably be checking out some music downtown. She told me when she was getting off work, and that's when I took notice: She didn't have plans either and thought we might get together. Hey, no protest here! Sounds fine to me!

She said someone once told her, "If you're ever downtown in Nashville, you HAVE to go to Tootsie's and order a Pabst Blue Ribbon!" I pointed out that Tootsie's is just one of several honkytonks on a one-block stretch of Broadway with near-identical layouts and near-identical beer selections, but if she wanted that place in particular, it would be fine with me! If I wasn't going to end up there, it would be one of the other half-a-dozen places with the same scene.

Karyn went back to work and left me to my beauty sleep. It was more of the same: heavy sleep. That felt good. It took me several more hours to get up, shower, and embark on a walking journey down Broadway, past the Interstate, to the White Castle. I knew it was there, and I knew I had always heard great things about the franchise's food, but I had never experienced it for myself and wanted to give it a try. So I ate four sliders and a six-piece chicken rings -- half BBQ, half ranch. Honestly, for all the hype surrounding White Castle, the food didn't do much for me. Just tasted like McDonald's hamburgers, only smaller. If anything, I thought there was more pepper on these.

Karyn caught me on the phone just as I was leaving White Castle with a slightly bad taste in my mouth, so she laughed and pointed out that all the general public's fondness for White Castle was based on states of being other than sobriety. Yeah, that makes sense.

That out of the way, Karyn asked what was next on my itinerary. I said possibly downtown, if she was interested in meeting up at some point. She didn't realize there would be music in the afternoon. I informed her that indeed there's music all the time on Broadway. She said she could drive downtown and offered to pick me up. I countered that I was close enough downtown just to walk the whole rest of the way and meet her wherever she parked. First, she tantalyzed me by mentioning a bar called the Beer Sellar that advertised "99 flavors of beer." Sounded fine -- and eerily familiar. Next, she ended up getting a ride into town from Pam. Great! No worries about driving intoxicated later on!

So we tried several of the 99 flavors, and I fed the jukebox, and Karyn helped balance my picks of "No Rain" and "Idioteque" with some "Material Girl" and -- hmmm, "Welcome to the Jungle," not bad! Coincidentally, she and I converged on Bob Marley & the Wailers as our individual jukebox picks. Through several rounds and several more free "tastes" of others we wanted to try, we stayed entertained for quite a while. Oh, and when you're there, be sure to try the mini nachos! Tasty! We got out of the Beer Sellar with an extraordinarily cheap bar tab for all we drank -- and also six tall Paulaner beer glasses to take home, thanks to a Tuesdays-only promotion. Seemed like we were ahead of the game!

Then we carted off by foot to Tootsie's, where I said the upstairs band was probably more our speed. Karyn said I was right. We nursed our 16 oz. Pabst Blue Ribbons; she insisted on calling the beer by its full name rather than the initials, because that's the way it was recommended to her. I didn't quite understand that, but I went with it. Don't rock the boat.

We didn't spend much time there, but next on the agenda was a meal. So we wandered around, with our box of beer glasses in tow, and looked at the restaurants -- some we'd heard good and bad recommendations of, and some that were complete mysteries to both of us. Surprisingly, we were pretty well in the know for a couple of tourists. We did walk into one spaghetti place but both commented that it smelled a little too much like vomit inside. On to the next place!

In spite of having heard a colleague of hers report that the dishes another spaghetti place we saw were no better than at Shoney's, that's the place we settled down in. We had a bottle of Blue Nun with our meal, and we spent most of the time at our table laughing. When I brought up her tendency to laugh in her sleep, she burst out laughing. She hadn't been told that in almost a decade, when a college roommate asked about her strange habit. Karyn didn't know she was still doing it. And because she was, it was a riot! Glad I mentioned it. I told her it bodes well for her natural temperament; it's a sign that she is relaxed when she laughs. She couldn't argue against that point.

Despite our drinking, the ambience inside Demo's also allowed for some serious conversation. I relayed my doubts about my impending (yet tentative plans to) move to Nashville, which I had confided in few at that point. My doubts were only about 24 hours in the making. I didn't come to any vast realizations over my plate of alfredo sauce over spaghetti and tomato base over Italian sausage, but it was no less good for the soul that I confided in Karyn. It probably helped her to get to know the real me. But I'm not one to let a conversation grow too serious, so I made sure the lighthearted mood returned. We were laughing again quickly. Thanks for the assist, alcohol!

If it had been a date, I would have rated it fairly high. It was a success in terms of so many things! And we picked up glasses for dirt cheap! But back at the room, two things struck me. 1.) She was drunk, and it's probably not a good idea to take advantage of her. 2.) Oh yeah. Right. She's my gracious hostess, and I mustn't rock the boat. If I misinterpret a signal, the penalty is probably being homeless! Don't want that to happen.

