tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:/blogs/blogwash?p=1Blogwash2024-01-23T05:48:40-12:00David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"falsetag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/73377212024-01-23T05:48:40-12:002024-01-28T09:01:07-12:00Remembering Miss Ina<div class="post" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;box-sizing:border-box;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;"><div class="message" style="box-sizing:border-box;">
<p align="CENTER"><span style="color:#000000;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/ca1aa71a72ebb4d7a2bddb0533fc060fe7c5c25b/original/miss-ina.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><font size="2"><i>Miss Ina on her porch at Hard Labor, Coral Bay, St. John US</i></font></span></p>
<p align="CENTER"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="5"><strong>Remembering Miss Ina</strong></font></span></p>
<p align="CENTER"><span class="text-small" style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>The following vignettes have been collected over my twenty-five years as a visitor, part-time resident and working musician on the Caribbean island of Saint John, USVI and are told to the best of my recollection. - </i><span>DR</span></font></span></p>
<p align="CENTER"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><strong>1. The Kapok Tree</strong></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">I'd first met Miss Ina nearly twenty years earlier after her son Henry and my sister Marcia became “an item”. When we arrived at her home for my introduction, she was not there. Henry called out to her and from a distance we heard “Hendry, up here.” There she was, down a deep ravine (called a 'gut' in the islands) sitting partially hidden by leaves high up in a kapok tree, her spindly legs dangling as she sat on a stout branch, her cotton house dress stuffed with kapok fibre. She was seventy one years old.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;">“<font size="3">Ma, get down from there! You'll get hurt!” shouted Henry, shading his eyes as he looked up.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;">“<font size="3">Ya mind yaself, Hendry! I collectin' cotton to stuff meh pillows!” retorted Miss Ina.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;">“<font size="3">Come down and meet Marcia's brother,” Henry insisted.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;">“<font size="3">Awright, awright, meh-son, I comin'”, Miss Ina called down reluctantly. “Nex' time ya gon' be deh one come uppa dis tree when meh need deh cotton!” she added emphatically.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>This</i> was an introduction I shall never forget!</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">Except for several years during the 1960s and '70s when she lived in New York City, Ina Mathias Powell George, born in 1919, had lived her life on St. John in the same faded wooden, two-room, tin-roofed cottage nestled upon a shady hillside. Situated upon the same plot of land that had been in the Mathias family for generations, her house had become the first little grocery and dry goods store in the Hard Labor community.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">Hard Labor, a community whose name was coined during the Danish colonial period, had been a well-known penal settlement in the days when runaway or recalcitrant slaves from the prosperous North Shore sugar plantations 'earned punishment'. Slaves were remanded to toil in 'hard labor' under the scorching sun and ready lash of brutal bombas (overseers) upon the bleakly desiccated farms in the eastern outskirts of Coral Bay. Though very different today, Hard Labor - once the tropical version of a Siberian gulag - was <i>not</i> a place where one wanted to find themselves under any circumstances!</font></span><br><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">Over the years, Miss Ina's simple dwelling had stoutly withstood the ravages of a fire that destroyed the family house back in the early '70s, as well as many tropical hurricanes, including the 1995 armageddon that was Marilyn. Guava, sugar-apple and spectacular flamboyant trees crowd the cluttered porch where Brownie, her fiercely beloved mastiff-mix dog lay heavily chained. Depending upon who, or what, you were, Brownie could be much more fierce than beloved! An ancient wringer-washing machine stood sentinel under the roof’s downspout, at the ready to catch rainfall for the next wash load.</font></span></p>
<p align="CENTER"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><strong>2. Nate and the Goats</strong></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><span>One beautifully sunny late March day, my musical colleague Mary and I stopped by Miss Ina's brightly blue-painted home to introduce her to Nate, Mary’s twenty-nine year old son who'd recently arrived for a brief respite from school and the harsh Pennsylvania winter.</span></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><span>Brownie, dozing nearby, appeared to be asleep, but in truth he was keeping a watchful eye over his mistress. Assorted scrawny island cats skulked through the low bushes surrounding her well-worn stoop, warily calculating the exact length of Brownie’s heavy chain. They knew to remain well outside its radius if they wished to avoid becoming a canine repast. In fact, unknown visitors of any stripe had better take a clue from the cats!</span></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><span>Almost ninety years young, Miss Ina had slowed down considerably. She no longer climbs kapok trees for cotton stuffing for homemade pillows and bandages. She hasn’t tramped down into the steep “gut” to tend her banana trees for months. Neighbors haven’t seen her crashing through the bush, machete “cutlass” in hand as she gathered medicinal herbs and plants for her homemade tinctures, or shrilly calling and whistling for her wandering goats who sporadically decide </span><i>not</i><span> to return to their pen by sunset. Goat herding duty is now left to Henry and her daughter Gen, much to their annoyance. She stopped attending church on Sundays because the climb up the hill to the Calvary Baptist Chapel was simply too exhausting. Her friends at the Callabash Boom Senior Center still lament her absence at lunches or riding with them in the van to sit in the shade of the coconut palms at Maho Bay.</span></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">Becoming better acquainted with senescence, Miss Ina now spent more time after dinner at Henry and Gen’s commodious, concrete-block home where they provided her with her own comfortably crowded bedroom to use whenever she decided not to return to her next-door, two-room wooden sanctuary.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">These days Miss Ina seems more content to put her feet up and quietly retreat into her thoughts while being lulled to sleep as an up-island televangelist preaches the gospel, the TV's sound turned off. Her dog-eared, worn Bible lies close at hand, ready to offer guidance or solace, need depending, as she drifts off. However, should family or guests drop by, Miss Ina will rouse herself from her reverie and offer comments, opinions or perhaps a totally unrelated story to whatever dialog is swirling around her in the room.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">On the day we visited Miss Ina did not feel well, but she perked up when we came into the parlor where she sat in front of the TV, picking at her lunch. She was dressed, not in her usual faded cotton house-dress, but in a beautiful, raspberry-colored dress. Despite her pallor and physical decline, she looked luscious! Having been told we were coming, she had spent considerable time braiding her thinning hair and adorning herself with her favorite gold earrings...not an easy task with her arthritic hands.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><span>She was introduced to Nate and after exchanging greetings and pleasantries all around we began to converse, inquiring about her huge family of relatives, including her beloved animals. Nate had been curious about all the goats he’d seen along the roadsides and clambering the hills.</span></font></span><br><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Nate: </i><span>“There sure are a lot of goats on this island aren’t there?”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Miss Ina:</i><span> “Yeh, mon, plenty goat.”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Nate:</i><span> “How can you tell them all apart? How do you know which ones are yours?”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Miss Ina:</i><span> “I know mi goats. Dey like mi chirrun. Yo know yo own chirrun.”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Nate: </i><span>“But how do they know where to go home at night? Why don’t they just go to anybody’s place?”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Miss Ina:</i><span> “Dey know, but yo got to teach dem. Mi faddah he tol’ me when I was jus' a young girl, ‘If yo wan’ goat to come home ever’ day, yo mus’ do dis. Jus’ afta dey born an’ dey standin’ up, tek dey nose an’ rub it over an’ over right here.’ Miss Ina demonstrates by lifting her arm and rubbing her armpit briskly. ‘Dat way, de goat know yo smell, understan’, mi-son? Goat she smell yo and come right home! Ever’ day!”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Henry, who had been listening incredulously to this story, broke in:</i><span> “Mom, what you talkin’ ‘bout? I never heard this crazy stuff. You know I got to go hunt the damn goats down a couple times a week!”</span></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Miss Ina:</i><span> “Hendry, don’ ya be cussin’ ‘roun’ me! I don’ tell ya evert’ing. Yo know dey come home mos’ de time, but sometime goat jus’ like chirrun - dey be bad an’ do wha' dey wan’!”</span></font></span></p>
<p align="CENTER"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><strong>3. “Dat Wicked, Wicked Glaston!”</strong></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">It was always a pleasure to idle away an afternoon on this porch listening as Miss Ina, in her lyrical island lilt, wove stories from her distant childhood about the adventures - and <i>misadventures</i> - of assorted island characters while she peeled guavas or prepared her own medicinal tinctures from roots and herbs gathered on her walkabouts. She loved to reminisce about "meh Faddah" and how he diligently worked their land growing squash, potatoes, beans, raising goats, donkeys and a cow for milk. After Sunday church he would take his family on picnics way up on Paradise Mountain where all the cousins would play games and explore while their parents visited, preparing a huge lunch. Tales of her mischievous cousin, "dat wicked, wicked bwoy Glaston" always brought me smile!</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">I'll paraphrase one of his adventures, “Glaston an' Deh Jock-o Rats”: <i>Cousin Glaston had a bit of a lazy streak. His grandfather, with whom he resided, was a task-master that kept the boy busy as best he could with chores and errands whenever Glaston wasn't in school. When the opportunity arose, Glaston would disappear delinquent, running off to fish in the bay or play in the woods, not returning home until well after dark when he knew his grandfather would be asleep.</i></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>One day, grandfather handed him a shoebox tied with string and ordered Glaston to “tek dis box of pate to ya uncle Mooie.” Glaston, who for some reason or another, had a bone to pick with his uncle Mooie and had held a grudge towards him for a long while. Glaston hatched a two-fold plan: He could settle his score with uncle Mooie </i><span>and</span><i> send a strong message to his grandfather that he would no longer be at his beckoned call.</i></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Glaston procured some rat poison that he placed inside the shoebox with uncle Mooie's pate treats and then hid the box in the bush near Mooie's house down in John's Folly. He knew when dusk fell that the notorious, nocturnal island tree rats (aka “jocko-rats”) would descend from their lairs high in the coconut palms. In their quest for a meal they would quickly discover Mooie's shoebox of pate and devour its contents, including the poison. If all went according to plan, there would be several dead rats scattered about in a day or two. There were.</i></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>Glaston located another shoebox and took it into the bush where the pate had been hidden. He gathered up as many dead rats as he could find and put them in the new shoebox, tied it up and delivered the box directly to uncle Mooie's house. “A gift from meh grandfadder,” said Glaston, handing the shoebox to Mooie, stiffling his laughter as he scampered away.</i></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>A few days later, before the sun rose, Glaston's grandfather came into the room where Glaston slept and beat him with a stick, loudly cursing and chastising him for the prank he'd pulled on Mooie. Glaston, terrified of his grandfather, ran away into the bush where he hid for a couple of days. One night he snuck into the house and got some clean clothes for school. Upon returning home from school that day, Glaston was ambushed on the path by his grandfather who'd been hiding in the bush and was clearly not finished with administering his punishment.</i></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><i>For weeks, his grandfather hid in various locations on the path from school hoping to ambush Glaston should he try to return home to John's Folly. For weeks, Glaston decided that it would be a lot safer for him to reside with various friends in Coral Bay until his grandfather's rage blew over, which it did. Over time, a silent truce ensued and life returned to normal. Until the next misadventure!</i></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3"><strong> 4. “Some T'ings Nah Change!”</strong></font></span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;">I find island life in the West Indies seductively wonderful, largely because of the delightful people, their customs, food and colorful, island ways. Regrettably it seems that much of the old, traditional island culture is becoming forgotten and diluted as the elders pass, young folks leave and new transplants arrive “from deh cont'nent” hoping to catch the island vibe for themselves. However, if one remains observantly patient, it is possible to find an island elder who will be generous with his or her stories about the old days past. Hard times, certainly, but good times as well. And some of them are pretty darn funny. </span><br><span style="color:#000000;">Here is an actual conversation I overheard between my West Indian brother, Henry (only a few years older than I and a retired Navy man) and his mom, Miss Ina, upon our return home with two fish we had caught after a day of deep-sea fishing with Mr. Aidan, a local church deacon who had a stellar reputation as a fishing guide and for instinctively “knowin' where dere bitin'”.</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;">We walked up the hibiscus lined drive to the family's old, sea-blue concrete front porch where Miss Ina had just finished hanging up a fresh load of washing on several random lengths of knotted, reclaimed twine. She was resting, leaning on her battered porch railing while gazing out over the sea. Her ancient dog Brownie, a large, island mutt cross (perhaps between a mastiff and a chihuahua?), lay at her feet. He raised his weary head when he noticed us traipsing up the drive. Brownie stood up, shook himself and howled a greeting.</span><br><br><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Miss Ina called out to us:</i> "Wha' ya gah in de bag, Hendry?"</span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Henry:</i> "We caught us two nice fish today, Mom".</span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Miss Ina:</i> "Wha' kine fish ya gah dere?"</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Henry:</i> "We caught a mahi-mahi and a rainbow runner.”</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Miss Ina, a little confused:</i> "Wha' dis <i>mahi-mahi?</i> I know deh runner, Hendry, but no such t'ing as <i>mahi-mahi, </i>meh-son."</span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Henry (emphatically):</i> "But that's what we have here, mom, a mahi-mahi. Mr. Aiden will tell you so, too. I'll clean it up and Genny will cook it nice so we can have some for supper tonight."</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;">Genny, Henry's elder sister who resided with them and was the chief cook and bottle washer for the family, looked up from her TV program that she'd just turned on, minor annoyance creeping across her face with the knowledge that she had just been anointed with yet another task.</span><br><br><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Miss Ina, becoming quite annoyed with Henry's insistence: </i> "Ya nah gah none dis mahi-mahi, mon. Nah such t'ing a' mahi-mahi I tellin' ya!” <i>Miss Ina declared insistently, then demanded,</i> “Lemme look in deh sack." </span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>She stood and grabbed the bag. Peering into the dark burlap sack, she shouted,</i> "Dat fish a hard-nose. Hard-nose, meh-say!!! I know it a hard-nose, you hearing' meh, bwoy?" </span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>She sucked her teeth in displeasure and disbelief</i>: "Meh tellin' you Hendry, you don' know nuttin' ‘bout fish!" Brownie remained motionless, staring at his agitated mistress.</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Henry: (softening a bit):</i> "Mom, things change. People call this fish a mahi-mahi now."</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Miss Ina rose up to her full height, brandishing her cane and with raised voice intoned authoritatively:</i> "HENDRY, mebbe YOU t'ings change, but FISH DON' CHANGE! Dat fish a HARDNOSE!!!" </span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span>And that was</span><i><span> that! Case closed.</span></i></span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;">Whatever the fish was named, a truce ensued, the fish was rolled in corn meal and deliciously fried up nice and brown. Served together with fried plantains, stewed guava, fungi (a West Indian cornmeal and okra dish, similar to polenta), a fresh salad, all washed down with ice-cold, home-brewed maube (a local beverage made of roots, herbs and molasses - each family has its own favorite recipe), we enjoyed a terrific repast.</span></p>
<p style="text-align:justify;"><span style="color:#000000;">As is typical of close family spats most everywhere, the whole “hard-nose versus mahi-mahi” conflict blew over as quickly as a Caribbean evening shower.</span></p>
<p align="CENTER"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="4"><strong>5. “Mo' Rain”</strong></font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">I leave you with another little vignette from the matriarch herself.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">Before the rest of us gathered in the cramped kitchen to feast upon Gen's famed fried chicken with fungi, Miss Ina informed us loudly and insistently from the adjacent living room where she was ensconced in her chair, "Meh on'y eats fish! Nevah eat any kine fowl, dey filt'y creature! Meh on'y eats fish!"</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;">“<font size="3">You don't think after all these years that I don't know that, Mom?” said Gen, sucking her teeth as she scooped fungi into a colorful ceramic bowl. We dug into our fried chicken dinner swhile Miss Ina sat contentedly in her well-worn recliner enjoying her Sunday meal of stewed fish, greens and rice 'n peas. Her eyes closed, chuckling quietly and smiling with delight to herself, Miss Ina recited a little joke that went like this:</font></span><br><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">“<i>Mo’ rain, mo’ res’. Mo’ rain, mo’ res’.”</i></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">“<i>Wha’ dat you be sayin’, bwoy?” Massa say.</i></font></span><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">“<i>Mo' rain, mo’ grass. Mo’ rain, mo’ grass. Mo’ rain, mo’ grass for Massa’s horse!”</i></font></span><br><br><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">Henry later told me that while he had never before heard this particular play-on-words story, it was probably a remnant from the Danish colonial sugar-plantation era when slavery flourished. He has heard her recount other similar tragic/comic memories that must have been absorbed at the feet of her parents or grandparents, making reference to plantation life and the societal/cultural differences between the African (and Irish) slaves and their masters poignantly, sometimes humorously, illustrated.</font></span></p>
<p align="LEFT"><span style="color:#000000;"><font size="3">True stories, or simply private, personal allegories from a wise old Caribbean soul? We’ll never know for sure, nor will we hear any more stories and tales directly from this exceptionally independent, strong, devoted and devout island matriarch. Miss Ina “went home” into the celestial realm during the early morning of April 17, 2009, just a couple of weeks after our visit. I miss her...and her stories!</font></span></p>
<p align="CENTER"> </p>
</div></div>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356882024-01-17T08:33:25-12:002024-01-21T09:48:37-12:00Trumbull & Trio: The Making of the Digby Video<p align="CENTER"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/b504f464493177b6a40a3964f6931750b7f4598e/original/doug-dave.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><font size="3"><i>Doug Trumbull Meets David Reed @ Gedney Farm – May 2016</i></font></p><p align="CENTER"><span class="text-huge"><strong>Trumbull & Trio</strong></span></p><p align="CENTER"><span class="text-big"><strong>The Making of The Digby Video</strong></span></p><p>Diagnosis: Mind totally blown. Those who've known me awhile have likely suspected something was awry - and now I can confirm those suspicions. But I also can assure you that my current state is not unwarranted, nor considered life-threatening. In fact, it is totally <i>awesome </i><span>and life-affirming</span><i>.</i> Let me explain.</p><p>One morning last week my phone rang. I screen all my calls as I am inundated with requests from all over the country for surveys of one sort or another, offers to purchase solar panels or heat-seeking windows and the like, and the current, especially annoying spate of requests for political candidate dollars seems unending. However, as this particular caller's number registered as local, I picked up.</p><p>“Hello, David? This is Doug Trumbull. You may not know me but I am in the motion picture business.”</p><p>A moment's silence whilst my brain fast-framed through several possible responses I could make as I tried to remember why that name rang a distant bell. I considered some possible responses: “<i>Yeah, sure, and I'm Porky Pig now go away!”</i>Or: “<i>Not interested, I'm already making a movie today, go away!”</i> Or one of my favorites: “<i>Hello! YOU are lucky caller number nine, you're LIVE ON THE AIR!”</i></p><p>Suddenly I remembered. Mr. Trumbull <span>is</span><i> </i>one of Hollywood's best-known directors and gurus of movie special effects. Anyone who's ever been to a movie since <i>2001:Space Odyssey -</i> including all the <i>Star Wars</i> and <i>Back to the Future</i>films, <i>Silent Running, Close Encounters, Alien, Blade Runner, Avatar</i> among them - or if they have ever experienced a ride at a Disney or MGM theme park, or attended an iMax theatre has experienced his work. He's truly a bonafide genius but, tired and dismayed after years spent enduring the vicissitudes of Hollywood hucksterism, he relocated his very creatively progressive film studio some twenty years ago from Los Angeles, first to the post-industrial Berkshire County factory hamlet of Housatonic, Massachusetts, and a few years later to the farmstead studios he built hidden a few miles away in the sleepy village of New Marlborough.</p><p>And now he's on the phone wanting to speak to <i>me?</i> About <i>what,</i> exactly, I wondered? I elected a more reasonable, prudent response: “Hey, there! What can I do for you?”</p><p>He got right to it. Mr. Trumbull told me that he'd attended one of my performances with my trio last summer at Gedney Underground and that he'd been extremely impressed. He'd been thinking about our show since that July evening and concluded that my music would be perfect for a cutting-edge film production concept he was experimenting with.</p><p>My brain synapses began to crackle.</p><p>Trumbull went on to describe how he had been developing a totally new and innovative method for movies to be made and viewed. He had already filmed a few demos and showed them to prospective international investors who were scrambling to get involved. But he wished to take this idea further, to demonstrate that these new techniques could be used to go beyond just the making of movies. He believed that live sporting events, theatre productions, music concerts and more could greatly benefit from his new modality. That's where I would come into the picture, as it were.</p><p>Doug wanted to shoot a music video of a small, intimate concert featuring me and my trio. We would do so in his New Marlborough studio with multiple, computerized high-speed cameras shooting at two hundred and twenty four frames per second! All would be augmented by cutting-edge sound and lighting equipment on a set built specifically for our use.