She changed clothes and got under her covers. I did the same with mine. Lights out, TV off. She asked me to light the candle she had on top of the TV. I tried; damn thing wouldn't light. Candle? If that was a signal, I still didn't want to risk misinterpreting it. Bedtime! Alone, again. And before I could even reconsider, I heard what sounded like sleeping. I said, "Don't tell me you're already sleeping." She didn't tell me. She couldn't, and she didn't have to. She was passed out cold.

I heard no laughing that night. She was just that dead tired. I fell asleep rather quickly too and stayed that way for most of the night. But I had occasional dreams about complimenting a brunette female on her cute face and her being amused. The mystery dream girl didn't really remind me much of Karyn except for her trademark smirk.

To be concluded...

My gracious host, and my precarious situation (part one)

2008-07-23T22:46:00.001-04:00

In the '80s, there were David Addison and Maddie Hayes. In the '90s (and again in their second feature film opening this Friday), there were Fox Mulder and Dana Scully (I received no compensation for plugging the movie).

The will-they-or-won't-they complex existed once more this week: in a hotel room I shared with an attractive woman my age and whom I barely knew.

Karyn and I met at my favorite Capitol Hill bar on April 3. We have chatted on the phone a few times, and e-mailed and texted a few more times. She invited me out to meet up at some social events, but my own scheduling conflicts dictated that I could not attend. Out of a stroke of luck, I caught up with her when she was about to travel to somewhere she'd never been before and was looking for something fun to do. It was Chattanooga, and I had just been there and knew of a downtown diner that makes exquisite cakes. I suggested it, and she thanked me a few days later and said it was delicious.

But by the time I saw her in person again, she had forgotten most of what I had told her about myelf. So, essentially, I was a stranger -- although we did keep in touch infrequently, talking about our travels (hers for business) and how closely our schedules overlapped. She was spending a lot of time working in Manassas but not any of the nights I was playing a gig there. She was spending some time in Nashville, but not when I was planning on being there. And then that's all we talked about, just the fact that we hadn't seen each other in a growing amount of time.

Last week when I called Karyn again, she immediately told me she was at an airport about to fly from home in D.C. to Nashville. Cool, I said, informing her that I was planning on taking a trip there shortly myself and possibly moving there. After I mentioned I was trying to line up some places to stay while in town, mainly couches to crash on, Karyn made an offhanded remark that she didn't even mean: "I could switch my room reservation to two king-size beds, and you could crash in my hotel room."

She didn't exactly expect me to take her up on the offer, but when it seemed increasingly unlikely I could count on a friend's couch for any of my four nights in town, I turned to her in desperation: "Which hotel did you say you will be staying at? OK, then I'll see you Monday and stay there Monday and Tuesday. Thanks!"

She suggested that it would be nice to see me once more in D.C. before I shared such close quarters with her overnight. It sounded like a good idea to me as well. So we got together Friday night before my bus departure for Nashville (by way of God's country). She had picked a popular outdoor summer jazz series in the District, and it was convenient to the Greyhound station, so I went there and found her.

Karyn looked good. Damn good. She was dressed to impress, and that wasn't all she did that impressed. She had nabbed chairs for us and supplied wine. Me? I looked shabby, with four or five days' of not shaving, in need of a haircut too, plus dripping with sweat from the heat, wearing the T-shirt-and-jeans combo that I find relaxing but makes me stick out like a sore thumb in downtown D.C. Other than my overstuffed tote bag with four days' worth of clothes and toiletries, I had come pretty much empty-handed.

Luckily, I had a little bit of personality to salvage my otherwise unimpressive presentation. That, and a little dab of body spray that even I liked when I put it on, although I'm not sure how well it held up against my sweat from carrying my burdensome tote in Washington's sweltering mid-July sun.

We made our greetings and some small talk, listened to the modern jazz band performing, sipped on her wine, and got to know each other a little better as we people-watched and eavesdropped on the typical drunken political conversations nearby. Karyn said she'd gotten me onto an invitation list for her upcoming birthday party. We firmed up plans for meeting up in Nashville a few days later, said good-bye, and that was that. Great! I'm sure if she had any reservations about letting me share her hotel room for a couple of nights, she would have said something. So I passed the audition and was guaranteed a place to stay for the second half of my trip -- as long as I could refrain from sabotaging it through any idiotic actions while I was there!

Damn, there's always a catch. I have to behave.

So, she landed in Nashville and called me right away. Only problem: I was at the wrong hotel. Same name, wrong location. I had gotten it mixed up in my mind and wound up eight miles away from her. Not knowing just how out of the way I was, she offered to drive her rental car and pick me up
. She thought I was at the one a few blocks from her hotel -- no dice. I told her I would hop in a cab and get to the right place and see her there. She said she had a hankering for some sushi near the hotel, and I said I would join her. That's what we did: Karyn and I -- oh, and Pam, her workmate who had also just flown in for the week. Just the three of us: How romantic!