</p><p>Synapses: Smoldering.</p><p>He then invited me to his studio to see the space, experience some short films he'd already made to demonstrate his ideas and to discuss further how we might collaborate in this venture.</p><p>The next day, Claudia and I went to MAGI studio. Doug and his wife, Julia, (along with 23 miniature donkeys, myriad chickens, two fat dogs and a couple of grand children) met us at his large, Adirondack-inspired office nestled in the woods. The space was commodious, but cluttered with evidence that a genius indeed worked here. We were duly impressed by the many large, framed movie posters of his work, the Grammy and Oscar awards tucked away here and there amongst books, camera parts and other objets d'art. We comfortably sat with cups of coffee brought to us by Julia and conversed more about his vision and ideas for this project. Then we walked over to the production studio where “the Pod” lived.</p><p>Synapses: Totally ignited!</p><p>The moviePod is a Buckminster Fuller-inspired elliptical structure approximately forty feet around by thirty feet high that houses stadium seating for seventy. Surrounding the seats were a giant, concave screen and enough high-tech video and sound gear to move heaven and earth. We were deep inside</p><p>Trumbull's Geek Orgasmatron for sure! Doug explained to us how everything worked and, gob-smacked, I processed what I could. Then the lights slowly dimmed from dusk to total darkness and the sound came up – ba-BOOM! The seats literally shook as we stared through the guiding sights of a space craft hurtling thru the universe at warp speed...all in 3-D! The film actor's voice-over explained that he was a photographer and amateur UFO hunter and that he was convinced he could lure alien spacecraft right to his remote desert RV camper simply by releasing a super sub-sonic, low level nuclear explosion that he'd spent years developing .</p><p>However, the government was fixated upon shutting him down and had already sent several FBI-type agents into the desert to do just that. Our hero needed to enact his experiment before he got busted. The music intensified while the dramatic tension increasingly built. More Geek-speak voice-over ensued as wild, breath-taking spatial effects unfolded, literally all around us at laser speed. Our hero detonates his controlled miniature nuclear device and <i>Voila!</i> … all hell breaks loose as the sound pressure levels in the pod increase, thanks to the dozen twenty-four inch sub-woofers. Alien spacecraft begin to clutter the radar, dramatically zipping and zooming within our hero's telescope sites and everywhere else within our peripheral vision! The bumbling, miffed FBI agents dramatically break into the Hero's geek-outfitted camper only to find him gone and the nuclear device missing.</p><p>The 12-minute film ended and the credits rolled. Claudia and I were weeping. Neither of us are tech geeks, nor are we big fans of sci-fi outer space films, movies with Big Bangs, hundred-story tidal waves, sheets of fire or glimpses of Armageddon. But, by gawd, this little film sucked us in, made us suspend our cynical skepticism and for a short while we actually joined the hero in his quest for alien life. For that brief time, we truly believed everything we were watching! I was exhausted.</p><p>Synaptic overload: Fully achieved.</p><p>My inner cynic and skeptical self is fully aroused. What's this got anything to do with an eclectic trio of aging Berkshire musicians who play Caribbean-inspired folk rock and cigar box guitar blues? Why us? So I asked Trumbull directly, “Why do you want us? With all your LA and Nashville connections, surely you could have found much better players. And certainly way better looking!”</p><p>His response floored me: “I'm not a musician at all, but I know what I like. I like interesting, unusual and different and that's how I felt about you guys after I saw you last summer. You left quite an impression and I've been thinking about this project for quite a while now. I think you'll be perfect for it.”</p><p>Hey, who am I to argue with a bonafide genius guru?</p><p>Mr. Trumbull is pretty sure he can sell his version of 'Pod-cast' to future investors and movie goers. But he wants to expand beyond the current Hi-Def music presentations of operas, ballets and theatre productions that are popular in movie houses today to include sporting events, documentaries, travelogues, academia and more. He believes his techniques will allow audiences to be fully immersed with the performers, athletes, guides, teachers, anyone, anywhere – up close and personal. He is convinced that his moviePod technology, which is modular, quite portable and can be erected to seat anywhere from 20 to 400, could be used in myriad ways. It will deliver a multi-sensory cinematic experience absolutely like no other. He plans to create and film a small music video that will demonstrate to potential investors his new technology's ability to generate and penetrate new markets.</p><p>I played again last night at Gedney Farm. Doug and Julia Trumbull came to the show. He brought a small camera and recorder and documented the performance “for more ideas we can use in the future”.</p><p>Synaptic circuits: Fully blown. System shut down: Activated.</p><p>David Reed & TrioTraumatica will attend a tech meeting at MAGI studios next week and will begin shooting right after that. I'll keep you posted.</p><p>May 2016</p><p align="CENTER"> </p><p align="CENTER"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/698b9d6c60bebbfc20ef636ab80cecd4fea283cf/original/cbgs-in-space-cropped.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p align="CENTER"><i>The Digby Shoot: David Reed & Trio Traumatica @ MAGI Studios</i></p><p align="CENTER"><span class="text-huge"><strong>Making Movies</strong></span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">On a gloriously sunny Berkshire July morning Marky-T (piano/sax), Samster (drums/percussion) and I (guitar, vocals, harmonica conch shell), together with my dear Claudia (photographer) reconnoitered at Doug Trumbull's MAGI studios where we began the filming of our first Trumbull music video, <i>Digby, </i>a calypso folk song from Barbados that we'd been playing since we learned it from a scratch band in the Virgin Islands a few years ago. </span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">Hidden deep in the South County woods, MAGI studios occupies a goodly portion of fifty acres of techie, geeky paradise. As the photos attest, the film, audio and lighting gear is First-Rate extraordinary, say nothing of the world-class guy who is behind it all. We were thrilled to realize that Doug Trumbull is as gentle, kind and humble a man as he is creative, innovative and brilliant.</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">After showing us around, we went to work setting up our instruments and gear while his 5-man crew placed lights, mics and props where they thought best. Doug set to calibrating his unique cameras that shoot at film speeds of two hundred and twenty four frames per second! Now <i>that's</i> a lot of data for the computers to digest and some hard drive issues soon arose that occupied a bit of time to debug. </span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">While the garrulous tech geeks began to investigate this, we three musical geeks ran through a few versions of <i>Digby</i>. Because this calypso is a dance tune that, depending upon the crowd's energy, can have a <i>lot </i>of verses. This allows the singer to take everyone on a virtual tour of nearly all the islands in the Caribbean archipelago; meaning it can take more than ten minutes to complete! For this music demo purpose, we <i>had</i> to condense <i>Digby's </i>verses and instrumental solos to around two minutes, which resulted in some seriously complicated musical and film editing!</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">An hour or so passed while the trio jammed and the film crew huddled around cameras and computers conjuring up some sort of digital juju that would allow us to continue our journey. And then Doug announced, "Ready for Take One?" And we were off.</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">It took nearly six hours, but we shot six versions of <i>Digby</i>, all without a click-track. We were hoping we could shoot it accurately and straight through right out of the gate and have at least one keeper in the bunch. And we did. But the challenging issue was "time". <i>Digby</i> is a calypso dance tune, that depending upon the crowd's energy, can have many verses, allowing the band to take everyone on a virtual tour of nearly all the islands in the Caribbean archipelago with each's unique West Indian music or dance style. There are also the various instrumental parts, including a conch shell and sax duet, harmonica solo, guitar solo and a percussion/whistle jam at the end. In its aggregate the tune is usually at least 8-10 minutes long; we are used to folks really shaking their booty when we play it. But this wasn't going to work at all. The computers could not, no how, no way absorb that much digital music <i>and</i> video data for our purposes in their file banks. We would have to whittle <i>Digby</i> down to well under three minutes. Yikes!</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">We all pow-wowed, in the end deciding to shave off the guitar solo, pare down the verses from a dozen or so to two, limit the harp solo to one chorus and the conch shell intro and percussion/whistle jam to only around 20 seconds. Good. "Take Six!"</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">Just then one of the main stereo-vision cameras pooped out. By this time it was around 7PM and the camera was not the only thing that was pooped out! We decided to call it a day. Doug wanted to look at all the raw footage and if we were lucky, we could edit, splice and conjure up something from what we'd done. Or, we could come back another time and try it again!</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">A couple of weeks went by and Doug and I communicated via email a few times. He was not happy with his cameras and he'd ordered a new one. He was not happy with his computers. We should have used a click-track while recording; this would have, at least theoretically, kept the tempos consistent in each recorded version of the tune. In the end, Doug decided that "you guys were pretty good at keeping the tempos in the same neighborhood so we might be able to work with what we have."</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">Another couple of MAGI-silent weeks passed. I called Doug. "How's it going?"</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">"I think we may have something. Come on by tomorrow at 10."</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">Claudia and I drove to the studios at the appointed hour and Doug took us into the moviePod where we donned 3D glasses and sat in the stadium seats surrounded by the bank of giant sub-woofers, myriad line-array speakers and the huge, wrap-around floor-to-ceiling screen. Doug explained that he and the crew worked many long hours on <i>Digby</i>, and while it was by no means perfect, he was quite pleased with the results. He looked forward to my response. He worried, "I never could get the cameras to work right and you can see ghost motions in places, especially in Sam's drum sticks."</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">The lights dimmed down. Then...<i>Holy Mother of Conch Shell!</i> There I was, onscreen, lit by only a pinpoint spot from the waist up, at least twelve feet tall, pointing at the spotlight and blowing a ceremonial tattoo with my St. Johnian conch shell that rivaled Joshua at Jericho. The sound literally shook the seats. Samster, way larger than life, pounded his drum kit, setting the tempo and groove for a wild calypso dance. Marky-T's sax jumped in and dialoged with my conch shell for a spell until my guitar and harmonica introduced the tune and Marky-T switched to piano. I sang my two verses and we segued into the percussion jam with me playing a samba whistle and djembe, Marky-T on shakers and the Samster staying on his kit. Then, with a couple of blasts from my whistle, <i>Digby</i> came to a startling halt. Doug and his crew had edited and spliced bits and pieces from all our six takes into one nearly seamless two-minute piece of calypso magic, with nary a “ghost motion” to be seen, either.</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">My impression: Pure GENIUS on their part! Doug tells me that he is "not finished tweaking" the film but that he has already shown it to several friends and "a few people in the industry" who have been "impressed" and "interested" with the project.</span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;">So what's next? I am not entirely sure, but am told that when it's finalized, I shall have the rights to use it whenever, wherever , however I wish and will have a few "hard" copies of my own - even in 3D if I want it. But I think the best part is, Doug Trumbull, who could have chosen anyone, anywhere in the world to be the first musical act to create his music video using his new filming techniques - he chose me and my trio. He mentioned to me that he'd like to shoot another closeup, solo video of me playing my cigar box guitars in the next few weeks!</span></p><p>Stay tuned.</p><p>July 2016<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/e90edcd4761ce68de14d3e36f51c901b41f149ba/original/alien-pod-house.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p style="text-align:center;"><i>The moviePod at MAGI Studio - New Marlborough, Massachusetts</i></p><p style="text-align:center;"><span class="text-huge"><font size="4"><span><strong>Post Script</strong></span></font></span></p><p><i>Digby</i> was included in Trumbull's world-wide marketing materials for his moviePod concept. He received tremendous push-back from the Hollywood industry moguls whom he had left behind several years ago. Sadly, the selling of the moviePod concept got bogged down with complicated industry personalities and politics. A couple of years later, Doug became ill and passed away from cancer on February 7, 2022. His legacy will live on forever in the annals of the film industry and in the hearts of those whom he touched. We never got to make that cigar box guitar video.</p><p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/d01ccc703150ec4f606d40f381c1ee5c9d7527b1/original/doug-trumbull.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p style="text-align:center;"><i>Doug Trumbull - 1942-2022</i></p><p> </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/f977c4039fca8d45bdc9873cfdc39353fd38ad14/original/why-is-this-guy-smiling.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p><p style="text-align:center;"><i>Photographer Claudia d'Alessandro with David Reed @ MAGI Studios</i></p><p> </p><p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/73283352024-01-04T06:21:20-12:002024-01-17T08:25:15-12:00For the Love of Three Oranges<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/dad712af05bcdb02526a9472d99129fa7f605f6c/original/image.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><span class="text-huge"><span>For the Love of Three Oranges</span></span><br><span>(with apologies to play write Carlo Gozzi and composer Sergei Prokofiev)</span></p><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><i>I am fortunate to be staying in an area of north Florida that's within a small, pleasant wildlife preserve. Boardwalks and paths meander through semi-tropical forests, swamps and marshland leading to an old wooden wharf that braves the tides as it wades out into the San Sebastian River. A fortunate visitor might be treated to a graceful dolphin water ballet or even a glimpse of a languid manatee combing the river bottom for seagrass. I have learned how to observe the tides and the remarkable changes brought about by their ebb and flow. Muddy mounds of oyster beds at low tide beckon snowy egrets, assortments of colorful herons, roseate spoonbills, merganser ducks, exotic ibis and the occasional migratory crane and wood stork gather to rest in slash pine and mangrove branches or wade in the shallows upon stilt-like legs, seeking minnows, tiny crabs and other riparian morsels. Brown pelicans dive-bomb the watery flats hoping for a mouth-pouch of mullet. Gawky, shadowy anhingas, sinewy diving fowl with snakelike necks, disappear below the water's surface and emerge minutes later at a surprising distance. Osprey and bald headed eagle shreiks pierce the stillness as they glide on the draughts overhead scanning for fish in the waves below while black vultures wheel even higher in the clouds above them, sensing carrion in the adjacent meadows of bluestem, horsetail and fakahatchee grass that lie below .</i></p>
<p><i>I have learned to read the sky with its infinite cloud formations, striations decorating the firmament with myriad colors and patterns as they foretell the weather. I have long observed the angles of the sun's arc as it gallops the glowing heavens, heralding dawn and dusk, alternately sharing time and space with countless, timeless guiding stars that punctuate the curtain of night. And, of course, the moon – Lord of the Tides – as he takes his celestial ride.</i></p>
<p><i>In the distance, across the San Sebastian, I hear the crawl of encroaching civilisation, the low rumble and thrum of US Highway One that stretches all the way from Maine to Key West. The distant wail of an unseen emergency vehicle duets, </i><span>sotto voce, </span><i>with a tired Florida East Coast Railroad freight train that labors its 300 car load slowly past the low, silhouetted skyline of the nation's oldest continuously occupied city - Saint Augustine (1565). This is the “Ancient City” provides the backdrop for all the wealth of Nature and history that surrounds me.</i></p>
</div></div></div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 2">
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span>However.</span></p></div></div>
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>I'd been awfully sick for well over two weeks. A cough so violent that I feared its wracking would crack my ribs like brittle twigs. Lungs had transmogrified into two sacks of viral viscosity and my skull, like a possessed shamanic maraca, thrashed around the synaptic mush of my brain with each pulmonary explosion. Sleep had become a phantasm. My worried wife implored that I make a visit to our local hospital...post haste! Numerous tests and an Xray confirmed what I already knew from prior experience – my nemesis, my Achilles' heel - </span><i>pneumonia. </i><span>I was discharged with a pocketful of prescriptions and orders to stay hydrated, get lots of rest, and make sure to walk as much as I could.</span></p>
<p><span>Not at all on top of my game, I hadn't dressed, eaten more than a few bowls of soup nor engaged in proper hygiene in many days. Our typically attentive cat avoided me. The tonic that had always resurrected me - </span><i>making music </i><span>– had evaporated, leaving me dry and flat. Vacantly, I stared at television movies for hours, remembering little. Daily the headlines screamed that the world was going to hell everywhere and in every way. Christmas was coming, daylight grew shorter. My family's holiday plans now needed to be cancelled. I was immobilized, sad, derailed.</span></p>
<p><span>Finally one morning, angry at my dense malaise, I prodded myself to shower and dress, the reward being that I would lie back down again. Battling the twins Ennui and Inertia, I ambled slowly from the bathroom to the bedroom window. It was ominously cloudy, unseasonably cool for a Florida winter day, portending more gloom and rain. “Keep moving!” barked the frustrated, annoying warden occuping my stultified mind. Obediently I grabbed a jacket and hobbled outside into the world.</span></p>
<p><span>I wearily set off down the worn familiar path through the December woods, thick with new growth magnolia, palmettos, cedar, beauty-berry and bald cypress, many draped with long, ragged, grey-green scarves of Spanish moss. Even though I am not able to smell it, I know the air is pungent with the moist scent of the river, decaying vegetation and nearby Atlantic Ocean. My breathing rapidly became labored and I grew more fatigued. Perhaps this walk wasn't such a good idea, maybe a bit too much too soon? Stopping for a moment to rest and decide whether I could actually make it out to the pier, I exhaled, looking up into the dull, early winter sun and overcast sky. Then I saw them.</span></p>
<p><span>About six feet off the path, hanging several feet above the ground were three bright oranges about the size of hen's eggs! I'd been on this trail hundreds of times and had never seen an orange tree, let alone the fruit. But there they were, smiling at me sunnily as they dangled from a single tall, wiry stalk set amongst a dense thicket of palmettos and cedar. I was amazed, perhaps even a bit awestruck. How did they do that, manage to survive in an environment that was surely not conducive to their kind? How did they get there, and what primordial instinct kept them reaching towards the sun, striving to flower and bear their meagre fruit? Trees aren't courageous, brave, willful, determined...or are they? I can't say for certain. Perhaps it is simply Nature's primary goal: Survival.</span></p>
<p><span>Focusing more deeply into the woods, I spied another orange tree, this one taller and only slightly more robust than the first. From it dangled around ten tiny oranges, some still in their green infancy. I was thrilled! Further exploration revealed several more spindly, but determined, orange trees fighting for survival, struggling for turf and access to the occluded sun.</span></p>
<p><span>Suddenly I had a burst of awareness. Three little oranges had given me a simple gift, one that I desperately needed that day - the inspiration and impetus to keep walking, moving forward, despite my current condition. They cheerfully removed me from my despondency and placed me gently in the present moment, reminding me to be grateful of the wonder surrounding me.</span></p>
</div></div>
</div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 3"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>I made it all the way out to the pier, and home again. Who knew but for the Love of Three Oranges? </span></p>
<p><span>December 27, 2023</span></p>
</div></div></div><p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/72849582023-10-09T03:12:37-12:002024-01-12T05:56:55-12:00Goin' to the Dawgs?<div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/410c7292a5f2d9f752c6173b128e312765e2de67/original/cznmcy1wcml2yxrll3jhd3bpegvsx2ltywdlcy93zwjzaxrlx2nvbnrlbnqvcm01mdmtys0wnmeta3pucw84znquanbn.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><i><strong>Spoiler Alert: </strong>I originally set out to simply write a review of a restaurant that friends had been encouraging me to try for a couple of years. However, I found that as I wrote, my restaurant review had morphed into my observations and opinion on the role that dogs – and most of their owners – have become in our society. If you accept 'all things dog' and object to a bonafide curmudgeon's POV on the excesses and inanities of modern dog culture, please stop reading now. I know I'm not going to change your mind anyway. Ultimately, this restaurant review boils down to whether I will choose to return to eat there.</i></p>
<p><i>I readily admit to my bias: I much prefer cats. This is not to say that I have not enjoyed the company of a few canines in my life. I even have owned a couple that I dearly loved and grieved mightily upon their demise. I acknowledge that canids have always had a useful role to play alongside hominids. They provide comfort and companionship. They serve as guards, rescuers, hunters, herders, even entertainers. But I have found that, for the most part, dogs annoy the hell out of me. Why? Because, like people, dogs need something to do; they have to have some meaning and purpose besides just existing. Or, like people, they go a little mad. And, like people, they require training and discipline. I think there are too many bored, undisciplined, ignored and abused dogs. Just like people. Further, today's 'dog culture' exasperates me. Exclusive doggie motels? Spas? Day Care? Couture? Entire retail stores dedicated to dogs and their needs...shelves after shelves of food, treats, medications, grooming supplies. I mean, there are infinite ills in this world that need, indeed demand, our attention. Painted dog claws and insulated dog boots aren't on that list if one were to ask me. Which they didn't.</i></p>
<p><strong>The Review: </strong><span>As I mentioned, friends have been encouraging me to try this funky, farm-to-table establishment that is at once a delightful, rural farm stand brimming with their own local and regional produce as well as other locally-sourced foodstuffs. An adjacent barn houses their own brewery and cider works. There was reputably a unique and fabulous restaurant that, while of limited menu, featured delicious Asian culinary delights from Viet Nam, Japan, Korea, China and Indonesia with allegedly generous portions and extremely reasonable prices.</span></p>
</div></div></div>
<div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 2"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>Of particular interest to me, they had converted a machinery shed into a performance stage, complete with lights, a good sound system and they regularly present live, local music. I figured that I ought to explore this as a potential venue for my own music. So, one evening after I finished performing at a regional farmers' market show, my wife and I drove over the NY State line to The Chatham Berry Farm for our dinner.</span></p>
<p><span>Upon arrival, the parking lot was jammed. This is usually a very good sign. Outside, we noticed several hi-top tables set up in front of the aforementioned stage, the early Fall sun casting its glow upon acres of field corn awaiting harvesting. Bucolic to the max! Each table was filled with happy people socializing and quaffing the homemade ciders and beers. Several dogs milled unencumbered around the tables. I was disappointed that there was no music to be played that evening, but I pleasantly anticipated trying the food.</span></p>
<p><span>A short stroll lead us to a couple of rows of long, quonset hut-like greenhouse structures filled with large picnic tables set upon crushed stone that serve as the indoor dining seating area. One could easily be reminded of a WWII military mess hall, except that these structures were covered with clear plastic. The picnic table areas were roughly compartmentalized by floor-to-ceiling trellises covered with climbing vines. I think I recognized some thriving mandevilla and some hops vines – and cheerful, raised-bed flower boxes aligned the low walls. Hundreds of small, twinkling light bulbs illuminated the waning Fall dusk. Every table was filled. And there were dogs. </span><i>Lots </i><span>of dogs.</span></p>
<p><span>We walked about, trying to get the lay of this new land. A few signs warned that “Small Children Must Be Accompanied by an Adult”. Nothing about dog accompaniment. We determined that there was no table service whatsoever; no bussers, no waiters. Just down-home, country simplicity. As we walked thru the quonset hut aisle, I saw at least eight different sized stainless steel bowls of water on the walkway. Hmmmm. Then we noticed folks coming from the far end of the quonset carrying trays of what looked like very delicious food. As we'd just observed, there were no open tables. We turned to each other to discuss whether we should leave or hang out and wait for something to open. Our musings were punctuated by the occasional excited Yip! or muted snarl. Hmmmmm. Just then, a couple got up from their seats at the last table in the room, bussed their dishes and kindly offered their seats. I thanked them for making our decision for us. I noticed that there were slices of pickle and a squashed lemon peel on the table top. Just a reminder: No table service.</span></p>
<p><span>We reserved our places at the vacated table with our jackets and went into the kitchen to order. As noted, the menu was limited, but each entree was given a tempting description so it was easy for us to choose. The kitchen staff was cheerful and helpful and they all seemed to be having a good time. A happy staff is pretty much always a good indication that you, too, will have a good experience. My wife ordered Vietnamese Pho Kat (Faux cat? Wassat?) - a coconut, rice, lime, herbed & curried potato dish that was out of this world with nary a cat involved! I ordered Japanese fried chicken with rice and cabbage and a tangy sweet & sour dipping sauce. Superb! The batter was light, crispy, the chicken was juicy, tender and fully cooked. As reported, the portions were most generous and the price was better than fair!</span></p>
<p><span>We took our trays back to our picnic table, sat down and prepared to enjoy our repast. What about drinks? Ah, yes. The drinks – only ciders, beers, sodas – were in the bar barn at the complete opposite end from the kitchen order area. Mildly frustrated by not remembering this, I walked all the way back through the quonset dining area to the bar barn, waited in line and got our drinks - hers, a nice farm-brewed pilsner; mine, a crisp, dry cider. Both, delightful, but not inexpensive.</span></p>
<p><span>That's when things began to go a bit off the rails for me. As I headed back to our table through a gauntlet of dogs, wondering if some patron carrying their food tray - or perhaps </span><i>me </i><span>carrying my two beverages - had ever been ensnared by a lashing dog, its uncoiled leash tripping the unsuspecting to tumble arse over tea kettle onto the ground? As I strolled by the rows of stainless water dishes, I gave them a wide berth. A huge mastiff-like creature the size of a small water buffalo was loudly slurping from one of the dishes. I was reminded of the huge, loveable St. Bernard I once owned when I was in my 20s. As I passed, the mastiff raised its head, ropes of slurpy drool dangled to the floor from flaccid jowls. Large, sadly sagging, red-rimmed eyes balefully stared back at me. The buffalo mastiff shook its massive head, propelling missiles of slimy drool onto the walls and into the walkway. Gratefully, I was out of range. The dog's owner leaned against the wall, lost in the 2-Dimensional world of his iPhone, oblivious to his animal's slop slinging.</span></p>
<p><span>Again I was reminded why I don't always like dogs. It's dogs with their persistently slobbery jowls, or tall, needle-headed standard poodles with slimy, rheumy eyes. They seem to seek me out as if they were quadruped pilgrims and I was their doggy Mecca. They wipe their slippery jowls on my knees. They shove their long noses into my crotch and scrape the funk from their smelly eyes onto my thighs. They place huge, unwelcome paws on my chest, wiping their feet as they attempt to wash my face with hungry tongues. I am not amused.</span></p>
<p><i>When we were courting, my wife owned a jet-black Shih-tzu, the famed lap dog of Chinese emperors. She was truly a quirky, jolly and lovable little creature with a personality that far outsized her small stature. (The dog was fun, too. Just kidding!) Mulan always did what she wanted, disregarding your requests if they were not convenient. If you were our guest and she liked you, she would take one of your shoes and hide it so that you couldn't leave. If one left a handbag or back pack unattended, Mulan would open it and purloin some object of consequence - glasses, wallet, phone, address book – and take it to her hidey-hole. We learned that she favored to stash her treasures under a small willow tree far at the other end of the property. This was not usually a problem. Unless it was a stormy winter's night. I found such retrieval missions to be highly annoying. Mulan had some of the smelliest, rheumiest eyes I'd ever encountered. If she ever spent a moment on your lap, you knew it all day. I called her Old Filth, but I digress.</i></p>
<p><span>Having returned to our table, I set the drinks down and plopped onto the bench across from my wife. There were now more dogs inside the dining area. A lot more. I'd estimate that there were perhaps forty or fifty diners inside the quonset and perhaps twenty dogs...that I could see. It became evident, that while most were indeed leashed, I suspected manhy more could be skulking and lurking unseen under tables. I became aware of the myriad whimpers, whines, yips 'n yaps, an occasional distressed bark, the aforementioned snarl. My suspicions were indeed accurate.</span></p>
<p><span>Across the aisle from us was were two senior-citizen couples, tweedy professorial types with wild grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Beside them sat a wolf. It might have been a genuine wolf but for its curled up tail, more like a husky. It sat stoically next to its owners, shaggy head several inches above the table top. It could have eaten anything it wanted on that table, maybe even its owners. But it didn't. Sitting there, unruffled, steely-eyed, Wolf kept watch over the entire room. I was relieved that it was wearing a stout leather harness that was tethered to the table.</span></p>
<p><span>Two tables away, a small, but very cheerful, exuberant terrier-poodley creature lunged out from under its owner's feet at every passerby. It happily grinned and wagged and whimpered at the passing ankles, sometimes illiciting a friendly pat and some gooey baby-talk, sending the animal into paroxysms of joy. The pup's owners seemed largely oblivious. No harm done. Wolf silently observed.</span></p>
<p><span>Further down the aisle, a grumpy, greying old mutt of indeterminate breed lay under the table trying its best to rest comfortably on the lumpy, crushed stone floor. An impossibility, I thought. A perky, extroverted adolescent golden retriever at the next table would have none of that introverted sloth. Goldie would tentatively approach the ancient dozing beast and poke him gently in the side with her snout. Grumpy would raise his head, sigh and place his head back down. Goldie was nothing if not persistent. Eventually Grumpy had had enough. He spontaneously combusted, leapt up and snarled viciously at the retriever whose owners nonchalantly reeled their now terrified dog back to their table. Grumpy's owners dragged him further away from his offender. Goldie continued her quest to meet others. Ah, when introverts and extroverts collide! Wolf kept an unphased, steely watch over it all.</span></p>
<p><span>I was astounded by the lack of consideration that many of the dog owners had for other diners, and even the other dogs. I was remarking about this to my wife, who tends to humor me and forgive me my curmudgeonly ways, when I felt a small, brown something dart by my feet under our table.</span></p>
<p><span>“Did you see that?” I asked her, “I think some sort of squirrel or woodchuck just ran over my feet and disappeared!” No sooner had my question been posed than it happened again. My wife let out a muted snicker, rolled her eyes and gestured with her head towards the table just behind ours. “What?” I asked, further perplexed. “Look behind me,” she mouthed.</span></p>
<p><span>There, beneath the table behind us, quaking and shivering like a Tennessee debutante at her first frat kegger, was the smallest, most minuscule chihuahua that I had ever seen. Its bulging brown eyes and huge bat-like ears were much too large for its tiny cranium, but obviously were quite effective in hearing minute food particles drop amongst the floor's crushed stones. This elfin canid was attached to a retractable leash, but it was powerful enough to shoot from under its table lair with laser-like accuracy to retrieve a tiny morsel of fried chicken batter that I had inadvertently dropped from my greasy fingers and then retreat clandestinely to the shelter of its owner's legs.</span></p>
<p><span>“Do it again,” my wife dared, grinning. Obliging, I picked a morsel from my plate and dropped it at my feet. Like Mexican lightning, that chihuahua once again defied any resistance employed by its retractible leash and rocketed towards the crumb. The dog snatched the tidbit and retreated to its table with a look of “Nothing to see here.” I was amazed and could have amused myself no-end by repeating this again and again, but the dog's owner picked it up and cradled it inside her coat. Had the dog been shivering because it was cold, or anxious? Or was it simply super excited to eat more crumbs? We'll never know, but I'm betting on the crumbs theory. Wolf looked over towards our table. It had one very blue eye.</span></p>
<p><span>I found myself so preoccupied with the all the surrounding dog antics and their owners' obliviousness that I suspected any normal dinner conversation was going to be impossible for me. Suddenly aware of this, I purposefully redirect myself to another subject: our upcoming vacation road trip. My effort was to be short-lived for at that moment, down the crushed stone walk, as if on some Paris-Milan fashion runway, strutted a sleek, but tiny animal that looked exactly like a Doberman pinscher – one that had been shrunk several sizes in a dryer! “What a sweet li'l min-pin!” my wife cooed. “A </span><i>what?</i><span>” I blurted. Unlike me, she readily responds with all the positive doggy feels.</span></p>
<p><span>No sooner had the question left my lips than the rapturous little poodley thing that had been keeping watch under the adjoining table shot out like a cuckoo from a clock and began to yip-yap excitedly at what I now knew to be a 'miniature pinscher'. The min-pin (insert my eye-roll) halted its promenade and immediately lifted its leg, peeing on the trellis of mandevilla just inches from our table and then proceeded on its way, tethered to its owners who were nonplussed by it all.</span></p>
<p><span>“Ay yi yi! What's next?!” I said, shaking my head. I imagined the wolf was wondering the same thing? I was about to find out as five millennials, all tatted sleeves, scarved and man-bunned took their seats. They boisterously laughed and jostled merrily with one another. It appeared that Brooklyn had migrated north. Suddenly a very tall, rail-thin gal with short, blonde hair arrived at the Brooklyn stop. She, however, looked like a Roaring '20s flapper. In short order, she produced a leash upon which was attached a very young, cute Welsh corgi. Though not a puppy, everyone in Brooklyn oohed n' aaahed as the little dog with two inch legs and no tail whatsoever wriggled about in ecstatic greeting. The chihuahua, peering out from its owner's coat sleeve, shook like it was being electrocuted.</span></p>
<p><span>“Hoo, boy, what could possibly go wrong here?” I mused. My wife gave me the ‘stifle it’ look. Wolf stood up. Was it salivating?</span></p>
<p><span>I needn't have worried because the Flapper solved the problem of any potential Mexican vs Welsh blood-bath stand-off. Simply just place corgi on top of the table. “WTF!?” I muttered. The dog sat there like a centerpiece, surrounded by plates of hot Asian food, its tailless and completely exposed bunghole kissing the table. I was grossed out. The millennials continued their revelry unabated. Eventually, corgi decided it would be interesting to see exactly what was </span><i>on </i><span>those plates and began to slowly march down the middle of the table on its stubby legs, casually sniffing each plate. </span><i>No one cared a whit!</i></p>
<p><span>“Holy moly,” I muttered, “what poopy dog park or manure-clotted cow field have those corgi's feet been in today?” To my utter amazement, the dog did not eat, or even lick, any of the food! Offensive to its delicate Welsh palate, perhaps? No one except me seemed to mind any of it, but the chihuahua who had retreated inside the coat sleeve and was Yi!-Yi!-Yi!-ing in a muffled sophranino voice. So, why should I care? </span><i>Because it's unsanitary and bad behavior, that's why! </i><span>I was now riled up. Maybe the wolf sensed this too because he began quiverring a little, his jaws clacking quietly like toothy castanets.</span></p>
<p><span>No sooner was I about to unleash my own dogs of consternation when - and I truly wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it for myself - an elderly gentleman and his wife came down the aisle accompanied by a beautifully mature and rather large – </span><i>wait for it </i><span>- Welsh corgi! This dog was easily more than twice the size of the little corgi centerpiece, and when the blonde flapper saw this regal dog's entrance, she erupted in shrieks of glee. This caught everyone's attention, including the diminutive corgi who, upon seeing its Welsh DNA counterpart walking towards them, stopped its table top expedition and dropped to the ground like a hairy bomb, its stubby legs useless in breaking the fall.</span></p>
<p><span>The two corgi owners immediately engaged in animated corgi talk. I gleaned that she had 'rescued' her corgi - from who or what, I don't know - and that the old gent had raised, shown and bred his now- retired dog. The two corgis ceaselessly sniffed and pirouetted around, around and around each other, whimpering quietly, until their leashes were entwined in a Gordian knot of epic proportions. The wolf began to move towards the fray and required the intervention of a few sharp commands (Was that </span><i>German?</i><span>) and a mighty yank on its stout harness. Gratefully, it worked. </span><i>That </i><span>could've gotten ugly!</span></p>
<p><span>My curiosity begged me to stay around and see how all this would shake out as it were, but my revulsion insisted that I leave. After all, we were finished with our meals. It </span><i>was </i><span>time to go. As we were preparing to leave, an artsy couple, perhaps in their late '30s, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses – though it was now </span><i>very </i><span>dark outside – came down the aisle pushing an expensive baby carriage. I mean, this was the Ferrari of baby carriages; powder coated frame, chrome wheels, cushy tires, full suspension, leather convertible top...the works. “Wow,” I thought, “this is actually the first baby I've seen in here.” It had only just then occurred to me that there were absolutely NO human children in this restaurant the entire time we were there!</span></p>
<p><span>The couple sat down across the aisle a few tables up from ours. They settled in and as we walked by, I glanced into the carriage as the woman lowered its leather convertible top. There, swaddled inside a luxurious Tartan-plaid blanket and peering back out at me was a small furry entity with pointed, fuzzy ears, large, bright eyes, glistening black nose and a mouthful of tiny teeth. The room lights reflected gaily off its little diamond studded collar. I had no words.</span></p>
<p><span>My wife and I walked out of the quonset hut towards the car park and passed by the rows of stainless steel dog dishes. There stood the gigantic mastiff buffalo we'd met an hour ago, still tanking up, its owner still leaning against the wall staring into his iPhone. Had they been there the entire time? Were</span></p>
</div></div></div>
<div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 6"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span>they statues or some kind of art installation?</span><br><span>I simply shook my head. It </span><i>really </i><span>was time for me to go. This place truly had gone to the dawgs.</span></p></div></div></div>
</div></div></div>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/72789432023-09-26T06:23:55-12:002024-01-12T05:59:14-12:00 Let 'im Eat Cake!<p> </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/b4b8287b5aedf7281ce85976db313bc4e04963d8/original/entenmann-s-chocolate-fudge-iced-cake-19-oz-f342d21f-25fb-4b94-beb3-7333f3de3664-32d888a61cddcb67f80fd8aedaf033f8-jpeg-copy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 1">
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>“I got you a treat,” my good wife said to me as she continued to empty a bag of groceries onto the counter.</span></p>
<p><span>“Thank you, Peach,” I replied. “What's the occasion?”</span></p>
<p><span>“You've just endured surgery and will need a few days to recover. You deserve a treat,” she said, smiling as she pointed to a square, white cardboard box with blue script that she'd placed on top of the refrigerator. I immediately recognized: Entemann's Chocolate Fudge cake! And while it was true that I'd just endured some uncomfortable day surgery to remove a few nasties from a very delicate area, I didn't think it warranted a celebration.</span></p>
<p><span>“Wow! I love that cake,” I exclaimed, “but I thought we'd made a solemn pact to our waistlines to severely limit our involvement with Entemann's?” Indeed we had, for this cake, to us, was the crack of desserts.. Time after time it had proven to be dangerous to submit to our chocolatey, cake cravings, for as history had taught us, we could empty a store shelf and fill a freezer with Entemann's Chocloate Fudge cake without any provocation. Our expanding waistlines were evidence. Our pact dictated that we were allowed to purchase one cake for each of our birthdays. That translated just two per year, no exceptions noted, and we'd been honoring our pact well for about five years. Until today.</span></p>
<p><span>“What about our pact?” I asked.</span></p>
<p><span>“There are extenuating circumstances. And this is one of them,” my wife said as she put the remainder of the groceries away.</span></p>
<p><span>Ignoring any legitimacy this pact may have ever had, I asked, “Would you like some cake? I'd like a piece right now.” I was discovering that as I was slowly emerging from the gossamer, groggy cloak of post-op anesthesia, I was feeling quite tired. And more than a little hungry.</span></p>
<p><span>“Sure, I'll get you a piece,” she replied. She carefully (dare I say “ceremoniously”?) opened the Entemann's box, slid out the shiny aluminum tray that cradled the holy grail of chocolate cake, and handing me my fork, cut me a generous piece. Eagerly anticipating chocolate nirvana, I glided across the room to the kitchen table, sank to my chair and beheld the plate of chocolate love before me. I raised my fork. I took a mouthful. Nirvana found!</span></p>
</div></div>
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span>“May I have another? And a glass of milk, too, please?” I asked.</span></p></div></div>
</div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 2">
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span>“Are you sure?” my wife asked, tilting her head and squinting her eyes in suspicion.</span></p></div></div>
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>Am I sure? Ami I sure? </span><i>Did you really just ask me that question? </i><span>She poured a glass of cold milk and then placed another piece of cake on my plate and watched the ecstasy spread across my face. “Would you like some?” I asked, licking my fork.</span></p>
<p><span>“No thank you. It's for you.” I truly admired her monumental restraint.</span></p>
<p><span>How did I ever find such a wonderful woman? I didn't think too long about it as there was an untouched piece of Entemann's cake before me that needed attending to. I silently succored each moist, crumbly morsel. My wife left the room to attend to other things. I was alone. With the crack, er...cake.</span></p>
<p><span>I finished my second serving. But I wanted MORE! But did I </span><i>need </i><span>it? Yes. Yes, I did. I got up and took my plate to the counter where the cakebox awaited. I opened it and slid out the tray. I cut a third piece and returned to my seat. Zounds! – it disappeared even more quickly that the previous two. I polished off the glass of milk and sat looking out the window - dismal, grey skies, ceaseless rain and Fall leaves that dropped from the trees like withered brown bats . I began to feel the anesthesia beginning to wear off. Things were looking and feeling really bleak. But I had CAKE!</span></p>
<p><span>I sat for a moment as questions ricocheted around in my brain. Should I eat more? Could I eat more? What about my waist-line, what about sharing? Yeah, what about it? Should I eat more? Why, yes. Yes, I should.</span></p>
<p><span>I looked around. My wife was still preoccupied elsewhere. I surreptitiously got up and very quietly placed my plate and knife into the sink. I poured another glass of cold milk. I grabbed the Entemann's Chocolate Fudge box and repaired to my seat. I secretly slid open the aluminum tray, tossed the cardboard box aside, grabbed my fork and unceremoniously dug in, savoring each heavenly mouthful. The cake's delicate, moist chocolaty crumb; the creamy, silky-smooth fudge frosting as it dissolved upon my tongue on its way to my eagerly awaiting stomach. “I shall blame this all on the lingering effects of post-op anesthesia,” I rationalized. However, in truth, I </span><i>know </i><span>it's really the CAKE!</span></p>
<p><span>I sat and ate. Then ate even more. Suddenly I realized that I'd actually eaten nearly </span><i>all </i><span>of the cake - only a few mouthfuls remained! Really, had I no shame at all? I called out to my wife “I've saved you a small piece of cake. Shall I set it aside for you for later?”</span></p>
<p><span>“No thank you, it's all for you,” she called out from the next room.</span></p>
<p><span>What?! </span><i>Well, OK then</i><span>. One can't just leave that tiny little piece of cake sitting all alone there now, can one? No. No, one can not. I ate the rest of the cake. I had eaten the entire cake. In one sitting.</span></p>
<p><span>I have no shame.</span></p>
<p><span> -September 26, 2023</span></p>
</div></div>