Remember, don't be creepy. I'm not here to date Karyn. I need this hotel room and don't want to blow it!

We came back to the room, and she got changed and ready for bed. So I did the same. She turned on the TV, and once we had made fun of Headline News for long enough, she settled on a reality dating show for single moms and their male suitors. I was only partly interested, as I was preoccupied with whatever was happening on my BlackBerry. Just as I was getting interested in the fate of these single moms as they had their first on-screen encounter with the guys, Karyn said she had seen the rest of that episode from that point on. She changed the channel and handed me the remote, saying she wouldn't make me suffer through it.

Well, I thought I might come off as girly if I switched it back to the chicks' dating show, or uncaring since she obviously wasn't interested in viewing the rest of it again, so I turned it to "The Colbert Report" for the few minutes before the next commercial break. By then, her head was stuffed facedown in her pillows, and although she told me I could continue to watch TV without disturbing her, but she had to get out of bed and start work very early the next morning, so I thought I would just turn in myself -- all the way over here on my separate bed. I turned the TV off altogether, and the lights too, and set my BlackBerry to vibrate. I avoided conversation with her because even a quick good-night might have disturbed her if she was already asleep. So that was that. Another encounter of not offending her, just playing everything safe, and not rocking the boat, so as not to get kicked out of my free room!

That first night, making a move on Karyn would have been the least appropriate thing in the world. I mean, I guess I made her laugh a few times while we were out for sushi, but I was also having the same effect on Pam, a 40-year-old wife and mother. Karyn and I hadn't connected uniquely, and so there was no way I was going to attempt anything.

But while she was sleeping only a few feet away, I could hear her breathing. I could hear her laugh a few times. Karyn laughs in her sleep? That was new to me. Never known anybody to do that before. That's not a bad trait! She did it three times of which I was aware: twice late at night, before I myself fell asleep, and once in the morning, before the sun rose and before she was up. If nothing else, I merely took notice.

To be continued...

Having second thoughts

2008-07-23T20:57:00.002-04:00

A friend of mine sent me a message this morning asking when I have decided I will move to Nashville. It was only a few days ago, just before embarking on my latest trip to the city, that I charted out a timeline on paper and arrived at the second week of October as the week for moving.

But I'm not so sure that's still my plan. My doubts lie deeper than just the calendar I sketched out a week ago.

If I move, it really can't be sooner than the last date for which I have committed a D.C.-area gig, or some other kind of obligation. A while back, I arbitrarily set a date of Sept. 15 as the cut-off date after which I would not let myself commit to a gig in the event that I would later decide to be in Nashville, either permanently or temporarily. And for a long time, I lucked out in that I had only one gig scheduled in all of September and it was five days before that arbitrary deadline.

But then I remembered that my presence would be appropriate at an American University event on Oct. 5, the gala for the installation of the fraternity chapter for which I spent some years volunteering. No biggie, I decided; I would just stay in D.C. through that weekend and move the following week. Hence moving the second week of October.

And then, just a few days ago, I accepted a paying gig with the Usual Suspects at the University of Maryland's homecoming. The band played the show last year, before I joined the group, and I expect the gig would be my largest audience yet. Even though the date is about a full month after my cut-off, I accepted it. It pays well and is in front of a large audience. Never mind that my musical equipment and I would likely be 850 miles from the gig! Now I'm in a bind because I said yes to it. And I have to start thinking.

That brings me to the doubts I'm having in regaining full-time employment. With the way the economy is right now, it's not safe to predict I would get a job right away upon moving. That being said, surviving three or four months without a full-time paying job is a lot easier to do in Nashville than it is in D.C., and I've already gone longer than one month in D.C. without a full-time paying job.

That savings account I had accrued over the last few years is good to have in this situation, and while I haven't been saving for anything in particular (no aspirations for a car or a house), I never really envisioned I would be saving up just to be jobless for half a year.

At any rate, back to my friend's question this morning. Over the past few days, I started having second thoughts about moving to Nashville. Maybe it's not the right move at this point. Maybe it's not the move I need. Maybe I wouldn't be as successful as I thought. So I mentioned this to my friend today when he asked when I am moving, and he found my proclamation of doubts peculiar. He said that in the mass e-mail I had just sent out to my friends informing them of my intentions, I seemed so "confident" about the move. In that mass e-mail, I speak of finally being able to pursue my passion in a location that was built for it. I guess I do come off as confident in it. And yes, just a few days ago, I was.