</div><p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/71806682023-03-29T06:57:48-12:002023-05-09T04:44:03-12:00Postcard from the Islands<p style="text-align:center;" align="LEFT"><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/1b5b9d0508c4ef7f61551aab74df4de6ac5130e8/original/postcards-cd-cover.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><font size="4"><strong>Postcard from the Islands</strong></font></p><p style="text-align:center;" align="LEFT"><a class="no-pjax" href="https://davidreed.hearnow.com/postcard-from-the-islands"><font size="4"><strong>https://davidreed.hearnow.com/postcard-from-the-islands</strong></font></a></p><p align="LEFT">While in the midst of this winter's performance dry spell I found myself suffering from an acute withdrawal from creative flow. I felt somewhat lost, tired, discouraged - like I was running on fumes and going nowhere fast. These blank, dry periods have visited me throughout my years as an artist; every time they would engulf me I'd go into a very unpleasant funk. I was no fun at all. Initially, I would think there was something really wrong with me, perhaps something like a clinical depression had come knocking on my psyche's door. Eventually something wonderful would always intervene. Long dormant, I'd blossom and plunge back into my stream of creativity. Over time I learned to trust that rather than barren, depressive dry spells, these were necessary <i>fallow periods</i>. All good farmers know that it is necessary for fields to go fallow - to rest and rejuvenate - every few years in order to replenish the soil and provide a good yield. My fallow periods actually were times when, unconsciously to me, I was percolating and replenishing my creative energy, and I would more often than not be surprised as to how it would manifest. I knew something exciting would, as they say in the islands, “Soon come!” It did.</p><p align="CENTER">While rooting around in my extensive archive of recorded music I was surprised to discover a trove of songs I'd laid down from long ago, some as early as 2007. Many were recorded on the island of St. John in the US Virgin Islands. Some were soundboard mixes taken from live shows, often accompanied by my occasional bandmates, drummer Sam Earnshaw with his electronic DrumKat, <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/853b3358b356566b40d047ee26b5c27164c8cb3d/original/triotamboura-copy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_right border_" />and the multi-talented Mary Knysh with her vocals, flute or steel drum. These mixes were gleaned from shows performed at popular island venues like Cinnamon Bay, Maho Bay, Miss Lucy's, Aqua Bistro and The Banana Deck. Other songs were recorded inside my little green Shackteau in Coral Bay <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/e1d22bd84a5704623f35406613c3f62349438308/original/the-shackteau-copy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_left border_" />onto my computer with me singing and playing all the parts. Mesmerized by the island's indigenous <i>quelbe, </i>or scratch band style, these shack recordings were played upon a tiny banjo-uke, with the occasional harmonica joining in. I added percussion instruments that I made from 'found' objects scrounged from around the island. I even used my louvered wooden door as a <i>guiro! </i><span>It occurred to me while listening to these old recordings that some of them were actually quite fun and percolated with a Caribe-island vibe. “What if,” I thought, “I selected an interesting variety of these tunes, added a few parts – like perhaps bass, different percussion, harmony vocals, conch shell & whistles – <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/4d3a6621dda3f10927e183440d5f35e726489f6e/original/les-instruments-de-shackteau.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_right border_" /> and then remixed it into my island anthology of sorts? ”That would be very cool - and I'd cure my creative drought! Just do it!</span></p><p align="LEFT">So I dove in. I listened to hours of material, selected eleven songs and went to work. I used the original recordings as the core and built the arrangements from that. To some I spent hours and hours adding the aforementioned instrument and vocal tracks. To others, I just left 'em alone, other than a bit o' wee tweaking to the mix. My archival foraging also unearthed a sound track of night sounds that I had made one evening while camping at Cinnamon Bay. You can hear a gentle wind, crickets and the occasional frog. “Now,” I thought, “THIS would make the ideal <i>continuo</i> background throughout the entire album! Excelsior!” And so, I present to you, <i>Postcard from the Islands!</i></p><p align="LEFT"><span>Because most of today's recorded music is sold as downloads and streams, vinyl record and CD jacket art have largely gone the way of the dodo. I miss it. So much so that I did have </span><i>Postcard from the Islands </i><span>manufactured in a very limited number of physical CDs. Because the surface area of a CD sleeve is not ideal for portraying much art or descriptive content, I've decided to write what might have been at one time considered to be album liner notes here.</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i>Note:</i><span> Earlier I said I'd chosen eleven songs, but there are only ten on this album. I ran into considerably difficult, and expensive, international copyright and licensing issues with one song so I abandoned it. But, hey, if </span><i>Postcard from the Islands </i><span>sells well, I'll be able to afford to release that one too! The following are insights into each of the songs that did make it!</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/aee18be033f56df8769d0dae950c972fb9ee573f/original/vi-scratch-band-1905.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_left border_" />Gimme da T'ing</i><span> - I first heard this humorous calypso by Trinidadian Lord Kitchener played by one of my favorite guitar heroes, David Lindley and his band El-Rayo X, back in the '90s. As soon as I heard it, I knew I had to learn it and I've been playing it since. I'd been gigging in the USVI since 1994 and had fallen in love with Caribbean reggae, calypso, soca and the scratch band music from the USVI called </span><i>quelbe. </i><span>Dunno, but I think this sounds an awful lot like “Coral Bay” - an old-island settlement on the east side of St. John - said in a clipped West Indian accent. In this version, Sam and I hold it down, he with his DrumKat and me with my 6-string banjo and harmonica. This one was recorded during a show at Cinnamon Bay. I added bass and percussion in my home studio this year.</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i>Caribbean Wind</i><span> – This is one of my original songs, also recorded live at Cinnamon Bay by Sam and me (acoustic guitar). In short, it's about someone who's spent their life toiling under the “camoflage skies” of a souless job. For </span><i>what, </i><span>exactly? Eventually the realization dawns that it's not too late to follow the “Caribbean wind” to one's bliss. Or something like that. I added bass and an Old Elk whiskey bottle bell and rice-filled pill bottle container shakers to the mix.</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/8295ae5cbb53e6f2f91d85b9ae5479e93d6ee197/original/hard-rock-banuke-copy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_left border_" />One Love </i><span>– I hope Bob Marley would be proud to hear a </span><i>quelbe</i><span> interpretation of his reggae classic hit! This was recorded in the tiny green Coral Bay Shackteau. You can hear the banjo-uke in all it's glory in this one. I added bass and a four-part vocal choir! There's a large spike hitting a length of metal pipe for the clanging bell – or 'irons' as they're called in the islands. A small coconut filled with popcorn seeds made a proper shaker while a length of bamboo I found floating in the bay provided a serviceable clave. There's even a tiny tambourine I scored at a local flea market. Thanks & praise, Bob!</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/3090c4020fa679aef2a8c36ed511086949a1cdb1/original/mary-her-silver-tings.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_s justify_right border_" />Haul 'Em Joe</i><span>, or </span><i>Me Donkey Wan' Watah</i><span> - Here's a little old folksong from Barbados that Mary Knysh taught me. She sings and plays steel drum. I strum the ol' banjo-uke in the </span><i>quelbe</i><span> style. You can hear the bamboo sticks clip-clopping the donkey's hoof-steps and the whiskey bottle bell makes its return as does a cigar box bass guitar. Donkeys are all over the place on the islands and the USVI is no exception. I recorded this braying guy outside my shack one morning as he and his crew were obstenately blocking traffic. You can hear somebody shouting at him, too. Maybe if they had given the donkey some watah it would have gone more smoothly?</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/acf2e0ef2044028f85f92fcbb2c765ffe526a217/original/maxcreek73.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_left border_" />Crystal Clear</i> – Here's an original song I worked out with John Rider in the early '70s as we were beginning the venture that was to become the renown jam-band legend, Max Creek. We were brass instrument majors at a college conservatory, but were enamored with American folk music and were each learning to play guitar and bass and trying out our songwriting skills – <i>Crystal Clear</i> may very well be the first effort! Our original Max Creek version was more in a country-rock style, but I decided to make it a scratch band song with the banjo-uke as the lead instrument. Recorded in the Shackteau, I added the vocal harmonies, cigar box bass, steel pipe & spike, coconut shaker, bamboo sticks on the tambourine, suitcase bass drum, and a harmonica. Peace shall be within you!</p><p align="LEFT"><i>Walkin' with Chet</i> – Here's another original song, but it has no words. It started out as a solo acoustic guitar piece after I imagined guitarist Chet Atkins walking around a vibrant township neighborhood in Soweto, South Africa taking in the inspiring sounds. I lay the track down at the Shackteau. Then I thought, well, maybe it could have been trumpeter Chet Baker doing the same thing? So I got out my old trumpet and lay down another track. Listening back, I could hear a second horn part, sort of like Herb Alpert in Soweto. So I lay down another trumpet track. If it was supposed to sound African, it had better have some drums. You <i>know</i> what I did - BOOM! Congas, claves, shakers and a snare drum makes its debut! I then added an electric guitar in the 'township style' and some street crowd noises. My best township jive, just for you!</p><p align="LEFT"><i>Talkin' 'bout Revolution</i><span> – This hit for Tracy Chapman was recorded by Sam, Mary and me at The Banana Deck in Cruz Bay, St. John sometime during the winter of 2007. I'm playing my six-string banjo, harmonica and singing lead – with a few made up verses that were politically relevant at the time. Mary is playing her flute and singing counter-harmony while Sam lays it down with his DrumKat. I added the pill bottle shaker and bass lines this winter! Somewhere near the start of the song, a baby in the crowd offers a cry of approval, or ???</span></p><p align="LEFT"><i><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/a1e11102d71c0d5f446c25b3486d645c65770340/original/tutu-much-miss-lucys.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_m justify_right border_" />Johnny B. Goode</i> – Not entirely sure where this one was recorded, but it was likely at Miss Lucy's(?) by Sam and me. I had heard Peter Tosh's reggae version of this classic Chuck Berry song, so I reimagined it as if Chuck, Peter and Doc Watson sat down and enjoyed a pate, Red Stripe and perhaps a spliff and jammed on it. This is what I got. I later added harmonica, electric bass and pill bottle shaker to the mix. It came out as sort of a reggae/swing tune, methinks.</p><p align="LEFT"><i>Carousel</i><span> – Another original song. I wrote it sometime in the late '70s, a particularly difficult and transitory time for me personally with lots of death and loss. It's a sad, unrequited love song of sorts with lyrics taken from a letter written to me by a lost, heart-broken college friend. Sam and I lay down simple, folksong-like tracks for the verses, but the chorus transitions into a reggae groove as the bass propels it forward. I added the pill bottle shaker for auxiliary instrumentation, and truly delighted in creating the other-worldly counter-tenor vocals to the verses and chorus. </span><i>Tres ethereal!</i></p><p align="LEFT"><i>Lion's Lullaby</i> – I originally wrote this one on my six-string banjo while hanging around alone at my campsite on Cinnamon Bay one sleepy afternoon. The banjo sounded <i>almost</i> like a Baroque harpsichord...not very Caribbean island at all! I don't know who I was channeling at the time – some rasafarian Handel perhaps - but as it was written on St. John, I included it here on <i>Postcard</i>. For this recording, I switched over to guitar and asked Mary to contribute a second guitar part. Voila...a relaxing little ditty that ought to put any lion to sleep!</p><p align="LEFT"> Hope you'll enjoy this li'l trip to the islands!</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/396343/3823a1d29a7877d7d6cc0987797b0d623be1e78e/original/house-concert-in-heaven-2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p style="text-align:center;" align="LEFT"><a class="no-pjax" href="https://davidreed.hearnow.com/postcard-from-the-islands">https://davidreed.hearnow.com/postcard-from-the-islands</a></p><p><br> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356672022-02-11T08:47:11-12:002024-01-04T06:48:10-12:00A Real Phish Story<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/758daf48bda12cabfcf85a1e3d4f7603296c126e/original/max-creek1973.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Max Creek, circa 1972 at The Rockinghorse Pub in Hartford, CT - Bob, David, Mark & John</p><p>It was just before Christmas. A fresh, clean snow blanketed the world outside my window, a fire crackled in the wood stove and the warm glow from the oil lamp colored the room in orange hues. The scent from a large simmering pot of freshly-made butternut squash and parmesan soup wafted throughout the room, mingling with the faint suggestion of woodsmoke. </p><p>I was alone in my head, draped on my comfy, old recliner balancing a warm bowl of popcorn and my old cat in my lap. It wasn't lost on me how times had changed: it used to be that I balanced a cool drink and a young woman in my lap, but...nothing stays the same! Behind my eyelids, in full technicolor and surround sound, was playing a re-run of an old memory of rock 'n roll days gone by. </p><p>Before acoustic guitars - which I preferred, and still do - had pickups in them, one had to tape cheap-o Radio Shack mics inside, plug into the ol' Fender Bandmaster and hope that the feedback didn't rip the top off the guitar - or your head! It was time of padded, gold-flecked naugahyde Kustom PA columns loaded not-always-so-carefully into the back of a '65 Chevy van replete with a generous plate of bacon ‘n eggs painted on its blunt nose; the floor and ceiling lined with multi-colored shag carpet and a glove box full of rolling papers, gum and incense. </p><p>I wandered my mind's backlot, getting lost in the late '60s and early '70s, the landscape of my formative years in the music biz. At age 16, I had made my first tour: a local music store sponsored my 6-piece, Tijuana-style horn band, The Solteros Brass, on a tour of the 1967 Montreal World's Fair. We floated around on an island in a lagoon in front of the Russian pavilion - two shows a day – before thousands of fair goers. I suppose this is when I caught the “tour bug”. It continues to infect me to this day. </p><p>Fast-forwarding a few years, I am there at the 1971 birth of Max Creek and those halcyon days when all we wanted to do was avoid the draft - the Viet Nam conflict raged in the background - party and make music. While attending music college in Hartford, CT in '68 as trumpet players in the college's wind ensemble, John Rider (who was teaching himself bass) and I (struggling to develop my guitar skills) began working out traditional folk song arrangements while venturing into our own songwriting worlds. Bob Gosselin was my long-time high school friend - we enjoyed our English sports cars and attended our first Grand Prix race together at Watkins Glen. Bob also laid out a pretty solid drum groove so I asked him to make us a trio. Max Creek was birthed. </p><p>We rehearsed in the basement of Rider's Theta Chi frat house and played all the hip watering holes Hartford had to offer. Both of them. We also played for camp outs, weddings, frat parties, and even a regional strip-club where we had to actually read music charts for different acts each week. We met many ladies who got paid to take their clothes off and baggy-pants comedians who introduced us to the seamy-glamorous world of professional show-biz as they traveled from city to city plying their dying trade. I recall Creedence Clearwater Revival's “Proud Mary” was a particularly popular tune amongst the younger strippers.</p><p>After graduation, we all moved into a secluded country house in Feeding Hills, Massachusetts, sharing stories, expenses and household chores as together we created our sound which was gleaned from American country/folk/roots music while tapping into the West Coast sound that was gaining space on the radio airwaves. It was during this time that I contracted appendicitis, ending up hospitalized with peritonitis for several weeks. The band had gigs booked and wanted to honor that. This situation lead to Rider to ask his frat-bro and keyboard genius, Mark Mercier to take my place. Mark added his perfect pitch, sparkle and color...and Fender Rhodes piano, too! After my return it was decided he should stay on with us. Now we were a quartet. </p><p>When I learned that my long-time trumpet student, 15 year old Scott Murawski, was secretly a monster guitarist I invited him up to the house to sit in with the band. His brilliant lead guitar fit right in, making this Max Creek band sound like nothing else. It was lots of fun for a few years for me, until... </p><p>The band wanted to lean more towards the West Coast sound a la Grateful Dead. Nothing wrong with that, mind you, but the Dead were already the Dead! I was becoming enamored with early American country blues musicians and moving away from my flat-picking, rhythm guitar strumming to a more complex finger-picking technique. I had developed a curiosity about the diverse world of indigenous peoples and their rich musical cultures, rhythms and instruments. I yearned for Max Creek to be sonically and instrumentally "diverse". I mean, amongst us we had five songwriters, we had three trumpet players, and everyone played at least one or two other instruments - including percussion! I was dabbling with drums, banjo, harmonica and lap-steel guitar and I wanted to add these colors to the band. I was fascinated by thinking of the permutations and possibilities! Why did we have to do yet another replicative version of Playin' In the Band, Casey Jones or Franklin Tower? </p><p>I was outnumbered and it was then decided that I should fade away. I did, but not before I'd contributed a few tunes and helped co-write others with the band. The band went through its various phases and personnel transmogrifications over the years, and my contributions were largely eclipsed by these changes.</p><p>But one tune, a countrified, bluegrass-style barn-burner instrumental called "Back Porch Boogie Blues" - not a particularly creative or inspirational title, I grant you - seems to live on, even today, in the band's repertoire. It was that very tune that many years earlier convinced us that Scott surely had the guitar goods.</p><p>The band recorded it on it's first, eponymously titled recording and on the occasion that I sit-in with Creek for a reunion concert or festival show, we'll usually do this tune. Did I copyright the work? Nah. Didn't think of that kind of stuff in those days. None of us did. Besides, who'd a-thunk this wordless song would have had a shelf-life much longer than that of a box of pretzels? </p><p>Energized by all the reminiscing about my ancient music history, I polished off the popcorn, tossed off the dozing cat and roused myself from the recliner. I wandered into my office and fired up the computer, fine-tuned the "quantized unreality control" and dialed up the Max Creek website, curious to see what the ol' crew had been up to. After all, it had been over 40 years since I'd left the band and they were still successfully chugging along.</p><p>It was fun to learn that Scott now also sometimes plays guitar in a trio with the Grateful Dead's drummer Bill Kreutzman and Allman Brothers' bassist Otheil Burbridge, and is working on a project with Phish's bassist, Mike Gordon! It was oddly flattering to see that the student had surpassed the teacher. I was proud of Scott. And seeing all their set lists, gig listings, etc. was a nice post-script to my earlier, private reverie. </p><p>I navigated towards some YouTube sites that had concert footage of a couple of Max Creek anniversary reunion shows that I played, including the 30th at the Paramount Theatre in Springfield, MA in 2001, just a few months before the world would change on 9/11! Hot damn, we could still rock - and rock it good! Despite more snow now falling outside my window, I was enjoying myself immensely, warmed by these memories. </p><p>And then, I saw it: An amateur YouTube concert footage of indeterminate origin titled "Phish Covers Creek" And there they were, those Burlington, VT jamboys blowing the lid off of a scorching instrumental tune. And what tune do you think the world-famous jam band was kickin' around? None other than my ol' "Back Porch Boogie Blues"! </p><p>At first I was profoundly alarmed, and even felt violated. “Who the hell authorized that?!? No one ever asked me about using my tune!” Then I caught my breath and grinned. "How cool is that?!?" </p><p>Really, how many of us unsung songwriters get to have major acts cover our songs, even if they don't know they're doing it? Did I copyright the song? Of course not. As I said before, who'd a-thunk the ditties we were churning out would have had such long lives? We were shortsighted youngsters who lived only for the moment. So what. It's been so long since I'd penned it back in that house in Feeding Hills, Massachusetts. I don't know how I could prove it anyway. It's said that "possession is nine-tenths of the law" and Max Creek has now possessed that song far longer than me, I suppose. </p><p>I like the song alright, but they're welcome to it. So is Phish, should they ever decide to swim up-Creek again. I guess it doesn't matter who wrote it...it belongs to everyone now. And I am glad.</p><p style="text-align:center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/z7ajbGmnlyE" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p><p style="text-align:center;"><span class="text-big"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/c4885c7b3e02e76c490815e48f160691f2914072/original/mcs40th-copy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span>Max Creek's 40th Anniversary Reunion at The Inn Place, Simsbury, CT Bob, David, John & Mark - April 2011</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356532022-02-11T07:08:05-12:002024-01-04T07:28:01-12:00Mystery of IED Solved<center> </center><center><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/06d3104c435d0b78de7b7f6a192fa0521c79fb91/original/mousedozer-copy.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpeg" class="size_l justify_center border_" alt="" /><big><strong>Mystery of IED Solved</strong></big></p></center><p>You just can’t make this stuff up. Really. You just can't. </p><p>It was a dark, bitter cold night actively being strangled by February's frozen fingers. Gusts of wind rattled and shook the old windows, threatening intrusion. I had spent most of the week packing and re-packing my clothes, instruments and gear in preparation for my annual winter Caribbean music tour that was scheduled to begin way too early the next day. </p><p>Delightful images of blue skies, warm sun, lovely beaches with tall coconut palms swaying gently in the tropical breeze and playing music almost every evening had carried me through this relentless winter of horrific snowstorms and meager income. On this last night at home, I had planned to kick back, relax, have an early dinner and even earlier bedtime so that I would awaken at 2:45 AM, refreshed and ready to endure the full day I’d be spending in cars, airports, planes and boats before I arrived at my Virgin Islands destination. </p><p>The best prescription for disappointment is expectation. Fate had other plans. </p><p>Dr. Ea$y had been hovering over my shoulder for a good part of the week offering his unsolicited advice and unwanted opinions. “Why ya bringin’ dat shirt? It ugly on you. How many sets of git-tar strings ya really be needin’? Ya plannin’ on bustin’ ‘em all? Meh-son, who show ya how to pack a bag? Look like belong ta some rag-bag, mon!” On and on he prattled. Times like this I wished he had a volume control knob. </p><p>One would have thought that I'd have learned over time that the best response to the doctor’s incessant jabbering and interrogations was to make no response at all – perceive it simply as background noise, which it mostly was. He would eventually run out of wind, get bored and disappear. But tonight, perhaps due to my exhaustion and anxious anticipation of long, hard travels ahead, he was wearing me thin. I snapped. </p><p>“Why can’t you can’t just zip your yammering pie-hole and stay outta my way?” I said, my exasperation boldly showing. “Just back off, sit down and button your yap!” </p><p>“Yah, yah, meh-son, don’ ya go puttin’ yer grouch on me!” Dr. Ea$y haughtily retorted. “You gon’ be lookin’ maga foolish walkin’ to de airport wit’ all dem bags on yer back like some ol’ bow-leg island donkey!” </p><p>"Wasted no time playing your ace", I muttered to myself under my breath. The truth was that this plan - made weeks ago - was that he was going to spend the night on my fold-out couch and then drive me to the airport. It had been I who had arranged this feckless dependency on him to get the tour started, so it was indeed I who needed to back off. </p><p>“OK, doc, I’m sorry for snapping,” I acquiesced. “I’ll make us some supper and then we can turn-in. 2:30 is going to come pretty fast.” </p><p>“Ya got a nice steak?” </p><p>“No, I have cleaned out the ‘fridge before going away for over a month. How ‘bout something simple like soup and grilled cheese? Or oatmeal?” </p><p>“Hummmmph! A mon need real sustenance, not some chirrun lunch or breffus' stuff!” </p><p>“I’ll order us a pizza then. What do you want on it?” </p><p>“Ya got some nice fish?” </p><p>“Did you not hear me? I told you, I cleaned out the fridge!” I could feel myself getting heated again. “Look, I’m going to make us some soup ‘n sandwiches, you’ll either eat it or you won’t” </p><p>“Why ya still tryin’ to put yer grouch on me, mon? Long walk to dat airport, meh-son! Ooooo, wha’ dat stink?” </p><p>“What stink?” I retorted. “I don’t smell anything.” He's having olfactory hallucinations I mused. </p><p>“Dat prolly ‘cause you inna stinkin’ mood. But I know stink, and dere’s some stink inna room here,” said the doctor wrinkling his nose dramatically and turning away. </p><p>“Look, we don’t have time for this nonsense. Let’s eat, get some sleep and get on our way,” I attempted to reason as I began to make the sandwiches. </p><p>“Sure t’ing, Mistah Boss Mon,” Dr. Ea$y snidely retorted and went off to the far corner to sulk as I continued to prepare our supper. </p><p>“I know I smellin’ baaaaad stink…” he grumbled sotto voce to himself. </p><p>After finishing our simple repast in silence, I reminded him that 2:45 was going to “soon come”, a poorly chosen bit of island vernacular that roughly translates into: <i>It-hasn’t-happened-yet. It-probably-won’t-happen-later-either. Maybe-tomorrow-but-definitely-not-today. </i></p><p>Still feeling insulted, Dr. Ea$y got up and sauntered sullenly over to my sofa. “I suppose ya wan’ me t’ bed down on dis here divan?” He pointed piteously at my sofa. </p><p>“That’s fine,” I replied, smiling at his use of the archaic word ‘divan’ to refer to my aging sofa-bed. “I can pull it out into a full-sized bed for you if you’d like? Plenty of room to stretch out.” </p><p>“Somet’ing be stinkin’.” </p><p>“Will you get off that stink thing!” I said tersely as I got up and approached the sofa. </p><p>Dr. Ea$y was pacing up and down in front of the sofa shaking his head, more fervently wrinkling his nose. “I don’ t'ink I wan’ stay here. Somet’ing surely be stinkin’ awful bad 'round here!” </p><p>“Look,” I said, straining to contain my consternation, “you’ll sleep fine, right here, on this sofa-bed. You’ll get up at 2:45, just like me. We’ll load up the car and off to the airport we go! Boom, boom, just like that!” </p><p>I leaned over and removed the cushions in preparation to unfold the sofa-bed and – <i>WHAM! </i>– it hit me! A truly nasty odor punched me right in the nose. </p><p>“Cheese ‘n bread!” Dr. Ea$y shrieked, leaping back. “I tol’ ya dere was maga stink in here fa real!” </p><p>I examined the cushions. They did smell funky, but there was nothing visibly evident on them to explain the foul smell that began to permeate my living room. I reached down to pull out the frame of the sofa-bed. Nothing happened. I tugged again. Nothing. I put both hands on the frame and yanked. It just wouldn't budge! </p><p>“What the hell is going on here?” I exclaimed in full peak. “Don't just stand there gawping at me...give me a hand here, will ya!” </p><p>“I ain’ touchin’ dat. I goin’ home, sleep in meh own bed!” </p><p>This quickly escalated into a silly row that, in after a few minutes of pointless wrangling, I was able to bribe him to help me pull out the bed-frame. I had to promise to bring him back the newest Lashing Dogs CD from Tortola - “Meh love dem Dawgs!” - and a new t-shirt from the Donkey Diner to replace the one he'd ruined with some sort of bleach and battery acid laundering. We each grabbed an end of the sofa-bed frame. </p><p>“One, two, three!!!” I counted and we gave the frame a mighty tug. Nothing. </p><p>“Lawd, ya got some serious stink goin’ on in dat divan now! Worser'n deh wild goat!” From past endeavors to get him to assist me, I knew he was close to the verge of quitting. </p><p>“Come on, one more time…here we go…” I counted to three, pretending to ignore his comment, and we heaved-ho again. Nothing. </p><p>“Dat’s it. Ya can keep yer stinkin’ goat divan if’n ya wan’, but I leavin’. Ya jus’ call yase'f a cab in deh mahnin’ 'cause I won' be here!” </p><p>“Come on, man, don't be a quitter! Remember the new CD…” </p><p>“Nah stoopit CD or lousy t-shirt wort’ dis botherment!” Dr. Easy spat, but he nevertheless reached down and grabbed the stuck frame again. </p><p>'Tis said “The third time's the charm”. Not so sure about that one. At least in this case, because on the count of three, we again grabbed the frame, put our backs into it and . . . </p><p><i>KA-BLAM!!!!!! </i></p><p>The metal bed frame exploded open with an ominous crash, ripping a gaping hole in the sofa's cloth back and spraying untold pounds of cat kibble, saturated with mouse urine and laced with tiny turds like shrapnel into every corner and surface of the living room. The sodden sofa-bed mattress lay open like a superating wound, exposing a brackish grey and very noxious mire within. I stood up, dumbfounded and gagging. Foul, damp kibble and mouse turds stuck in my hair and tumbled down inside my shirt. I stared in shock at the sudden devastation surrounding us. </p><p>Ms. Chevy - my elderly, mildly psychotic cat - had been quietly napping under the kitchen table until the detonated sofa awakened her. She rocketed, wild-eyed, from her slumber to the top the refrigerator, back arched and grey fur puffed up in alarm as urine-saturated cat kibble and mouse turds flew everywhere - onto the window sills, fireplace mantle, counter tops, sticking to the windows and curtains, paving the floor and rugs with mushy, foul-smelling detritus. Doctor Ea$y was gone. </p><p>“Holy crap!” I whispered to no one, still stunned by the wreckage before me. “That has been one industrious mouse!” </p><p>I looked up in disgust at the cat. “So, I see you’ve been doing your job exceptionally well!” Ms. Chevy looked away, seemingly embarrassed. But she didn't come down from the refrigerator. </p><p>Then a jig-saw puzzle of unexplained events began to fall into place... </p><p>For the past several months, I’d noticed that we’d been going through an inordinate amount of cat kibble - bags of it! Yet the Chevster was not gaining any weight. I never found evidence of alien animal intruders. I’d not seen any vermin droppings. My sense of smell has always been rather keen, but I’d not olfactored any of this, even when I had noticed that the occasional houseguest would avoid sitting on that sofa. </p><p>Doctor Ea$y then peeked from around my office door. “Now so, Mistah Sma't Man, do ya believe dat dere’s stink in here?!” </p><p>He eased out, glancing over the surrounding mess. “I be goin’ now. I ain’t sleepin’ here wid all dis mouse poop an' pee aroun’. Dat nasty stuff mek ya sick! Relly sick! Dat stuff can put ya right in de hostipal, an’ I ain’t goin’ dere! I be sleepin’ in me own bed dis night,” he muttered, holding his nose while pulling his beret over his eyes and reaching for his coat. </p><p>By this time any notion of an early, or easy, bedtime had completely dissolved. It was now evident that there was an awful lot to be done before my head was going to hit the pillow and that I'd better get crackin'! </p><p>Then, an unwelcome after-shock: I suddenly remembered that my vacuum cleaner had self-destructed beyond repair earlier in the week. I’d already taken it to the dump. I’d not yet replaced it. I had no effective way to clean up this disaster! Panic began to envelope me . . . </p><p>I gathered my wits. “Wait a minute! You’re not going to abandon ship now, are you?!” I asked Dr. Ea$y incredulously. “Please! Help me clean this up. You can sleep in my office…I’ll make you a nice bed in there,” I pleaded hopefully. </p><p>Dr. Ea$y, perhaps feeling a twinge of compassion, slowly pushed his beret back on his head and looked me straight in the eye for several seconds before responding. “Awright, meh-son. Ya mek me a good pallet in yer office, I stay. But, I ain’ goin’ near dis stuff,” he waved his arm around the destroyed living room and disappeared back into the office. </p><p>Outside, adding insult to injury, Mother Nature had begun to hurl her notorious February “wintry mix” at my windows. As freezing rain, snow and sleet pelted the frozen panes, I cursed her latest meteorological foil, fearful that it would render our drive, and perhaps the Caribbean flight itself, impossible. </p><p>Suddenly I realized that this storm was exactly why the good doctor had decided that he’d rather stay put than go out into the frozen fray: He dislikes winter even more than I do! </p><p>“OK, doc, you win. Again!” I conceded, shouting at him through the closed office door. I searched for some strong incense, dug out my broom, dust-pan, scrub brushes and detergent and began the arduous on-hands-and-knees task of cleaning up the damage from my very own IED – my own Improvised Exploding Divan. It was well after midnight before I went to bed, completely exhausted. I could not sleep. Sonorous snoring snorkled from within my office. </p><p>When the 2:30 AM alarm went off, needless to say I was still awake. And so began my Virgin Islands “Not All There Tour” for 2011. </p><p>PS: So what happened to the exploding 'divan' you ask? Well, I deemed it unsalvageable and arranged for it to be taken to the dump. The guy who trucked it out of my place said that before he could unload it at the landfill, someone came up to him and asked if they could have it. The guy gave it to them. To the new owners I say, "Good luck! And I hope that your sense of smell is as poor as your taste!" </p><p>4/20/11</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356662022-02-07T10:19:03-12:002022-02-07T10:19:03-12:002006: The Advent of Analog Man in a Digital World<center> </center>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/d6d26c6250a7f53b3449277ad02cbb4bcfad0a73/original/image002.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIweDM2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="363" width="420" /><small><small> </small></small></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> 2006: The Advent of the Analog Man in a Digital World </span></p>
<p>After casually observing my futile attempt to decipher the mysteries of the television remote control, pushing button after button in unsuccessful attempts to change channels and adjust the sound on Miss Mary’s complex, multiplex mega-system, Uncle Bubbel was heard to mutter under his breath as he got up from his comfy chair, shaking his head as he left the room to grab himself another Carib, “Day-vit, you really jes’ a analog man in a digital worl’, ain’tcha.” </p>
<p>I suppose. </p>
<p>Do you recall the Luddites - those 19th century British Isle cottage-industry wool weavers, who, when threatened by the advent of the Industrial Revolution and steam-powered looms, rioted, breaking into the newly constructed factories, violently smashing the demon looms in the futile hope of stopping progress dead in its tracks, thus ensuring that their old ways of life would continue unsullied for generations? </p>
<p>They failed. Miserably. And progress has been marching steadily onward ever since - "same as it ever was!" </p>
<p>I’m not a Luddite, but will accept that I am somewhat ‘old school’ at best and a curmudgeon at worst. However, Uncle Bubbel’s less than candid observations - though generally pointless and porous as a sieve - may hold a modicum of truth in this particular instance. I prefer the slower, more evolutionary pace of a more natural, analog world over the frenetic pace of the mostly sense-less, virtual world. To paraphrase writer Michael Ventura, “Sure, you can take a pretty good virtual tour of, say, Rome on your computer. But can you hear the traffic, taste the food, have a pigeon shit on your head?” </p>
<p>I don’t know about that last part about the pigeons, but I question whether our brains and biology can adapt as quickly as technology seems to be forcing us to. I’ve found that shiny-new digital devices (henceforth referred to as DD’s) like cellular phones, notebook computers and other screen-faced thingies, while hyped as dynamic, time-saving contrivances that promise to make me more connected, cool & hip, and purport to make my life way more convenient, efficient (and even fun?) seem to have missed their mark on me. And they also possess a darker, potentially more insidious Shadow side. I shall try to explain. </p>
<p>My observation is that the impact of the DD’s on many of us who are older than Generation-X - does that make them X-Men? - paradoxically bring about opposite qualities from which they are alleged to provide. Take, for example, ‘text-messaging’ or 'Tweeting', both mediums in which truncated phrases, laden with abbreviations and acronyms, are entered into one's cell phone by pushing miniature keys and transmitted via satellite to another's cell phone. Texting, in spite of all its speed and immediacy, clearly lacks the richness and depth of the spoken or well-written word, not to mention the total absence of the unconscious communication transmitted by facial expressions and body language. We see folks walking (and - gasp! - driving!) around entranced, pushing the miniature buttons on their cell phones and staring at the tiny screens with hypnotic, zombie-like intention as they key-in what I suspect is mostly banal stuff to others who respond with equal banality: </p>
<p>Boy: u r 2 cool </p>
<p>Girl: thnx </p>
<p>Boy: c u @ 9 2nite? </p>
<p>Girl: IDK. 4 what? </p>
<p>Boy: W8 I cant </p>
<p>Girl: ??? </p>
<p>Boy: OMG! have to wrk. FML! </p>
<p>Girl: LOL STFU! </p>
<p>This may be communicating, but is it not dehumanizing, devoid of any soul-satisfying connection? Does that even matter? Not so much, because it is convenient. And immediate. </p>
<p>But is this ‘communication’ really all that urgent that it requires one’s immediate attention, so much that you are temporarily interrupted and disconnected from the reality your present environment or situation, perhaps driving your vehicle over onto the sidewalk or into my lane? 4 all I know, I’m betting that txting ain’t going away 2 soon and I could be SOL. </p>
<p>I wonder about the long-range impact ‘virtual life’ might have upon the nature of human relationships as they become electronically abbreviated, compressed at warp speed into digital bytes. What becomes of relationships founded and maintained in digital constructs of time? Are ‘speed dating’ events and websites such as eHarmony and Match.com that seek to digitally hook people up quickly becoming the preferred way to meet your mate? </p>
<p>What’s the hurry anyway? Do we not, in fact, exist in real time? You know, sun comes up, sun goes down, repeat. Forever. Doesn’t it take a protracted amount of real time to actually get to know another, not the illusion of who he or she may have portrayed themselves to be online? (Don’t get me started about the implications and ramifications this sort of projection has upon the concept of identity as I have experienced the consternation and woe of ‘identity theft’ firsthand). I suppose it will be interesting to see how this all evolves. Over the span of real time, of course! </p>
<p>Have you ever actually read the manual(s) that come packaged with your cell phone, computer software, camera or palm pilot - a device, I am told, that is practically obsolete already? Do you feel like an idiot trying to decipher this alien gibberish? I do. The time it takes to wade through that techno-speak, attempting to grasp the thousands of functions I shall never use - nor did I want - seems to use up quite a chunk of that ‘convenient’ time I could be dedicating for friends, family and fun that I’m supposed to have saved by employing said DD. I’ve found that I require ready access to an adolescent kid - or other such learned techno-geek wizard - to bail me out of the electronic morass in which I inevitably find myself whenever I attempt to straddle the great digital divide. </p>
<p>Denied access to such a geek, my second preference is the knowing, compassionate presence of another analog who will soothe my shattered synapses and remind me to breathe before I rip that DD from its cute little ‘docking station’ and heave it through a window or from a swiftly moving vehicle. </p>
<p>I don’t think I’m the only one younger than Methuselah who feels this way. I understand that I’m becoming vastly outnumbered as our culture continues to careen wildly down the binary ‘information highway’, gathering up spiraling sequences of “0”s and “1”s. I also wonder if, like the dinosaurs, I am headed for extinction? Short Answer: Yes. </p>
<p>Does everything in life have to have a screen attached to it? It's looking like it. Hasn’t human evolution been thus far a slow process as we’ve crawled from the primordial ooze? And don’t we all likely know some folks - excluding you and me, of course - who haven’t evolved terribly far from the cave as it is? Yes, and yes. I seriously doubt that more touch-screens will help them. </p>
<p>All this having been said, I’ll begrudgingly admit that there are a small number of DD’s that have gradually entered my life as if by osmosis. I present a few of them to you now, along with what I’ve coined their ‘analog antidotes’ - ways that I have found to keep me (somewhat) sane. Maybe you’ll find them useful. If not, just hit the ‘delete’ button and go back to your regularly scheduled program. SMH & LOL </p>
<p>Microwave: While not exactly ‘digital’, I think of the microwave and its kissin’-cousins, the X-ray and laser beams, as pretty close relatives to the binary boxes. </p>
<p>Listen, this microwave thing just messes with your time-continuum construct. I’m an advocate of the ‘slow food’ movement and microwaves just have no business there. Despite the claims, it's just not possible to make a nice roast or bake delicious bread or cake in two minutes now is it? I don’t trust food items marketed as “Just heat and eat!” (No, thanks.) - “Ready when you are!” (I'm not ready yet.) – “A real meal in a jiffy!” - (Real? Um, I think not.). This stuff just can’t be too good for me. One has to be a chemist to understand what is in this microwaveable 'food'. </p>
<p>I prefer instead to use my oven, or even better, to use my wood stove for cooking in the winter. I make great soup, hot tea, even fry up some bacon & eggs on it. It’s especially handy when the power goes out. I can also dry my laundry and warm-up my boots near the wood stove…try that with your microwave. Wait...don't try that with your microwave. I’ve not devolved far enough back to use the wood stove in the summer. But I might. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 – I have microwave. It came attached to the wall of the house. I use it to reheat coffee and tea. That is all. Claudia appreciates its timer. I don't know what she is timing. </p>
<p>Palm Pilot: Small may be beautiful, but I don’t have one of these gadgets. Never did, never will. They're simply way too small. But I do have two palms and a Pilot pen. I often write phone numbers and reminders to myself with my Pilot pen on my palms. Works fine and I’ve yet to have the urge to fling either of my palms or my Pilot from an open window or stomp them to bits. But I suppose there's still time. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 - Palm Pilots are obsolete - replaced by tiny, desiccated computer-like things called “iPads” and now, the iWatch. I will not watch the iWatch. </p>
<p>Cell phone: I have one. My partner Miss Mary got my first one for me as part of her Family Plan a few years ago. It can do all kinds of things, like takes photos and movies, remind me to buy cat food and when my car payment is due. It can alert me to all sorts of stuff with its array of tinny, digital sounds. I’ve not figured out how to use these features, despite its voluminous User's Manual. </p>
<p>Yes, this phone is capable of text-messaging, but as you’ve probably surmised, this is a skill I have not, nor do I wish to, develop. I still have my version of “palm pilot”. I like to go to the movies, I don’t make them - why would I want to watch a tiny, two minute movie made with a telephone? My cat, with her incessant yowling, reminds me to buy food when her bowl is empty – don’t need a phone for that. If I want to write to somebody, I write a letter – with real words! OMG! LOL! STBM! </p>
<p>I was considering disconnecting my land-line phone (this is a relatively new term: ‘land-line’ – as opposed to what, my ‘sea-line’, my ‘time-space-continuum line’?), but I am not ready to do this. What cords would I then have to trip over? </p>
<p>I’ll admit, the cell phone is handy when I’m delayed on the road (“Need just one more cuppa coffee”, or “I was rear ended by a snow plow and will be late for rehearsal.”). The main problem is sometimes there’s just no cell service. Also the buttons are always way too small for me and I usually can’t see the damned things, nor the stupid screen. I’ve "fat-fingered" or "pocket-dialed" my way into more than one wrong number and frustrating situation. I often want to throw the damn cell phone. My next cell phone (if there is one) should be made of rubber. You know why. </p>
<p>Update 2015: I don't have the cell phone Miss Mary gave me and I am neither part of her family or her Plan. In its stead, I bought a $10/100 minute per month TracFone. It's the only phone that will work in the Caribbean. And I still use my land-line as my primary telephone. It does not take pictures or remind me of anything. </p>
<p>My new gal, Miss Claudia insisted upon putting me on her Family Plan for a new iPhone. I did it, but it was only 6 months old before it was obsolete. The iPhone does so much, but isway too complicated for me to comprehend beyond making a simple phone call. I rarely use it at all, for anything. However, it does have a tough, rubber case. Apparently I am not the only one prone to throwing these things. I am trying to get Miss Claudia to learn semaphore. So far, no luck. </p>
<p>Update 2022: I ditched the TracPhone. Since my Caribbean shack blew away in Hurricane Irma in 2017, I have nowhere to stay in the islands. Don't need the phone, nor the monthly bill! I ditched the land-line. Does that mean I am now untethered? Affirmative. </p>
<p>GPS Device: Nope, don’t have one. They seem pretty handy, if not a bit bossy at times with its exasperated woman's voice telling you where to go and that you essentially have messed everything up and now she has to “recalculate” your route and you better follow her instructions this time. I don't need another wife. </p>
<p>I might actually get a GPS someday - if they stop making maps. Even though I am a man, I will stop and ask for directions. But not often. For the most part, I usually know where I am and where I’m going. For the times I don’t, I have my compass…and maps. Reading a compass has become a lost art that I long ago learned in Boy Scouts, and while deciphering maps seems to be only for treasure-hunters and aliens these days, I love to look at maps and often do so recreationally. I could be an alien. </p>
<p>I can usually orient myself somewhat by locating the sun though this method is not terribly reliable at night And while the stars are lovely to look at, they are still just holes in the sky to me. </p>
<p>I had a kid riding with me once who asked, “What’s that thing stuck on your dashboard?” </p>
<p>“That's a compass,” I answered. “Always points to the North and I can use it to find my way.” </p>
<p>“Cool!” he said. </p>
<p>I think so too. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2010 - I bought a GPS. Found a good one on sale for $79. It sits like a tiny TV on my dashboard and it's pretty cool in figuring things out like where to find an address, a restaurant or gas station (often needed) or hospital (thankfully not needed, yet) and for telling me about what time I'll arrive at my destination...wherever that might be. I've taken to placing it's language settings to “Italian – Female”. I figure I might learn a foreign language while I drive. I've named her Frangelica. I am finding that I like my GPS, except sometimes she unsticks herself from my dashboard and falls on the floor and frightens me. Italian temper, I guess? </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 - Frangelica died. I've replaced her with a larger GPS that I can actually see. It informs me how high I am. Altitude! – I know what you were thinking. It has a clock, tells me if I'm going too fast and the name of the upcoming road. I could have it talk to me, but I've decided I wanted it to just shut up, so I silenced that feature. Too much noise in the world anyway. </p>
<p>Computer: AKA ‘The Devil On My Desk’: I didn’t use or own one for years! Then back in the mid-90s, someone decided, rather than taking it to the dump, to give me their obsolete, early-90s vintage Macintosh II with a monitor as large as a Volkswagen. I used this green-glowing freak solely for a typewriter until about five years ago when Miss Mary - truly a hip and adventurous electronic GadgetGurl - dragged me kicking and screaming into the 20th century by presenting me with a dandy new, powerful iMac upon which I was to help her write her newest book. Until recently, I used this iMac simply for...a glorified typewriter. I can type much faster than I can write – my handwriting simulates prehistoric runes - and being left-handed I always smudge the ink dragging my hand across the page. </p>
<p>I live in the woods - in more ways than one apparently - and there was no high-speed internet service available. I hooked the iMac up to my dial-up telephone service. The time it took to send or retrieve information with dial-up was, well, underwhelming. I could have written a letter and had the US Postal Service - or the Pony Express for that matter! - deliver it in a more timely manner. I would have to wait years before any cable service arrived to my house. And that was not my fault. </p>
<p>Despite the wonders of a newfangled research tool named Google that would have allowed for access to worldwide information, I was stuck with my glacial-speed dial-up service. I could have gone to a library and looked up whatever it was that I was researching quicker with the Dewey Decimal System. That is, if Dewey is still in business. I supposedly have an Encylopedia Brittanica on a disc that gives me byte-sized mini-morsels of semi-useful information, but I haven't figured out how to use it. </p>