But that changed when I started taking a closer look at the keyboard players down here. First of all, and I'd known this to be true already, there aren't many keyboard players. What's that mean:

(a) that the supply is low and the demand is high and therefore I would get work in a second? Or

(b) that keyboards are extraneous because most bands are complete without them in the mix?

Just answer that question with logic. Most of the bands I heard were in-freaking-credible, but they didn't have keyboards. They also didn't have trumpets and sitars and jugs and accordions and spoons, but that's as irrelevant to their sound as is the fact that they had no keyboards. I think any band that is already in-freaking-credible doesn't need to add another instrument to buff up its sound -- or, by extension, another member to take another piece of the financial pie.

But there are groups in Nashville that have keyboardists. The good news is that I'm just as good a musician as the guys I've seen on keys. I mean, seriously, they have chops, but nothing in the area of playing that I don't.

I have a great musical memory. Name a song. If I've heard it, I can probably play it off the top of my head -- assuming I can dig it out of the cobwebs. I can play it for you, even if I've never played it before, because I have a great ear. And I can usually remember it because I have a great memory for it.

Put me in a group of musicians who know things about dynamics, performance, and stuff, and I will blend in. Musical conversations are easy to have, and they're a lot of fun too. I can blend in easily; I'm quiet when necessary and no-holds-barred rockin' whenever that's called for. And I consider keyboard a part of the rhythm section for most if not all of a lot of music, so I lock in with the bass and drums often, following them whenever necessary. Same thing I said about musical conversations! When it's my turn to improvise and take a solo, I can do that well; a lot of times, I'm channeling things based off of recordings I have heard, or making up something original.

While I'm lousy reading conventional musical notation (i.e., "sheet music"), I don't think that matters for the style(s) of music I would be playing. It's more relevant, I think, that I'm perfectly capable of reading chord charts and even a single-note melody line.

And onto this, let me add that I can sing great harmonies -- when I know the words, that is. Knowing the words isn't a skill I profess to have. In fact, just the opposite; I have readily admitted on here three months ago -- not once but twice!!! -- just how crappy I am with knowing song lyrics because I generally don't pay attention to them in the first place! My musical memory is for orchestrations, keys of songs, chords, song structures, melody lines, even sometimes a memorable guitar solo or something like that. Ask me what a song's about? Couldn't even tell you that, some of the time, much less sing you something other than the chorus. So there, I'm lacking in at least one department.

The guys in Nashville all sing and do it well. I can carry a tune and sound halfway decent. They do more than just carry a tune. They nail it. They're great singers, and they conjure up the lyrics. That's two extra skills Nashville keyboardists have that I don't.

Tack on that these keyboard players are adjusting the PA while they're playing. Me? I don't even know how to turn the knob to avoid burning my toast! But they know all about the PA system because it's probably theirs, or it's a brand they've been using for years, or it's just second nature to them. And seriously, music just sounds good to me, no matter where the levels are. You don't want me to be in charge of the sound. Hell, I couldn't even operate the fog machine right when the Usual Suspects put me in charge of it at our Feb. 16 gig at the Fish Head Cantina! My track record with equipment speaks for itself.

Which leads me to one more thing that separates the men from the boys: the sophistication of their musical instruments. Anywhere there's a professional musician, there's some understanding of what makes his or her brand of that instrument superior to another. I don't have that. I don't care. I never have. I also don't pay attention to equipment and know anything about it: keyboard technology, sound equipment, etc. And apparently it is evident in my choice of a Yamaha Digital Grand as my primary keyboard. Even I think it's a glorified child's toy!

So, it's the factors above that are leading me to wonder about my tentative decision to move to Nashville and to pursue this dream of fitting in with the cream of the crop when I still haven't proven myself completely in the D.C. area, or anywhere else for that matter. Maybe that's what I need to do first -- to myself at least -- and work on the areas in which I know I'm lacking.

Ran into my favorite musicians in Nashville

2008-07-20T04:44:00.002-04:00

So I'm chatting with my Zeppelin-world friend Tracy outside the Sommet Center after I saw Robert Plant and Alison Krauss perform for the fifth time this year.

And we are about to cross 5th Avenue South when I spotted two other people I know: Kenny and Zach of the Wooly Mamas were crossing Broadway with some friends of theirs, and they recognized me when I called out to them.

I introduced my friend Tracy, who had to split because of an early shift starting in only a few hours.

I, on the other hand, had a whole city calling out to me to drink some beer and chill out -- with some folks I knew! My favorite musicians!

(Outside of Robert Plant, who was in town, and his fellow members of Led Zeppelin, that is.)

So anyway, I'm now back at the hotel after spending my post-concert Saturday night first at Decades (DJ-driven dance music from NKOTB and Paula Abdul to Billy Idol and Michael Jackson) and then at Layla's Bluegrass Inn (a band covering the Who, the Animals, T Rex, but not Led Zeppelin when I requested "The Lemon Song" for a $10 tip).