<p>So why didn't I just go to my local library? Because using the computer would save me time. Right? Wrong. Do you see how my relationship to the construct of time has been challenged, mutated with the introduction of this damn computer? </p>
<p>Nonetheless, I've slowly accepted that computers are here to stay and can be useful beyond the scope of simple typewriting. Besides, one can hardly find a decent typewriter anymore. </p>
<p>I am truly amazed at how much smarter my computer is than me. For instance, it knows what I want before I do and tries to help me get it. With its ads for, say: pharmaceuticals without a prescription (now what's Li'l Def Bootsie down on the corner gonna do for a living?); a larger penis (all this time I was buying into the whole small-is-beautiful thing!); bigger boobs (missed the boat on that one, Bubby!); and tons of cash from my old friend, Abdul al Kabaz, the exiled Nigerian prince - all I have to do is send him my bank account numbers (and the $150.00 'processing fee') so he can safely deposit the princely sum directly into my account! </p>
<p>My computer wants me to unconditionally trust it and then blindly leap into the virtual void with it. But I did not fall off the turnip truck yesterday and I know what's happening; I remain content to crawl along the slow lane of the information-highway. And I’ll use my own maps and compass, thank you very much. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2010 - Still have my iMac, but it's pissing me off. It regularly reminds me that my "browser" (what is this, really?) is obsolete and needs to be updated. When I attempt to do this, I am told my "operating system" won't allow further updating. Attempts to see if my OS (got jargon?) can be updated/modified lead me to conclude that it would be easier and more beneficial to get a new computer! How's that for a marketing ploy to get you to buy a new one and boost their stock dividends? Five years old and ready for the boneyard! </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2012 - I replaced my iMac desktop with a MacBook Pro laptop. It will always know more than I do, but I've enjoyed fooling around with its on-board recording software called GarageBand and am learning to negotiate the wide world of the web and the 'book of faces'. It can take my picture while I'm staring at it. I don't like it when it does that. I am easily seduced into the digital hole of no return and time just goes slip slidin' away. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2017 – The MacBook Pro crapped out. Apparently its memory imploded and replacing it would be quite expensive. So I replaced the MacBook Pro with . . . another MacBook Pro – the 2017 version. It is similar to my 2012 version except you can't plug anything into it without buying some sort of adaptor to accommodate. I was persuaded at the same time to also purchase an iPad, ostensibly so that if (more likely when) the MacBook Pro wonks out on me I'll have a backup. This will allegedly deprive me the joy of throwing the MacBook Pro out the window in frustration because I'll still be able to do whatever it is I do with the computer with my iPad. Almost. The only new thing I noticed was that I now had to climb yet another steep learning iPad curve. Shoulda stayed with the chalkboard and abacus. </p>
<p>Update 2022: The MacBook Pro is still working although it needed a new battery and some internal tweaking that I can not explain. In fact, I am working on it right now. The iPad iPooped and had to be replaced with a new one. I hated trying to type on this tiny fellow's screen so I got an external keyboard that doubles as a folding case, thus making it a much more miniature MacBook Pro. I find that I primarily use the iPad to read books and amaze myself that I actually have amassed quite the digital library on it! </p>
<p>Guitars: Nothing but genuine, wooden acoustic guitars in these hands. They sound warmer, more natural, and they help me create the music I love. They don't have screens. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite fond of electric guitars, too. I own, but rarely play, a Fender Stratocaster. </p>
<p>Electric guitars have surely have earned their place in the pantheon of rock ‘n roll. But remember, I’m an analog man. I guess I’d say the difference is sort of like choosing to spend a comfortable moment sitting in the sun at the beach or along a shady, peaceful country lane, enjoying the view from a perch upon a dune, an old log or a rocking chair on a funky wooden porch, refreshing drink in hand - or attempting to do the same from atop an electric fence. Both have their pros and cons, I guess. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2009 - I have a new acoustic guitar. It is not wooden. It is 100% carbon graphite fibre “Cargo”. And...I love it! It is nearly indestructible. It is impervious to any and all fluctuation of temperature and humidity...it is nearly always in tune. It fits well and feels great in my hands. And it sounds awesome! What is happening to me? </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2013 – I have a 2nd new 100% carbon graphite fibre “Cargo” acoustic guitar. Just like the other one, except it is red. I like red. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 – I have a 3rd new 100% carbon graphite fibre “Cargo” acoustic guitar. It's just like the other two, except it's white. I like white, too. A lot. But my go-to guitar these days is a 15 year old hand-made koa and cedar parlor guitar. It suits my style perfectly. </p>
<p>Camera (See Cell Phone): I bought a 4-pixel camera a few years ago for just under $400. I guess that's around $100 per pixel? It was pretty cool and did way more technical, photographic things than I’ll ever understand. It’ll take 3-minute movies - perfect for those with ADHD and the attention-span of a gnat. Again I am struggling with yet another Owner’s Manual, and have to look at my photos on a computer screen without the satisfaction of holding a print in my hands or creating an album book. I’m told I can do all this, but I’ll have to translate more digital mumbo-jumbo and buy a decent printer. I have a program called Photoshop on my iMac, too. It can do crazy-wild things to photos. I may even learn to use it, but not today. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2010 - Miss Mary and my sister presented me for my birthday gift a new Canon camera with 12 pixels, a 4" viewing screen, a 12x zoom lens that shoots 10 minute movies for $279. And it's half the size of my old one, which I thought was pretty small - about the size of a pack of cigarettes. The manual is much larger than the camera. Figures. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2017 – My cell phone and iPad take just as good, if not better, pictures than the Canon camera and they are very small. I hardly take any pictures anyway; Claudia is a fabulous photographer so I don't bother. The Canon is lying in its case. But I might use it again. Some day. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 – I use my Canon camera to take photos of my cigar box guitars. I prefer it to my iPhone with its three trillion pixels et al. I never use the iPad for photos, and only rarely the iPhone. Claudia remains the photographer of note. I am relieved. </p>
<p>Motor vehicles: It would be nice to be able to live and work in a community where there was adequate public transportation, or you could walk or ride your bike wherever you wanted to go. Maybe like they do in Italy, Ireland and most other places in Europe and Asia? But I don’t live there. I need a car, and my car is way more digital than I’d like. </p>
<p>I used to be able to work on my own vehicles with the wrenches and screwdrivers I already owned. And if I couldn’t, it was a snap to find someone who could. Not so today. The car needs to be hooked up to a computer to analyze and diagnose it. I do not have this kind of computer, nor do I want psychotherapy for my car. I just want to be able to repair it without having to shell out $90+ an hour for an ‘automotive technical specialist’ - formerly known as a ‘mechanic’ - to do so. </p>
<p>That’s why I also own and ride a 1968 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. It’s loud, fun, economical and I can usually fix it myself. Usually. At nearly 50 years of age, the Triumph remains quite nimble and sexy, while I do not. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 – Whether I like it or not, I have to have car. I haul all kinds of musical gear to my shows. I like to take trips with Claudia, who won't ride on a motorcycle. She doesn't have to worry about that now because I gave my Triumph to my son and sold my 2004 Harley-Davidson Sportster. At something over 70 years old, I no longer enjoy nor feel the need to be riding powerful motorcycles the same as I used to. I have a Subaru wagon and get my thrills driving a Mazda Miata. </p>
<p>I also have a really cool electric bicycle with seriously chubby tires. I can go almost anywhere with it and it can go almost 25 mph – over 30 mph downhill. On a bicycle, that feels wicked fast! And, I no longer pay $90 an hour for an automotive technical specialist. I pay $125. </p>
<p>Clocks: I prefer a wind-up kind. They can be difficult to find today, but I still have my Dad’s watch that I wear sometimes, and when I wind it up, I think of him. I have a couple of wind-up pocket watches that I use when I’m feeling particularly anachronistic. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, I’ve had to resort to wearing those cheap, battery-powered timepieces because I’m pretty hard on watches and don’t want to ruin Dad’s vintage Bulova. Too bad I can’t wear a sun dial. Unless I'm gigging, I don't usually need to know what time it is at night. If it's dark, it's probably bedtime. </p>
<p>I have an LED alarm clock by my bed. Auspiciously quiet most of the time, I know that it surreptitiously lies in wait - bright, red LED lights innocuously glowing - to propel me disquietingly from my repose with its tinny but shrilly irritating beeping that provokes an unwanted blast of adrenaline. I’d prefer my grandfather’s wind-up alarm clock (circa 1910) with its comforting, measured ‘tick-tock’ and real, analog chime; but it is old and tired and loses time. Perhaps like someone else we may know? I like the ritual of winding things up, but these days it seems like the only thing getting wound up is me. </p>
<p>Let’s not overlook the problem with programming digital clocks: How many times do you push which miniature button in exactly what sequence to set which function? Quick, refer to the handy manual! Oh, so sorry, it’s been translated from Mandarin into Pidgin cuneiform by a demented orangutan and no strangely sense makes. I’d much rather twist-a-knob or flick-a-lever. Tactile. Intuitive. Easy. So why do I have the LED alarm clock? Just masochistic, I guess. Or maybe I like collecting manuals? </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 - All mechanical clocks and watches are now broken. Except for my grandfather's 1910 alarm clock. It still loses time, but maybe that's a good thing? All the original LED clocks have been relegated to the dump and grudgingly replaced. Why? Because you can't get a decent wind-up clock anymore! </p>
<p>Boat: I learned to sail in 1990 and now I have a small sailboat. I don’t think there’s a digital sailboat yet, and if there is, I don’t want to know. Perhaps my greatest antidote to the digital world, this sailboat is seventeen feet of pure, aquatic pleasure – combined with wind & sun, it is like a liquid tranquilizer. The little boat quietly asks that I seek balance, the perfect harmony that is achieved when wind, sail and hull are in synchronized calibration, rewarding me with an exhilarating run over the bounding main. </p>
<p>It's like the old ‘even-keel’ thing. It requires focus and concentration, often short commodities in our high-speed culture. If one loses focus and concentration upon weather and craft, things can sometimes go horribly wrong really quckly. I could tell you some stories…maybe another time. </p>
<p>With sailing, you can’t always simply go directly from Point A to Point B. Sometimes you have to tack back and forth, working with the wind towards your destination. It takes time. Analog-time, not digital-time. It lends great appreciation for the navigational skills of the ancient mariners like Odysseus, Magellan, Columbus, Hudson, St. Brendan (the Irish patron saint of sailors and travelers), et al. </p>
<p>My son, in many ways a chip off the ol’ analog block, is nevertheless more of a micro-chip man. He just cannot fathom why I sail. “You can’t ski or tube behind a sailboat!” Nope. And while I might occasionally race the craft with another, or try to best my own time circumventing a local lake, he finds such events as exciting as digging for worms or watching paint dry. </p>
<p>“Is this all you do?” I was asked as one fine day we were making a particularly long tack. Yes. Yes, it is. I like it that way. Now, walk the plank, meh-son! </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2017 – My poor sailboat has developed a mysterious leak that I can not locate so it has been in dry-dock in my yard for over 3 years. There is no one in my area that knows anything about fixing such things. I know because I've inquired. You'd think I possessed an ancient Babylonian warship or something; “Nope, we don't fool with sailboats here.” If I had a bass or ski boat or a pontoon party boat, I'd be fine. If I lived on the sea coast, I'd be fine too because they know from sailboats. I'm thinking of moving to the coast. But it might be cheaper to buy a new, slightly smaller sailboat. Without the leak. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022 – After several years in the dry-dock of my yard, I tried to sell the boat – cheap! Finally I gave it away to a fellow who confidently told me he can fix things. I drove by his place last month. The boat sits at dry-dock, untouched, in his yard now. </p>
<p>Television: I once had a TV. It had a big, fat, cathode ray color picture tube and was as large as a steamer trunk. Tt got three channels routed through the huge wiry antenna up on my roof. After I found myself lost in a mindless stupor, reciting from memory the script from “The King of Queens” re-run I’d seen four times, it dawned on me that I really needed to be practicing my guitar. Or reading…washing my windows…knitting a couch. Anything! The next weekend, I took the TV to the dump. </p>
<p>That was nearly five years ago. I haven’t missed it, and my guitar playing has vastly improved. A good friend who felt sorry for me because I had nothing on which to view a movie (I go to the movies sometimes, remember?) gave me a discarded, though perfectly good, tiny B&W Sony TV that had once taken up residence in his daughter’s college dorm room. Not entirely ungrateful, I hooked it up. I still got only three channels and “The King of Queens” was still showing the same re-runs. I was afraid to watch it, because it would suck my brain out. Again. </p>
<p>Then in November ’08, just before the presidential election, my life changed. BIG time! The Cable came to my street and, well - I got ‘wired’! No more dial-up internet for me! I now had high-speed internet on my computer, thus catapulting me, eight years late, into the 21st century in all its high-tech digital splendor. I’ve gone crazy, losing HOURS researching stuff, designing my own website, emailing…I even created a mySpace music page. WHAT THE HELL WAS HAPPENING TO ME? </p>
<p>However, in order to receive this high-speed internet service, I had to subscribe to a cable-TV package. So, Tiny Sony and I got the minimal package with - whoa! - twenty-four channels! </p>
<p>For a few weeks, I was addicted. I watched all the Obama drama – from campaign to election to inauguration. I watched NatGeo, PBS, CNN, the Weather Channel, NESN (I usually hate sports!). I even watched never-before-seen-by-the-likes-of-me shows like Fox News (What a pack of psychopathicliars...I can't BELIEVE they BELIEVE that crap!), Dr. Phil ("Hows that workin' for ya?") and Family Guy (I find baby Stewie and Brian the dog particularly hilarious). </p>
<p>Once while aimlessly channel surfing, I wiped-out onto some crazy, voyeuristic ‘reality show’ - on a channel called 'Oxygen' - with the seductive moniker "Bad Girls Club". This narcissistic little gem tracked the seemingly endless, mindless and seamy misadventures of a house-full of cheap sluts. I mean, for crying out loud! Who watches this junk? I suppose I was. Did I mention mindless? I sure as hell don't know what kind of 'Oxygen' they were breathing. Probably carbon monoxide. </p>
<p>I found myself staying up really late creating darker circles under my eyes, the Sony's screen being the only light in the room. My guitar-finger calluses began to soften. I feared that I was going to need a 12-Step group. </p>
<p>Once again, I unplugged the TV. So far, so good. But wait! I hear prices are really coming down and they're practically giving away cool 42” flat-screen TVs at BestBuy that would work perfectly in my living room. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2010 - I did it. I pulled the trigger and bought a flat-screen TV. A Sharp 36" HD (hi-def, mon!) that fits perfectly for my size room. It's going to be a long winter and I wanted to see some movies - that B&W Sony 12" screen really did suck - so I poked around, seeking a deal and found one. </p>
<p>My new TV was a demo without a box or remote control, marked down from $549 to $318. I asked the clerk if that was the best he could do? Took it down to $279. I had $75 Gift Card that I applied to the purchase, so I got this unit for $204. I bought a 'universal remote' for $12 that I presume allows me to operate my new TV from anywhere in the universe, although I don't know why I'd want to do that nor have I yen to try. Anyway, I am proud of myself. I actually get more channels now, though I don't understand why because my cable subscription did not change. It doesn't really matter. I still don't watch much TV. And I have picked up some pretty good VCR movies from my local library...for free! Thankfully, I haven't watched Oxygen again, no matter how bad them girls are! </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2017 – I still have cable because it's the only way I can receive internet and land-line phone/fax service. However, I've not watched the TV in nearly 3 years. Well, maybe a couple of times, like a “60 Minutes” episode...but that's all. I did discover something called NetFlix that allows me to watch movies on my computer. There are, however, very few movies on NetFlix that I find worth watching, so this has been a short-lived experience. My guitar playing is improving once again. </p>
<p>UPDATE: 2022: I replaced the 36” flat screen with a 52” flatscreen. Claudia and I enjoy watching the much-improved NetFlix selection from time to time – maybe a bit too much of the time. The sound that emits from the Bose SoundBar is incredible. I still have the basic cable subscription that gives me TV/internet/phone service for one (too high) rate. MySpace has fallen into a dark hole, replaced by faceBook, which is now called META. I have a website for my music that no one looks at. </p>
<p>I wonder how long it'll be before ALL this is OBSOLETE? </p>
<p>So, am I a Luddite? No! I am Analog Man In A Digital World! If you’ll please excuse me, I am going to put on my Analog Man cape, toss another log in the stove, make some tea and get back to practicing my acoustic guitar.</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/68895612022-02-05T05:43:02-12:002022-02-05T05:43:02-12:00The Soloist<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/3729187ecbf416ebd7a9d716fefe54cd54a85ece/original/images.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_thin" alt="" /></p>
<p>The tarnished brass ashtray clattered down, spilling three day’s worth of its rank contents onto the worn out wooden boarding-house floor. Tanner Simmons, startled by the ashtray’s intruding descent, sat up suddenly from the disheveled nest he’d created upon the ancient, iron-framed bed. He had no idea what time it was, or for that matter what day it was. Of late, the concept of time held little meaning for Simmons, for this was a man who had taken to measuring life primarily by cigarettes, bourbon, the occasional bologna or peanut butter sandwich - and song. </p>
<p>The old bed creaked and complained as Simmons slowly swung his thin, nearly hairless legs over the side. Calloused, bare feet groped for their worn out slippers that lay like tired old dogs somewhere under the bed frame. Not finding the slippers in their accustomed location, Simmons muttered a curse and stood directly in the ashtray’s effluence. Gritty black ash and foul-smelling butts ground into the floor and between his splayed toes. Annoyed but not entirely surprised, Simmons made his way across the dingy room with its peeling 1930’s-vintage wallpaper. A crippled 1920s-era bureau held sentinel against the back wall, propped up on one corner by a collection of musty, dog-eared paperbacks and trade magazines - barely a functional substitute for the bureau’s amputated leg. </p>
<p>Simmons lifted the tattered, smoke-yellowed shade from the small room’s single window and peered out. The late autumn sun barely pierced the window’s filthy haze, weakly diffusing the gloomy pall of the room. He let the shade fall back; darkness reclaimed. He never understood why the window had long ago been nailed shut by Lindy, the gin blossom-nosed Irish landlord. No matter. Even if he’d wanted to open it, which he didn’t, Simmons seemed to have lost interest in daylight and fresh air. He let out a sigh and instinctively made his way back to the bed, picking up the ashtray but leaving the scattered ashes and butts to commingle with the rest of the floor’s detritus. </p>
<p>Though only in his late forties, Simmons looked vastly older. Once handsome and well-muscled, he'd let himself go to hell over the past dozen years or so. His fingers gripping the ashtray were gnarled like old branches from the countless, harsh seasons spent logging the deep woods of northern New England. His back was as stiff as a plank milled from the hardwoods he’d cut in Maine, joints creaky as Vermont swamp maples in a nor’easter. Grey eyes, quite accustomed to the dim lighting of countless back- country roadhouses and decaying city honky-tonks, stared at the old ashtray as he fell back with a loud sigh onto the musty bed. His grandfather had given him that ashtray before he'd died. Cast in brass, replicating an exotic African watering hole guarded by a trumpeting bull elephant, the old ashtray </p>
<p>conjured up all sorts of comforting, warm memories of his grandfather sitting in his worn, blue Morris chair, smoking an old brier pipe as he read Hoard’s Dairyman in the fading light of a New England evening. The pipe smoke unfurled into wondrous images and apparitions as it curled and drifted its way towards the open window while the ancient Zenith radio heralded the Red Sox bedeviling the Yankees at Fenway Park. </p>
<p>Simmons continued to stare at the elephant, lost in trance while fond memories of New Hampshire summers on his grandparent’s farm continued to unwind: chasing an errant cow; sneaking up to a fox’s den to perhaps catch a glimpse of the kits; climbing the huge mulberry tree to eat its sweet, purple berries; driving the tractor through the woods; catching painted turtles and swimming in the frog pond; walking to the mailbox with grandma while hoping for a new Sears catalog or a letter from mom; and riding with grandpa in his rattly, green Ford pickup to the general store for a newspaper and a strawberry ice cream cone, hurrying home before daylight evaporated into a warm, cricketed evening. Grandfather would tap pipe ash into the elephant’s watering hole, signaling bedtime for a drowsy small boy curled up on the divan nearby. </p>
<p>**** * </p>
<p>Lighting a cigarette, Simmons untied his raggedy maroon bathrobe and coughed as he stared blankly at the wall. Cradling the ashtray against his thin chest, he looked down at the brass elephant’s tarnished patina. “We’re both a long way from home, brother”, he thought out loud. He reached towards the rickety nightstand littered with loose change, spent matches, faded reviews of gigs he’d played. A small, framed photograph of a young woman with dark tresses and an angelic smile holding a tiny Calico kitten could be seen, its image distorted through the nearly empty bourbon bottle. Though the light was practically gone, Simmons reflexively grabbed the bottle, knocking the photograph over amongst the scatter. Making no attempt to rescue the photograph, he unscrewed the top and poured a mouthful of fire down his throat. His eyes watered. “Sweet Jesus!” he gasped, his mind slipping momentarily into neutral. </p>
<p>Placing the old elephant ashtray next to him on the rumpled bed, Simmons squashed his cigarette into it. The liquor still burned in his belly. He once again stood up, running bony fingers through his long, greasy hair. His mind shifted into gear again and he found himself ruminating over minutia: sleep or wake? light or dark? get dressed or stay in the robe? Had life evaporated into this? </p>
<p>A few hours remained before he had to take a cab uptown to Max’s Yellow Derby to play the last night of a seemingly endless two-month run with be-bop saxophonist Pinky Brown. These seemingly innocuous decisions weighed much too heavily. Reaching for the light switch on the wall, Simmons ignited an overhead lamp with wattage so low that its glow could barely reach the corners of the room. He didn’t care; you couldn’t see the dust rats herding together under the dresser and bed. And he rather liked the way the lamp’s subdued effect reminded him of the dying embers of his grandfather’s fireplace. </p>