When I bring my keyboard to town, I'll really fit in well!

In the meantime, PBR and Miller High Life are my favorite beers. Very affordable and very tasty!

Eddie Cochran - Nervous Breakdown

2008-07-19T23:14:00.001-04:00

Great new addition to the set list! Robert on vocals doing his best Eddie Cochran imitation ever!

Wildwood Flower - song being debuted in concert right now

2008-07-19T23:09:00.001-04:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wildwood_Flower

T Bone Burnett suggested the band do the song only yesterday. Alison Krauss sang, no Robert Plant. Stuart Duncan on mandolin.

Close call

2008-07-19T18:59:00.002-04:00

OK, this is hilarious. Only because I ended up not having to face the repercussions. But another Greyhound passenger and I just had a really close call.

This guy Sean and I had a taste for something other than the microwavable enchiladas they had at the Knoxville bus station. And I also wanted to get a flavor of the town. I'd stayed in Knoxville three months ago, too, and thought differently of it compared to the backward towns I was badmouthing earlier.

So we ditched the bus and walked a couple blocks away to Urban Bar, a place some local recommended. Sounds good enough to me. Well, I had a couple of Shiner Bocks, and Sean (age 49) couldn't get served because he didn't have his ID (he blamed Greyhound for losing it for him yesterday). And we both had chicken wraps with Cajun hot sauce. And it was fun.

But as we walked back to the station we spotted our bus in motion, backing up out of its spot and ready to take off! All our stuff was on board. Of course, we were able to flag the bus down, and all's well that ends well. No, no lesson learned at all. It was just a lot of fun. The thing surprised me by taking off on time, maybe a tad ahead of schedule. We played it just right.

Just right.

Nashville or bust!

Next stop? Something thrilling, I'm sure

2008-07-19T15:39:00.002-04:00

At some point overnight at the Richmond Greyhound terminal, I overheard part of a conversation in which a young woman tell a stranger this was her first Greyhound bus trip. I could relate, as my first time was a few weeks ago.

But, you know? It's nothing to sing and dance about. It warrants no big fanfare, no celebration. It's not worthy of photographs or remembering in friendly conversation weeks or years later. I don't think I'll find myself starting a letter, "Dear Mom and Dad, The bus rules!" It's not like your first steps, or your first time flying, or your first car. It's just sitting. For a long time. A long, long, damn time. And making witless empathetic conversation about the agonizing delays. And getting up to stretch your legs every once in a while. That's all the hell it is.

And in the case of the long road trips I booked myself on to get back and forth between the hustle-and-bustle nation's capital and thriving Music City USA, it's a pointless waste of a day passing through bland, godforsaken places with names like Lynchburg, and Junction City. Each town has a bridal shop and an insurance agency and a couple law offices and an antiques shop and discount tobacco and a run-down gas station and a get-cash-instantly place and three (count 'em, three!) McDonald's billboards in a row reminding us about the "classic" Big Mac -- nothing more conservative than that, is there? Oh, I guess the two billboards for the regional gun show that ended five days ago could be construed as more conservative.

This all is what the elite consider fly-over territory. And not that I'm elite by any stretch of the imagination. I'm just temporarily unemployed, and the difference in price between methods of transportation was my sole factor in choosing the bus over a plane. Have you seen how much the airlines are charging these days? It's a no-brainer to me; the bus is the Payless Shoes of public transportation.

But honestly, and I'm counting on somebody to remind me I said this in case I forget, the only no-brainer is the fact that I must not have a brain when I pick this ghetto-fabulous mode of transit over flying the friendly skies. It doesn't matter how much it costs. I can get to Nashville from D.C. in what, 90 minutes? 60 minutes? I can make myself afford a flight if I really need to go. I just can't spend one more day trapsing through Rogersville or whatever. Another stupid day of this? I can't do it.

But I'll have to next Thursday because I forked over the dough already for a round-trip ticket. Damn the $10 discount for a two-way reservation!

Should I eat that return trip ticket?

Hell, for that matter, could I get off this bus at the next exit and see if there's an airport near the Exxon, Stuckey's and Dairy Queen that can get me the rest of the way to Nashville in 10 minutes?

(What in the hell is Stuckey's?)

That didn't last long

2008-07-19T13:05:00.002-04:00

Wow, I just re-read my post from early June introducing Dina to the blogosphere, and it now seems strange to me that I was so seemingly enthralled in her and she in me. Well, it didn't last long.

Since she wasn't over her last boyfriend, she didn't want to do any dating. Since that was the case, whenever we went out and whenever we kissed, we weren't dating although it felt like it to me and probably to her too. But by her request, we were never really together and therefore never had anything to break up. And I guess it's because of this, it just wasn't a monumentous occasion when we stopped speaking to each other just after Independence Day.