<p>Kicking aside a matted carpet of newspapers and music catalogs, Simmons shuffled like an old man towards his tiny closet. Carefully opening the closet door so that its broken hinge wouldn’t release the heavy wooden door to allow it to crash wantonly onto the floor, he peered inside and tried to decide what to wear. Though he had but two suits – a green, out-of-date glen-plaid worsted and a soiled, blue pin-stripe polyester – Simmons again became momentarily overwhelmed with having to make another choice. He began to ruminate about the actual number of decisions a man had to make in a single day. His tabulations stunned and overwhelmed him and he forgot what he had gone to the closet for in the first place. He returned slowly to the bed. </p>
<p>No longer sleepy, Simmons was nonetheless tired. Weary was more like it. It was in moments such as these that he wished he had a chair to sit in and didn’t have to resort to the damned bed, or worse, the floor. He sank back onto the bed, its springs grating and skeletal frame moaning, in his raggedy robe with bony legs protruding like dry stalks. He picked up the bottle and took another slug. Again he gasped as the bourbon stole his wind. He lifted the bed covers and turned them aside, exposing an old, yet ornate, silver cornet that had been lying in repose beneath the musty linens and moth-eaten blanket. Here was one of his best friends. Well, maybe not his best friend, for hadn’t it gotten him into some hot spots and tight situations in the past? This was a question that was much too difficult to answer now, and it would have to wait in line with the others. </p>
<p>**** * </p>
<p>Simmons picked up the old cornet. His eyes glazed from a combination of liquor and old memories. It was this instrument, this very horn, which seduced him into music nearly a lifetime ago. He lit another smoke and let his mind rewind again, this time to the black and white days of the early 1950s: Crusader Rabbit cartoons, Uncle Miltie and Lucky Strike's Hit Parade ruled the round-screen, new-fangled television; beautiful, Toni-permed actresses lounged languorously on blond Danish-modern couches; cars had lines as fat and round as their tires; Kool-Aid drunk from Dixie cups; everyone “liked Ike”, but not his jowly, shadow-faced vice president, Dick. Dizzy, Bird, Frank and of course Louis gave us blue music, cool music, hot music, jazz music! These were also the days of Chuck McCoy and his silver cornet. </p>
<p>Simmons remembered Charlie "call me Chuck" McCoy as if the memory were tattooed to his brain. Hardly a day would pass or a gig be played without him paying homage to Chuck, his mentor, the one responsible for handing him the silver key to this life’s highway. He remembered how when he was five years old he used to sneak through his parent’s screened back door, opening it very slowly so it wouldn’t tattle on him, and then scamper cross-lots to McCoy’s house. He would often find the man sitting in his darkened room in his plaid silk robe and slippers drinking a glass of beer and listening to either the ball game on the radio or to jazz on his huge Wollensak tape recorder, a Chesterfield smoldering between his yellowed fingers. </p>
<p>Before he married Miss Dot and moved north, Chuck played the clubs on the streets of Bourbon, Beale, Broadway and everywhere else in between. Now he worked the nightshift as a machinist at Smith & Wesson, but he couldn’t wait to clock out and go off into the night to jam after-hours with the musicians and old friends who happened to be traveling through on their way to the next big thing. </p>
<p>Chuck seemed to keep his house in perpetual darkness, maybe so he could sleep most of the day; or maybe it was something else? The small boy never really knew, yet he could recall more than one occasion when Chuck’s short, plump wife would breeze in, seeming to pay no mind to Chuck, and yank up the shades and throw open the windows, letting in the morning light and air. Shortly, Chuck would emerge bear-like from his lair, growling and scratching. </p>
<p>The boy loved to sit on McCoy’s large bed and listen to the tape-recorded jazz music. Often, McCoy would pick up his horn and play along with the recording. Then he would say, “OK, Tan-the-Man, your turn!” and he’d hold the mouth piece to the small boy’s lips and let him buzz and brap along to the music while he smoked another Chesterfield. Simmons also loved it when McCoy would hook up the square broadcasting microphone and allow him to sing or say anything he wanted into the tape recorder! The sound of his own voice playing back to him thrilled and amazed him; he couldn’t believe that voice, sounding so thin, high and far away, was actually his own! </p>
<p>It was generally known that Chuck had a grown son somewhere, but he took special pride in Simmons for it was he who Chuck taught about Dixieland jazz, about Chet, Parker and Armstrong, what the various instruments sounded like and who played them best. The boy could identify nearly all the instruments he heard on the radio or TV, and often he knew who was playing them – no mean feat for a five-year–old. Chuck also enjoyed teasing the lad: he would suddenly take off his tortoise-shell glasses, look quizzically up at the ceiling and ask the boy if he could hear the chickens scratching up in the attic. Simmons was eight years old before he discovered that there were no chickens in the attic, and that the old pork bones he’d found out behind the collapsing garage were not really dinosaur fossils. He would truly enjoy it when Chuck, in his black beret and sunglasses, would call over the back fence for the boy to accompany him downstreet to the music store to purchase some valve oil or a new record. McCoy would talk jive with him about George Orwell, Gulliver’s Travels or the merits of unions, and Simmons unknowingly absorbed these words like a thirsty sponge. But it was the music stories he loved most. </p>
<p>**** * </p>
<p>Unscrewing the cap from the bourbon, Simmons “loosed th’ devil” and drained the last from the bottle. He coughed from deep inside his chest, returning in time to his twelfth birthday. His mother had made him his favorite spaghetti dinner and asked him who he’d like to have as his guest. Without hesitation, the response was, “Chuck!” Later that day, McCoy, slightly inebriated and with Dot in tow, came by the house. Under his arm and wrapped in green tissue paper was a box that had “Happy Birthday, Tanner!” scrawled upon it with black crayon. The young boy's eyes danced as he speechlessly tore the paper from the canvas-bound box to reveal a shiny, brass trumpet! His very own horn! Though the trumpet had obviously been around the block a few times and had suffered a few knocks, it was the most beautiful instrument in the world, and it served to cement the bond between the old jazzman and the boy that would last for another nine years. </p>
<p>Refrains from Red River Valley, South Rampart Street Parade, Ciribiribin and When the Saints Go Marching In reverberated through Simmons’ memory as he recalled the days when he would take his trumpet to McCoy’s darkened house and try to learn the intricacies and complexities of improvisation from the master. “Don’t be thinkin’ too much about it,” Chuck would caution. “You ain’t gonna risk it sittin’ on your biscuit.” </p>
<p>Still enthralled in memories, Simmons found himself at his grandfather’s farm practicing in the hayloft, not only to the annoyed dismay of the swallows and a sleepy barn owl, but to the delight of the French Canadian hired hands who would applaud and congratulate him in their alien patois. His grandfather didn’t mind his practicing so long as he ceased during milking time and helped with the chores. His grandfather wondered aloud if the boy would ever amount to anything worthwhile as “that bugle steals your every waking hour!” </p>
<p>When Simmons turned eighteen, his grandfather, hoping to ensure “something worthwhile” for his grandson, had gotten him a job as a rigger for a logging firm out of Newport, Vermont. Though he’d finished high school, Simmons accredited his real education to the lessons and discussions he’d had with Chuck and he was not pleased with having to leave his old neighborhood and McCoy’s tutelage. But he knew that he had to earn a living and didn’t want to stay in his parent’s home forever. </p>
<p>He packed a duffel, took his trumpet couched inside a new, leather gig bag and boarded a bus to northern Vermont. He figured he’d work hard, save some money and perhaps move to Boston, New York, or even Chicago or New Orleans and make his way playing his music. He fantasized how he </p>
<p>would be doing a gig at Thackery’s or The Blue Note, maybe even jam with Miles, and the crowd would go crazy for the music. During the height of the show, he would walk into the audience and lead Chuck McCoy, now arthritic and nearly blind, to the stage to duet with him on How High the Moon. They’d be bathed in a sea of adulation, the crowd calling out “Bravo!” and “More!” until they encored with Chuck’s signature tune, Crazy ‘bout You. </p>
<p>**** * </p>
<p>Nine years unraveled and Simmons hadn’t made it to New York, Boston or any other real city to play his music. Instead, he had had to content himself with sporadic gigs playing with odd, “pick-up” wedding and polka bands, an occasional Legion parade tossed into the mix. He looked forward to his trips home and the rejuvenating reconnection with Chuck. Most days, however, were spent deep in the woods operating a chainsaw or riding a skidder with a rough, nine-man crew of lumberjacks who knew nothing about jazz and wanted to know even less about any attempts at his practicing. If he had a few days off, he would board a bus and go to visit his grandparents, who, despite their advanced age, still managed to do some farming and didn’t mind his practicing - as long as he didn’t bother the cows. It was while he was at the farm one frigid February afternoon that he received the telephone call. </p>
<p>He had just come into the house from plowing the drive with his granfather's '49 Ford 9N tractor when his grandmother handed him the phone. “Your ma has something to tell you,” she said quietly and sat down next to the credenza. His mother’s voice through the wire sounded light years away. </p>
<p>“Chuck died last night, Tanner. I’m so sorry, honey,” her voice trailing off as if from another galaxy. “Miss Dot’s here and wants to speak with you.” </p>
<p>He sat down on the floor, his legs buckling as if they were made of crepe paper. His mind froze, his hands turned icy. Then he heard Dot’s voice. It, too, sounded almost ethereal, like some spinning galactic orb hurtling towards heaven’s outer banks. </p>
<p>“Hello, Tan-Man, how are you? I’ll bet it’s really cold up where you are, true?” “Chuck’s dead”, Simmons heard himself stammer. </p>
<p>“That’s right, son,” Miss Dot continued. “Last night it was. Quiet, too, not like our Charlie. He was coming home from a jam at Buzzy’s place and he dropped right down. He was complaining last month about a tight chest, was going to have it checked but never did. You know how he was about that stuff. He always loved you, Tanner, you know that, right?” Dot intoned from her cosmos. </p>
<p>“Yes”, Simmons heard his voice crack as his eyes filled with hot tears. </p>
<p>Dot went on, “Chuck always said that he loved his cornet as much as me. He also said you couldn’t have me, but you could have his horn.” </p>
<p>Simmons smiled weakly through the tears at Miss Dot’s attempt at humor, but he knew that life, once again, would never be the same. “When’s the funeral?" his voice cracking. "I’ll be there.” </p>
<p>**** * </p>
<p>The anemic yellow light from the boarding house ceiling lamp washed gently over the old silver cornet as it lay on the rumpled bed beside him. Simmons lovingly studied the exquisite baroque engravings in the silver, his nicotine-stained fingers, now just like Chuck's, exploring the workmanship of the instrument’s fine joinery. He put the old cornet to his lips and took a breath, filling his smoke-ravaged lungs with the stale, lifeless air of his dereliction. But the music! Expressive and mellifluous, the music impregnated the lifeless room, echoing past his shuttered door, flowing freely down the bleak, </p>
<p>darkened hallway in Hallelujah proclamations of both grief and celebration! Music, at once full of somber mourning and profound joy, whose roots sprung from deep within the souls of two men from different eras yet bound by their love of music and for each other soared into the universe. As his fingers flew over the cornet’s valves with silky precision, spirit music poured forth like molten gold, forming perfect sonic images that no one would behold. </p>
<p>Suddenly, as if the music had touched some secret, primitive wound, Simmons stopped playing. He gently placed the horn back on the bed and covered it with the bedclothes. He reached for the bottle. Its emptiness infuriated him and he flung it into the naked corner where it bounced and retreated under the bureau. That bottle reminded him of himself: drained and empty. </p>
<p>“Even so”, Simmons rationalized to no one in particular, “an empty bottle is not entirely worthless because you can fill it with something else.” A peculiar, disturbing feeling enshrouded him and he knew it was time to go. He lifted himself slowly and the old bed groaned its approval. He shuffled to the closet and pulled out the blue pin-striped suit. </p>
<p>"Yeah, this one," he muttered. </p>
<p>He rummaged through his laundry pile and found a shirt that still had a day left in it. The drawer of the old bureau squawked as he pulled it out and began to root through its contents for a razor and fresh blade. Tying his tattered robe loosely around his concave waist, Simmons pried his feet into the tired slippers and opened the door of his solitary room. The cool glare of a lone streetlight sliced through the hall window, casting long, craggy shadows on the threadbare runner on the hall floor as Simmons wearily made his way to the bathroom.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/1de5e4ccb12926add8b44e4d7bc9b4225bcaa134/original/images-1.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_thin" alt="" /></p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356622022-02-03T05:40:53-12:002022-02-07T04:06:54-12:00You Can Just Just Ask Al<p> </p>
<center>
<strong>“Surely it’s sad, sometimes you must choose,<br>The friends you must pick, the friends you gotta lose…”</strong><br><em>-“Over My Shoulder” by John Coster</em>
</center>
<p><br><br>Somebody bashed into my car in a parking lot. They left a sizeable wound on my poor Honda Element’s front fender and cowardly drove away. No one saw it happen, and if they did, they weren’t telling. I had a mile-high deductible on my insurance policy and even though this heavy-metal parking lot boinking wasn’t my fault, my insurance rates would go up. So, to fix or not to fix? Like most of us, these times left me a bit short of cash, so I really struggled with this question for a few weeks before I decided to keep true to one of my operating principles, wisely taught to me by my father: “Good tools are good friends. Get the best you can and take care of them.” My boxy Honda “Elephant” was a good tool. It held all my guitars and music gear; it towed my little sailboat; it got good mileage and was pretty comfortable on the long haul. It did what I needed it to do and had never let me down. That qualified it as a pretty good friend, I suppose.<br><br>So off I went in search of a body shop to do the repairs. I found that rates can vary wildly, but they all came in just shy of my mile-high deductible, so if I wanted the work to be done I was going to pay – out the nose! I sought advice from my mechanic-guru and he sent me to a decrepit looking shop in my Berkshire hometown. I’d passed by and ignored it for years. Known for its restoration of classic British and German sports cars, I’d never even given it a thought – the Honda wasn't particularly sporty or classic - well, maybe a <em>little,</em> in its own way! It turned out that this visit made my day!<br><br>Pulling into the lot, I had to squeeze my Honda into a spot that wasn’t already occupied by some foreign relic caught between random states of decomposition and restoration. I was met by a quirky little fellow sporting a bristly moustache, a brimless cap and a paper air-filter mask upon his head. He had a ready smile and an eagerness to help. He looked at my wounded fender, clucked his tongue expressing remorse and compassion for my plight.</p>
<p>“Yep, I can fix that,” he said reassuringly and then proceeded to explain to me in exact, specific detail what and how he would do so. Then he asked, “You want some numbers then?” Well, sure. “Follow me to my office. I keep it hidden well in the back”, he laughed.<br><br>He opened a creaking wooden door and in we went to a cavernous room whose great size was not at all evident from the outside. Parked inside was an assortment of automotive gems, many in nearly road-ready condition, awaiting their final touches: an interior carpet here, “correct wheels” there, “needs a fuel pump in that one”, “just finished the leather seats in this beaut”, and on and on. A shiny, jet-black ’62 Corvette convertible was neighborly with a British Racing Green, mid-60s Austin-Healey 3000. A glistening white ’59 Triumph TR-3 casually faced a champagne-colored ’63 Chevy Malibu as if in conversation. A 1940-something WWII Jeep sat stripped to its frame high up on a lift and below that was what appeared to be a classic Porsche, resting under a canvas cover awaiting new paint. “There’s more over there, too, but let’s get you those numbers.”</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/188dcf8d6fa64a0fc93f8d86359ce36343c8517f/original/al-stalker-at-custom-classics.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"> Al (center) and his crew with a WW2 Willys Restoration</span><br><br>I followed “the name’s Al” into a dingy, cramped, windowless back office where the walls were covered with faded photos and framed jig-saw puzzle pictures of classic and hot rod cars. A shelf of classic car books, parts catalogs and ancient automotive knick-knacks and chotchkes of every stripe stood stalwartly against the back wall. His diminutive wife sat behind a dusty, ancient computer and a crowded desk littered with a confetti of bills, invoices and assorted flyers.</p>
<p>“She does the numbers,” laughed Al, pointing at the little lady punching info into the humming computer. “I don’t run that thing!”</p>
<p>What followed took nearly two hours and amazed and amused me for the rest of the day.<br><br>Leaning against the rickety shelf lined with yellowing copies of Custom Car and Hot Rod magazines stood a beautiful old, white Gretsch electric guitar. It had a gold-plated Bigsby tailpiece and nearly as many knobs and dials as one of his classic Austin-Healeys. “Yep, I bought that from a guy back in the early 70s. It’s a ’67 Gretsch Viking. Quite a guitar, but not as popular as the Country Gentleman, you know, Chet’s guitar. Or the White Falcon. Not a big seller so they didn’t make too many of ‘em. I’m doing a set-up on it so I can eBay it. Or, rather,” Al pointed at his number-crunching wife, “I should say ‘She’ll eBay it.’ I don’t run that thing.”</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/8b8b004b57ef0c1d0e36b0e336dfdb6bc058a527/original/1967-gretsch-viking.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpeg" class="size_l justify_center border_thin" alt="" style="margin-right: 50px; margin-left: 50px;" /> <span class="font_small">1967 Gretsch Viking</span><br><br>Al was a <em>GUITAR FREAK!</em><br><br>Turns out that Al - "I'm almost 70 years-old ya know!" - had been playing guitar and collecting instruments since he was 16. His wife told me with a mixture of both pride and frustration that he once had a “houseful” of guitars, banjos, mandolins, fiddles, dobros, amplifiers “and other such junk” that over the years he’d periodically sold, traded or parsed out to friends and family when he needed some cash - or another instrument! He learned to play guitar "by sitting around with my oldest brother and some the ol’ timers” where he “caught that music bug”. And was introduced to “two fingers of Grand Marnier” – which he still occasionally enjoys – and “that 'Wildwood Flower', the first, and most beautiful song I ever learned.”</p>
<p>He told me about his guitar-playing heroes like Chet, Jimmy Reed, Merle Travis, the Carter Family and “even that young feller Glen Campbell can pick some, too!” He recalled his first guitar. “Maybe it was an old Harmony” and how he wanted to play all the old country songs “just using my fingers, you understand, not a plectman”. He still won’t use a ‘plectman’, which I eventually deduced meant plectrum, or flatpick.</p>
<p>“I like makin' chords, but I don't always know what they are.," Al laughed. "Never did play that lead guitar stuff much, but I sure do like the way those Nashville fellers do it." Al paused a moment and then thoughtfully advised me, "You got to play with other people now and again. Otherwise yer just practicing yer same mistakes over and over in yer living room.”<br><br>He once built a fretless banjo and collected “maybe 45 or 50 old banjers” that he sold over the years. “I fool with the fiddle now and again, but it drives her nuts. I’m not too good on that”, he chuckled, pointing again at his wife who distractedly continued to research my ‘numbers’. He told me how he learned to do instrument set-ups and that he was “pretty good at it” but wouldn’t do it for anybody else except his younger brother who was “still a pretty good picker but his wife don’t let him go out at it anymore.” Al’s wife scowled up at him from her computer as he revealed this little tid-bit of private family life.<br><br>I heard about old, local musicians who’ve come and gone and what he learned from them. I was taken on a memory-lane tour of the old joints and roadhouses that used to exist within a 20-mile radius of his South Berkshire home and was treated to stories of chicken-wire stages and “some pretty wild rides home” after probably more than just two fingers of some elixir!</p>
<p>“If you was a good picker, you could make yerself a pretty good living if you wanted. You could find some joint to play 4 or 5 nights a week, sometimes more, without having to go too far. This was in the late 40s, all through the 60s.” Al rattled off the names of several now-defunct clubs and roadhouses, occasionally interrupted by his wife who remembered a few of her own. </p>
<p>How times have changed. “I tell you what,” he lamented, shaking his head as he removed the filter mask and cap to reveal a full head of thick, salt 'n pepper hair, “it was them liquor laws that changed the music business around here. You can’t but sniff a bar rag now and you got yerself a DUI!” Al looked down at the floor, lost in memory.<br><br>He looks up and continued to tell me about the guitars that have passed through his life and how he regretted letting many of them go. “I had a beautiful ’63 Gibson Hummingbird...surely <em>you</em> know what that guitar is?" I did. "Sold it to some local guy, a collector. You know, sometimes a man needs the cash. Maybe you seen it?” I hadn’t. “I had an old 70s Yamaha. Bought it from some guy in the 80s. Real cheap it was. It was no Hummingbird, but what a sound! Played smooth ‘n easy. Sold that, too. Got another one now, but it ain't as good.” The old fellow began to get a bit sad. “You know, sometimes those ol’ guitars can get to be pretty good friends.”<br><br>He asked me about my music and guitars. His reminiscing got me to thinking of the 6-string friends that have passed through my life, many of whom I wished I’d not let go. So I told him about . . .<br><br>When I was 16, just like Al, I became infatuated with the guitar. I <em>loved</em> the British Invasion bands, Dylan and the Greenwich Village folk scene. I noticed that <em>girls</em> seemed to like the guitar, too! My little sister got a plastic Sears & Roebuck "Wing-Ding" guitar for Christmas. She had no interest in it, but I did. It had string action on it like a cheese cutter and it made my fingers bleed. But I incessantly practiced Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone” despite incurring open wounds.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/073689efe6009ecdbcdbc2712c33af640898fb17/original/my-first-guitar-copy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_thin" alt="" style="margin-right: 50px; margin-left: 50px;" /><span class="font_small"> DR and the plastic Sears & Roebuck 'Wing Ding' Guitar</span><br><br>When I was 17, I won a music competition – playing the trumpet! – and the prize was a $100 gift certificate to a local music store. I bought a brand new mahogany/spruce Yamaha FG-15…a <em>real </em>guitar! I now could play more than four chords without a blood sacrifice. I played that guitar for years, but after joining a few different rock bands and discovering that the Yamaha could not be heard over the din of drums and electric guitars, even if I taped an el cheapo Radio Shack microphone into it, I decided to sell it. I found no buyers, but there was a guy in my college class who had a pre-CBS Fender BandMaster amplifier he no longer wanted and was willing to trade for my Yamaha. I did the deal. Now I had an amp, but no guitar. I still have the BandMaster head, but sold the speakers long ago - wish I still had 'em!</p>