I was on a tremendous high because I had just spent the better part of a week in Nashville, hanging out with my friends down there while I was checking out the town I was deciding to call home within a few months, riding back to within an hour of DC with my favorite band down there, watching them play in their old stomping grounds where they now sounded better than I had ever heard them before, and then sitting in with them myself the following night in Bethesda.

Well, I took Dina to that second gig because she'd never heard me play before and I thought she would enjoy it. After all, I'm a rock star! Who can resist a rock star? Yep, and apparently I found the one who could. I may have taken her to the show, but she didn't stick around long. She didn't show any sign of enjoyment, and I had no idea why. The music was great, the band was hot, the room was hoppin', and the only person there she knew was droppin' 'em dead. No signs of enjoyment.

And she left. And came back an hour later for half a song and then left again. I had to drive her home, and apart from the first two minutes in which she said some hurtfully negative things, it was a 45-minute ride full of silence. Nothing. I was offended or pissed or something, and I just couldn't talk. I dropped her off at her building, and she walked out of the car and out of my life.

A year ago, I was the type of guy who would have overanalyzed it and been back on the phone to her the very next day asking what was wrong and how we could repair it. Not anymore. I'm not an unconcerned individual. It's just that sometimes two people ain't never gonna work it out and it's just best they admit that right away and move on. I think she and I both did that. We haven't called each other, and when the car door closed, so did that chapter. Just glad it was a short chapter and not something painful and excruciating.

Painful and excruciating. A lot like taking a Greyhound bus, come to think of it.

I hate Lynchburg

2008-07-19T08:31:00.002-04:00

I don't hate Richmond. I hate Lynchburg. Just the dreadful, hateful, history-drenched name for this awful, dogshit town. I hate that we have to stop here, listen to that ugly name be utterred, and sit and wait for the nicotine addicts to do their thing, which usually involves carelessly flicking their cigarettes high off the Lynchburg platform where they land on a walkway below where, who knows, maybe somebody's kids may be walking, before they re-board the bus now that their clothes reek of smoke and are just as capable of spreading that horrible smell inside the bus as if they hadn't even bothered to step out into the Lynchburg air. I hate Lynchburg.

I hate Richmond

2008-07-19T05:58:00.002-04:00

My second bus trip down to Nashville isn't going as well as planned so far. I'm writing this from a roach-infested depot I have gotten to know all too well over the course of several hours just now and several more hours a few weeks ago. It's in Richmond. I am really beginning to despise this damn city.

But I can't blame my troubles on Richmond, and I shouldn't, given it was from this city that an unexpected package was sent to my doorstep around noon yesterday. It was a mug sent by my fraternity's headquarters, in Richmond, to all the volunteers who are currently active in any capacity. I was happy to receive this pleasant surprise.

So that alone should make me feel less tense about Richmond than I do. But I can't help it. The fact that within a few miles lies my fraternity's national headquarters, with all its well-intentioned people and its focus on core principles to develop balance in life, provides no solace to me at this sleepless moment when the sun will soon rise.

I just looked. The dark blue night sky is already dissipating, giving way to a lighter hue of cyan. And behind this bus I can faintly see shades of yellow and orange. That isn't going to help me sleep. I've been up since the chiming of yesterday morning's "The Price is Right" theme song, which has become a ritual for me since I found myself unemployed. Just like in the summers between levels of grade school and high school, and even throughout much of college.

But now I'm off track. And so was the first bus I boarded on this trip that is already taking several more hours than I had anticipated. We first got off track when the driver couldn't find his way to an impromptu drop-off point in Springfield, VA, for one passenger. A passenger who drives a truck in the area for a living went up front and helped guide the driver to the one woman's destination. Then the bus driver couldn't find his way back onto I-95 South. The same helpful passenger returned up front to guide us back onto the East Coast's main north-south highway. Thank goodness for this guy, but he responded both times hesitantly, so it was only after we had been going for several minutes in the wrong direction that he leapt to our collective rescue.

But the worst was yet to come. It was at mile marker 89.4 that our bus was forced to pull over. And every one of us on board knew immediately the reason why. We could all feel it when we blew a tire. It was my first public-transportation flat, my first bus breakdown. Good lord, I hope it was my last.

I've heard horror stories about bus trips gone terribly wrong. While my new experience certainly wasn't the worst possible scenario, it was because this bus went out of service, and because it took another two hours for another bus to come to our aid, that I missed the 1 a.m. departure from Richmond that would have imprisoned me with the roaches for only one hour instead of four and a half. Further, the 1 a.m. departure would have gotten me into Nashville around noon; this later bus won't get me there until after 8 p.m., for a total of about 23 hours of travel time.

And there's nothing plush or relaxing about this style of transportation either. Even without the breakdowns and delays, taking the Greyhound bus has so many built-in inconveniences. Mostly, it's the layovers. I can sleep through a stop, one of those stops where all they do is drop off a couple of people and pick up a few others and leave within a couple of minutes. Those stops don't bother me. The ones that do are the lengthy and frequent layovers. The ones where you know there will be noise, there will be movement, and they may even make you get off the bus for an hour or so -- for "cleaning," they tell you. When I come back on, the place still looks like my messy apartment: They didn't clean a damn thing.

Now that sun is up. Wait, what's it doing to the right? If we're heading south, shouldn't it be on my left? Don't tell me this bus driver is lost too!

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld

What to do, what to do

2008-07-16T21:25:00.001-04:00

In case it isn't clear by now, I have recently decided I will be moving from Washington to Nashville. I am planning on moving there around late September or early October. That means I have a little while to figure out what I will be doing down there and where I will be living.

It also gives me a few more months in the D.C. area, whether I'm working or not, or wherever else I choose to be in the meantime. The world is quite open to me at this point, although I do have a lot of weekend gigs occupying my time over the next month and obligating me to be in the D.C. area.

However, there is still a certain draw to Nashville before I start making arrangements to live and work there. The next few days would be a perfect time for me to spend a while down there, particularly as Robert Plant and Alison Krauss will be in town. They perform at the Sommet Center this Saturday night, finishing the second leg of their U.S. tour before they rest up for the third leg two months from now. Nashville is home to Alison and several of the musicians in that touring band, and it is more of a possibility to run into them there than in any other locale. At the moment, I don't have anything I absolutely have to do this weekend, which is the only time that will happen until sometime in September when my current onslaught of weekend gigs and other weekend obligations end.

As far back as a month ago, I looked ahead in my calendar and realized the weekend of July 19 might be my only time during the month to go visit my family in Pennsylvania, particularly that sweet old aunt of mine who has terminal cancer that will be ending her life one of these months. So while I had been planning on a visit there this weekend, I did take the chance to visit on a weekday late last month. I don't think I will be up there again this weekend. Maybe some weekdays sometime soon, though.

But now I have another draw, and that is staying in the D.C. area this weekend to attend a conference for pay, and to participate in some band practices that otherwise would have taken place without me. I could use the money I would make going to the conference, particularly as I would be making more money at that "gig" than I do at many of my music gigs!

So, do I spend money and get to Nashville, where I am not sure where I would be staying and not sure if I would run into the musicians whose company I am seeking, or do I stay in the capital area and get paid to do one thing while fulfilling some other obligations? What to do, what to do?

Nashville's piano bar scene

2008-07-03T00:00:00.001-04:00

Oh my lord. I just walked into the Big Bang, a beautiful second-floor dueling pianos bar on Broadway across the street from all the honky tonk action. I've been in here for less than 10 minutes, and I've already heard two of the biggest clichés.

Oh crap, make that three!

First, Elton John. Somebody requested "Tiny Dancer," and the pianist on the left said he had played it already. But he indulged whoever it was who gave him the tip and played a little bit and segued into "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues" and back. And yeah, he made it "Tony Danza."

Second, the piano player on the right played "Gin and Juice" by Snoop Doggy Dogg. And he knew every word of it and let the audience sing parts by themselves.

And third, just as I was starting this post, the piano player who had just played something by Elton John had just received a request for some Billy Joel. I guess things don't change. Anyway, he played all of "We Didn't Start the Fire" and knew every word of it. And he sped up the last verse, impressively.

And if there is a fourth cliché for piano players, it's Ben Folds. Now the piano player on the right is playing one of those Ben Folds Five songs, I couldn't tell you which.

Anyway, good stuff is going on. I walked in to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama." Now they're doing some Sublime. Yeah, I might not enjoy every minute of work here, but I would definitely fit in and hold my own.

Chat with Burning Las Vegas keyboardist

2008-07-02T22:31:00.001-04:00

Thank goodness I recognized Andrew, the keyboard player, when he went up to the bar two armlengths away from me between sets, and that I had the guts to go up and introduce myself (and buy his 16 oz. PBR Tall Boy for $3.25).

Because this British keyboardist who's played in San Diego and Australia previously offered some advice for my situation -- and also knew of a keyboard player I ought to look up in D.C., who plays with Swedish-born blues guitarist Robert Lighthouse, whom I've seen a number of times including most recently on a corner a few blocks from my home on Capitol Hill.

So the keyboard player who'd just brought the house down with a Dr. Feelgood blues tune a few minutes earlier was now talking to me about a guy we both know! How cool is that?

Andrew's advice about relocating to Nashville was simple. If you can spare the cash to make it work, do it. It doesn't have to be a permanent commitment. But get a day job and avail yourself of every opportunity. There are plenty of ways to make it work, he said.

And being able to tell that he was a well-adjusted, friendly and smart dude helped a lot.

So glad I met him. He said if I do move down here, he'll probably still be in the same place with the same band on Wednesday nights!

Burning Las Vegas set list @ B.B. King's Blues Club, 7/2/08 (set one)

2008-07-02T21:43:00.001-04:00

Papa was a rolling stone

Signed sealed delivered

I can't get next to you/Heard it through the grapevine

Say that you will (?)

Midnight train to Georgia

Chain of fools

I second that emotion

Something

(You make me feel like a) natural woman (At this point this made me feel like a Nashville musician. And I think I want to write a song parody to that effect. I mean, I would totally fit in with this band, playing keyboards for them.)

Soul man/Hold on I'm coming

Slow blues in G (Stormy Monday style -- this really brought the house down... every soloist took a solo, and the place was rockin' right through the very last blessed note)

Proud Mary (slow first, then fast)

(Tim and Shannon wedding announcement, then fast number by request) Get up offa that thing

Break, and a well-deserved one

That's all for now

A good mix

2008-07-02T12:27:00.002-04:00

"Two Tickets to Paradise," by Eddie Money, is a great song. The verses vacillate between two chords -- G and A -- but it is not until the chorus that the key of the song establishes itself as D. When it does, it uses a very Townshend-esque riff to go from I to IV to V. Ain't very complicated at all, but the vocal melody makes the song.

At song's end are several repetitions of that three-chord riff, with the final V chord ringing out and leaving the song unresolved. Something else needs to happen there. It's begging for something.

I'm a Radiohead fan. Lots of people credit their album OK Computer as being one of the very finest albums of the 1990s, and I agree. But that being said, I never did like the tune "Let Down." Whenever I heard it in its place in the album, it was completely overshadowed by the song that preceded it. At four minutes and 25 seconds in length, "Exit Music (for a Film)" contains so much passion. It's mellow at first and then grows in intensity. Like a good storyline, the song has the buildup, the climax and then a solid dénouement. Great song structure, expertly executed by Radiohead both instrumentally and vocally. It's such a great moment in their career.

Any song following "Exit Music" is necessarily going to be a big letdown to me, hence "Let Down" is such an appropriate title for the song in that place. By itself, it's not a bad song.

Back to the Eddie Money tune. Last night, I heard a wonderful accidental juxtapositioning of "Two Tickets to Paradise" and "Let Down," thanks to a random choice made by iTunes. The resounding A chord at the end of the first song was unexpectedly resolved by the strumming guitar at the beginning of "Let Down." Because chords are only implied in Jonny Greenwood's opening riff, it's not clear what key the song might be in until the rest of the band enters and establishes it as A. It's actually the perfect continuation of "Two Tickets to Paradise."

Good stuff.

Two lessons learned

2008-07-01T19:14:00.001-04:00

Today watching some people perform, I learned two lessons.

One is how similar the human voice is to the pedal steel guitar. The guy who showed me this is Pork McElhinny. He did pedal steel solos with only his voice during an afternoon stint today during versions of "Stand By Your Man" and "Folsom Prison Blues."

The other is how much a mandolin can sound like a Hammond organ. I love the sound of a Hammond B-3. Have for a long time. I own a compilation of great tracks "made" by that instrument. Love it. Paul Shaffer, Steve Winwood: my favorite musicians of all time. I hope I can play like them someday. Maybe I already do, who knows? Anyway, there's a similarity between the way you play a mandolin and the way you play a Hammond B-3, which I never realized before, until just now.

One lesson I had today but didn't learn for the first time is how clever you can be in country music. I learned that a couple years ago when I was in Houston. That time, I bought a CD from a guy by the name of Russel Ray. This time, bought a CD in Nashville from a guy by the name of Dave Cox. Great musician. Just wish I were his keyboardist, and that I didn't have to cost him half the profits when he plays out.

Nashville-bound for the week

2008-06-29T21:47:00.001-04:00

In about 24 hours, I plan on setting foot in the town that may be my home in a few months. Music City, here I come.

It's a bit of a whim, but if it comes to be that I land in Nashville this October, it will at least be a well-planned whim.

I want to be a musician for a living, and I think I can put up with the competitive nature in that city at least for a little while to see if it's for me.

Hopping on a Greyhound was a last-minute decision, and even a few hours ago I wasn't sure if I was going to do it. But right now, I'm planning on catching a 20-hour bus ride from the nation's capital to Nashville. I'll be staying with a friend of mine, hooking up with my musical contacts down there, figuring out how to get around the city affordably, and taking in the music scene for a few days. Maybe even making a few initial connections.