<p>I fantasized whether somehow my old Yamaha had wound up in Al’s hands. Hard to tell. But years later, I attended a museum exhibit on "The History of the Guitar" and what should be there, all cased in glass, but a Sears "Wing-Ding" guitar. (photo above)<br><br>Enter another friend who I never should have chosen to let go. Having lined up some seedy bar gigs in my new band, Max Creek, but not having a decent guitar. A late 60s sunburst Aria electric didn't have the sound I was looking for, either. Then I noticed an ad pinned to the bulletin board in my college student union: “For Sale. 1963 Gibson J-160E. Like new. $200”. <em>Holy moly, this was the same acoustic/electric guitar the friggin’ Beatles were playing!!</em> I borrowed the money and got the guitar. I played it for a few years, but I never really liked its acoustic sound (sort of dull) and its harsh, amplified tone fed back easily at rock ‘n roll volume. I needed something that could crank it out. Like a dummy I sold it for $150. It’s worth <em>way</em> more than that now!</p>
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/6e79bd1cbafc9aa7d3c4179d807902b5fbc8de94/original/gibson-j-160e082-copy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDcweDMzOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="339" width="470" /></center>
<center><span class="font_small"><em>The Gibson J-160E with drummer Bob Gosselin & Max Creek, circa 1973 (Note the BandMaster amp!)</em></span></center>
<p>Welcome my first real electric guitar: a brand new, blond maple 1970 Guild Starfire-IV. It cost around $450 and I got it at a hippie music store run by a commune in Turners Falls, MA in the same year it was made. This was a sweet guitar. It was loud. It was dependable. But it really was a jazz guitar and did not have the loud 'acoustic' sound I wanted. Resonating with mild regret from the sale of the Gibson, I decided not to sell the Starfire-IV (just in case...) and it languished in my closet, lonely and neglected, for 25 years. After all that time I realized that I would likely not be using it. Someone should love and appreciate it. I sold it to a young guy who was entering Boston's Berklee music school to study jazz guitar. A perfect home for my old friend! Still, I wouldn't mind having that ax today.</p>
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/15512472b795eba01b63a440dc7fb55c17867529/original/starfire-iv081.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg0eDMwNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="307" width="384" /></center>
<center><span class="font_small"><em>The Starfire-IV with pianist Mark Mercier & Max Creek, circa 1974</em></span></center>
<p>Around the same time as I purchased the Starfire-IV, I picked up a new 1969 Guild D-44 dreadnought acoustic guitar from the same hippie shop in Turners Falls. Paid around $400 for it. I’d wanted a Martin, but couldn’t come up with the extra $300 required to own one of those so I settled on the Guild. I have never regretted this and it remains in my current 'arsenal’ as my go-to guitar for alternate tunings and slide playing. Over the years it’s had multiple fret jobs, a neck reset and countless pick-up configurations. It has aged gracefully and well with its tone maturing warm and full. Other than my grandmother’s 1892 Coles Eclipse banjo which has been in my family since the late 19th century, the D-44 remains my oldest stringed friend.<br><br>Sometime in the mid-80s, I really got hooked on finger-style guitar and wanted an instrument that complemented this style and sound. The D-44 was loud and did the job, but when I bumped into a early 20th century oak-bodied Lyon & Healey Washburn parlor guitar in the Fretted Instrument Workshop in Amherst, MA, I figured this was the 'genuine article' for the kind of period old-time, honky-tonk blues and rags that I was learning. Bluntly stated, the guitar just sucked! Though tough as a tank, it sounded like one. I tried to befriend it for a couple of years and just couldn't. So, back to Fretted Instrument Workshop I went, Washburn in hand.<br><br>Hanging on their wall amongst almost 100 fine guitars, my eye went right to her - a pretty, mid- 60s Martin 00-16 New Yorker and I wanted her. <em>Bad.</em> The owner was reluctantly willing to trade back the oak Washburn. I guess he hadn't missed it much! I scraped up the remaining cash necessary to make the little Martin mine by selling my flugelhorn and some unused sound equipment. Soon, I was happily plinking away, further developing my finger-picking chops.</p>
<p>In time, I discovered that this sweet-voiced, delicately refined little lady was going to break my heart...she did NOT like to play rough. Nor did she like to be capoed, or as Al would have put it, "Have the 'cheater' put to 'er." If I dug into her strings, she barked harshly at me. Capoing was rewarded with serious intonation problems requiring much tuner twiddling. So it was into the closet reluctantly with little Miss Martin, joining the somnolent Guild Starfire-IV. I eventually sold her to a woman who was planning to play her in a Klezmer band, of all things. I’m embarrassed to mention the selling price – let’s just say I took quite a hit. I'd enjoy having her back in my life. I think.<br><br>And again the D-44 was called back on the front line for active duty.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/6a95f602211dd9e0bd59f75d6965cca98965266e/original/1969-guild-d-44.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><span class="font_small"> 1969 Guild D-44</span><br><br>I have a lot of other guitar friends with whom I fraternize regularly now. I try to live up to my dad's advice to "get the best tool you can afford and take care of them". I’ve learned, too, that like people-type friends, no one guitar is going to meet all my needs, wants and desires. Each, like the people in my life, has their strengths and weaknesses, assets and detriments, pleasures and pains. Each has its own voice and helps me to tell stories in its own way. And true to the words of Coster's song, it <em>is</em> sad that sometimes we gotta choose the friends we must pick and the friends we must lose. I try to think about this more deeply now when faced with this choice. Maybe there will be fewer regrets?<br><br>Al wants me to come back to the shop and bring my guitar so we can pick a little. I think I will. Oh, yeah. I got the 'numbers' - several hundred less than the competition. Do you suppose I got the "Picker's Price"?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/75d418891342ec0da982a051006d19a61d81d31f/original/out-of-my-element-7-6-21.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpeg" class="size_l justify_center border_medium" alt="" /></p>
<p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356632022-01-30T06:31:12-12:002024-01-12T06:03:36-12:00Last of the Caribbean Cowboys!<p> </p><center><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/9ce0161fe735756c1c1bae9aab44d6d8d16888bf/original/sow-n-cow.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="357" width="450" /></p></center><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p style="text-align:center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align:center;"><span class="text-big">The Last of the Caribbean Cowboys</span></p>
<p><span>The late afternoon West Indian sun hung warm and low in the cloudless azure sky as I was driving from the sleepy village of Coral Bay, St. John over Bordeaux Mountain on the Centerline Road. I was on my way down into town to pick up my sister at the passenger ferry dock in Cruz Bay. Across an unusually calm Pillsbury Sound, peek-a-boo glimpses of St. Thomas island in the distance could be seen. As I drove I was simultaneously lost in an island reverie while trying to pay attention to the steeply winding, narrow road.</span></p>
<p><span>I was nearly into Cruz Bay when, breaking through my peripheral vision, there appeared a large, spotted pig. Pigs, both domestic and feral, are not at all uncommon around the island and are often seen walking slowly along the road, rooting on a forest trail or exploring a local dumpster. But this pig was sitting most comfortably on the ground while contentedly sucking on the substantial teats of a rather placid red and white Guernsey cow who stood mindlessly gazing at the view, chewing her cud.</span></p>
<p><span>"Say wha’?" I did a double take.</span></p>
<p><span>I’d not hit any Cruzan rum, Caribe beer or local herb, so what the hell was this? I turned my car around and drove back. Sure enough – I was not hallucinating! Pulling off to the side of the road, I dug into my pack and found my camera. The following vignette unfolded in the span of less than two minutes as I tried to capture my amazement on film. </span></p>
</div></div></div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 2"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>Perhaps sensing my interest - or more likely having already drained that particular udder - the unsated pig, who had been partially hidden by Miss Bossy’s rump, stood up and moved around to the other side and reattached itself to the cow's udder – in full profile. I was astounded. I was less than 50 feet away and both cow and sow remained nonplussed by my curiosity as I snapped away like an awestruck paparazzi.</span></p>
<p><span>However, these animals seemed to have more important matters on their minds. As if on cue, a second portly pig emerged from the brush and was approaching the “dairy bar” for its share. But before this second porcine patron could place its order, across the clearing upon the horizon of the hill appeared . . . the Caribbean Cowboy!</span></p>
<p><span>Exploding onto the scene, saddled up within his rusty, dusty, dented, black pickup truck (a Bronco, perhaps?) complete with genuine Texas longhorns mounted on the hood, dual Peterbuilt horns blaring, headlights flashing and gravel flying, the Caribbean Cowboy was clearly intent upon turning off those bovine taps and shutting down this pop-up dairy bar operation PDQ. Or, maybe he simply intended to bring home some bacon?</span></p>
<p><span> Not seeming to notice or care in the least that the roaring, rampaging truck was bee-lining directly towards them, Miss Bossy continued to serenely chew her cud, lost in her own bucolic bovine ruminations. All the while Porky continued to suckle greedily. “Udderly delicious!” I imagined the slurping pig to be thinking. The second pig suddenly halted in its tracks, apparently surprised and reconsidering its dining options. Petunia pig briefly stared at the fast-approaching mechanized mayhem before galloping pell-mell into the shelter of the tangled bush. </span></p>
<p><span>The rattling black pick-up skidded to a stop in a cloud of red dust about twenty five feet from the animals. The Caribbean Cowboy burst from the cab, dreadlocks flying as he hurled small rocks at the astonished animals - he must have had a ready supply of rocks on the seat - while racing barefoot towards the animals, roaring colorful West Indian epithets with each quickening step. There it all was, the archetypal Western epic, unfolding before my incredulous eyes, Caribbean-style: </span><i>The Good, The Dread, The Porcine. </i><span> </span></p>
</div></div></div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 3"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>“Uh-oh! Fun’s over!”, I thought as I quickly put my camera down, hoping I wouldn’t be a target of one of those incoming stone projectiles. I imagined a cartoon Porky hastily beating a retreat in his blue sailor suit, stammering "Buh-duh-buh-duh-buh-duh-Tha-tha-tha-that's all, folks!" The Caribbean Cowboy sure had everyone's attention now! </span></p>
<p><span>Porky, joining the erstwhile Petunia, ran squealing off into the bush leaving his own personal “Dairy Queen” behind. Miss Bossy slowly turned her head, looked at the cowboy with mild annoyance for disturbing her daydreams and nonchalantly followed the pigs, ambling safely out of rock-range into the bush.</span></p>
<p><span>The Caribbean Cowboy, hands on hips and sucking his teeth, stared disgustedly at me as if to say, “Dis show be over, mon!” I smiled, waved and got back into my car. As I drove off, I could still see him in my mirror glaring at me. I hoped he was out of rocks.</span></p>
<p><span>I was glad I had the photos, because most folks just wouldn’t believe this one. Unless, of course, they've spent time in deh islands, meh-son! Ah, well, so it goes. Just another day in the life of a Caribbean Island Cowboy. Or is that “Sowboy”?</span></p>
</div></div></div><p><br> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356852022-01-28T12:00:00-12:002024-01-12T06:28:25-12:00The Life of The Kelvinator<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/8facd5c25316ae8ea517e2c265b2971f43d3d295/original/kelvinator.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" alt="" /><strong> </strong><span class="text-big"><span><strong>The Life of The Kelvinator</strong></span></span></p><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>Upon arriving at my funky little lime-green Shackteau in out in Coral Bay, St. John after what had been sixteen hours of grueling car/plane/boat/taxi travel carrying with me a few guitars, a PA and enough clothes to last three months, I crawled out of my tired old Hyundai rental car My arms loaded with luggage and guitars I stumbled down the dark path and kicked open the weather-beaten white louvered door to the shack. It was nearly midnight. I was exhausted. The delicious, old 'home again at last' feeling of relief and joy that I usually experience upon my arrival to my island retreat quickly dissolved when I turned on the light and saw what was standing there to greet me.</span></p>
<p><span>There stood “Kelvinator”. The ancient, stained, rusted apartment-sized refrigerator loomed like a miniature Stonehenge pintle, smack dab in the middle of the room. Its door precariously yawned open, revealing a worn out door gasket, presenting like the pale, flaccid lips of an old crone. Inside were two small glass shelves - one cracked and covered with the detritus of age and abandonment. A freezer box way larger than anyone could reasonably expect to reside within the belly of such a diminutive refrigerator dripped moisture. A short, crusty electrical cord trailed behind, like the naked tail of a tree rat. “Well, this is certainly a treat,” I muttered. “What in hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked no one.</span></p>
<p><span>Part of the plastic “Kelvinator” logo name plate on the dented door had been broken off between the letters 'n' and 'a'. The 'ator' section evidently had disappeared, leaving “Kelvin” stuck to the door like an eponymous afterthought.</span></p>
<p><span>“Forthwith I shall name thee 'Kelvin'” I decreed, guessing that perhaps I wasn't the first to have done so. Kelvin leaned forward significantly, as if in deference to my arrival. However, further investigation revealed that poor Kelvin's small feet - certainly </span><i>way </i><span>more tired than mine - had actually disappeared up through his rusted bottom plate, thus disallowing his door to remain shut. Not a desirable feature for a refrigerator.</span></p>
</div></div></div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 2">
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>“Why are you here?” I mused to Kelvin. That I thought a refrigerator would answer such an existential question is beyond me, but he actually transmitted a response: </span><i>“I am here to be of service to you. And you are here to be of service to me.” </i><span>It really had been an </span><i>awfully </i><span>long day of travel.</span></p>
<p><span>I needed the floor space in my small room and I'd decided that Kelvin was a bit too tall for an ottoman or night table. He offered nowhere near enough room to be a useful dresser. It was evident that Kelvin's filthy little self would not be welcome anywhere inside the Shackteau, so I pushed and shoved and dragged him from the middle of my small room out onto the porch. “I don't know how you got here, or what I'm supposed to do with you, Kelvin, but I'm too tired to figure this out now. Goodnight!”, and I dragged my own self off to bed.</span></p>
<p><span>I was awakened early the next morning by a gentle knocking on my door. It was Percival, the sweet, venerable church deacon from Dominica who owns my shack. “A very good mahnin', to you Mr. David, and welcome back to deh island.”</span></p>
<p><span>“Thank you, Percival, and it's also very good to see you again,” I replied, somewhat embarrassed to be wiping sleep from my eyes at 7AM. I knew that Percival had likely been awake since 4:30, tending to his own duties before heading off for his job as groundskeeper at Estate Concordia.</span></p>
<p><span>“I suspec' ya see deh 'frigerator dere? Wan' ya know ya use it if ya wan'. Jes' plug he in. But he door nah stay close...hafta use dis tape to keep he door close',” Percival said as he handed me a roll of duct tape.</span></p>
<p><span>“Ah, thank you, Percival,” I said, taking the tape from him, imagining chilled food and cold beer spilling out onto the floor each time Kelvin's door was 'untaped'. “I was wondering how it got there and what your plans were for it. I thought it was going to the dump!”</span></p>
<p><span>“Nah, no dump for he,” laughed Percival. “He got life in he yet. Ya bes' use 'im! Have a blessed day, Mr. David, and again, welcome back!” And off he went, whistling into his day, having made it quite clear that the dump was not an option for Kelvin. Now my first round of business for the day had been ordained: Figure out how to make Kelvin useful - without making me insane!</span></p>
<p><span>I tipped Kelvin back and leaned him against the porch wall. Sure enough, his two front feet had painfully retracted through his rusty floor and were protruding reluctantly less than half an inch. His back two feet, however, looked fine. I went out into my yard and rooted around until I found two small scraps of wood about an inch and half thick. I placed these scraps under Kelvin approximately where his front feet should be. Voila! Kelvin's new prostheses worked like a charm and allowed him to stand straight up again! And the best part? His door remained closed!</span></p>
<p><span>“Now we have to do something about your door gasket, Kelvin,” says I as I got a bowl of soapy water and a sponge. “And while I'm at it, you shall receive a thorough, all-over scrubbin'!”</span></p>
<p><span>I spent the better part of the next hour removing years of filth and grime from Kelvin, being very careful not to further damage any of his fragile gasket material. I removed his shelves and scrubbed his copious freezer compartment until he positively gleamed, inside and out. Well, sort of. At least as good as an ancient, well-worn apartment-sized Kelvinator of undetermined origin can be capable of gleaming. Bits of duct tape were enlisted to hold Kelvin's door gasket reasonably in place.</span></p>
</div></div>
<div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>And then came the moment of truth: Time to plug Kelvin into the wobbly wall socket! I grabbed his electrical cord (considerably more flexible and less ratty since his tubbin') and plugged it into the wall, fully expecting the primitive, low-amp Shackteau wiring to heat up and blow. But it didn't. Kelvin woke up, rattled a little and then hummed to life. Within an hour, I had a fully functioning 'fridge! And as an added bonus, Kelvin's top was exactly counter-height, so I could use his top as a work surface to prepare food.</span></p>
<p><i>“Excelsior!” </i><span>I shouted. </span><i>“Hooray and huzzah for Kelvin!”</i></p>
<p><span>Days turned to weeks, then to months, and Kelvin kept humming along nicely. I decorated his door with local stickers from “I Got Baked In the Sun” bakery and the notorious “Skinny Legs”. I returned the unused roll of duct tape to Percival who was quite pleased to learn of Kelvin's well-being. Kelvin happily cooled a few gallons of milk, six coconuts, countless vegetables and fruits, chilled more than a few ginger beers and kept a bottle of rum icy cold in his freezer...all with no problems, no issues. Except one.</span></p>
<p><span>Recall Kelvin's copious freezer? It may be that Kelvin had a really cold, cold heart, or was simply cold-blooded, but that damn freezer frosted up like a Greenland glacier in rather short order. It got so chock full of snowy, frosty ice that there was no room for the ice cube tray. My rum bottle became ice- locked. </span></p>
<p><span>Adjusting his fully-functioning thermostat did little to remedy his glacier-making abilities, thus requiring Kelvin to be defrosted on a weekly basis. Once, Percival interrupted our weekly defrosting ritual by popping his head around my porch door just in time to see me sweeping some of Kelvin's snow and ice off my porch floor with a broom. “Don' ya use deh shovel to do dis back north?” he queried with a smile. Perhaps Kelvin might simply have been trying to remind me of what I'd been missing back in wintery New England?</span></p>
<p><span>Then I absent-mindedly neglected Kelvin's defrosting schedule for over a month. This led to a copious abundance of ice such that there was little room for anything else. I had been in the habit of spending mornings writing my </span><i>How-to-Play the Fretless Cigar Box Guitar </i><span>book, but today Kelvin demanded my attention. The morning sun shone strongly on Kelvin's porch space, so I decided I could multi-task: I would write as Kelvin, basking in the tropical sun, defrosted, and I'd still have time to visit the beach before I had to play my gig that evening!</span></p>
<p><span>I unplugged Kelvin and opened his door to allow the warm sun to work its magic on the permafrost within. I removed the food and beverages, placing them in the shower stall covered with a towel to preserve whatever cool I could from the Caribbean heat. Then I set to writing and waiting. And waiting.</span></p>
<p><span>After about an hour, audible dripping noises informed me that the defrosting process was definitely underway. I took my knife and chipped away at the interior ice cap. Small chunks fell to the floor, but there remained so much frost and ice that I could not yet remove the drain tray; the rum bottle was completely encased. So I went back to my writing.</span></p>
<p><span>A little while later I heard a small chunk of ice fall away. A miniature iceberg, calving from its mother glacier, fell not into an arctic sea, but onto my tropical porch floor where it began to flow. I picked up my knife and began chipping away again. This time more ice fell and I swept it into a dustpan and heaved it over my porch railing onto the street below where it sat for a few seconds before evaporating away on the sun-scorched pavement. A large grey thrushee, a garrulous and curious bird who'd been sitting in a nearby genip tree watching me all morning, occasionally chirped his interest - or criticism - in my activity. He would cock his head and let out a loud </span><i>Ta-WEET? </i><span>that definitely had a question mark attached to it. I returned to my writing. But not for long.</span></p>
<p><span>The solar-thermal defrosting process had been achieved, the tipping point reached. Large chunks of snowy ice began to rapidly fall onto the floor from Kelvin's chest cavity. It was all happening rather quickly now. I enlisted my knife to remove the remaining ice and again retrieved my broom and dust pan. I wondered again 'Why in hell would such a small fridge have such a large freezer?'. There was now way more frozen fallout than I could fit in a single dust pan scoop. I needed a bucket, but didn't have one. Taking my cue from Percival, I shoveled the slushy stuff into my dustpan, quickly flinging the contents off the porch onto the road below.</span></p>
<p><span>I don't normally do this sort of thing. I prefer to think things through, devise a plan. But this time, I needed to get rid of the glacial material before it melted, flooding my porch floor. However in my haste to remove it, I neglected one important fact: The road below was directly adjacent to the Shackteau, running just twenty feet </span><i>below </i><span>my porch. It was used for </span><i>vehicular traffic. </i><span>It was </span><i>not </i><span>a snow removal zone. </span><i>Useful Factoid: </i><span>'Snow Removal Zone' is a totally irrelevant and unknown concept in the Caribbean. At least until today.</span></p>
<p><span>I hurriedly piled the last of Kelvin's sloughing ice onto the brimming dustpan, quickly raised it up and let it fly. About midway through its icy arc from porch to road, I noticed a shiny, new, red rental Jeep approaching on the road below. “Good lord!” I exclaimed, sucking in my breath. “No! No! Please, God, don't . . .”</span></p>
<p><span>Before I could finish my thought, the load of snow and ice landed in a perfect, slushy heap on that scarlet Jeep's hood. The combined velocity of Kelvin's falling frost with the speed of the moving Jeep made for quite an interesting, and certainly alien, sound upon impact – </span><i>Shhhhplaaaaaatttttttt!!!!</i></p>
<p><span>The Jeep's tires screeched. The thrushee squawked and shot off like a missile. Miss Lucy's goats and chickens who had been happily scrounging the adjacent roadside for edibles exploded off into the bush like livestock grenades. I stood dumbstruck as Kelvin's icy avalanche and the Jeep both came to screeching stop about thirty feet from where I stood, immobilized, above them on my porch.</span></p>
<p><span>Inside the Jeep a tourist family, obviously from northern climes as evidenced by their pallid, opalescent skin tone, sat stunned. The tattooed, bearded man with shaved head and no visible neck sat macho- style, gripping the steering wheel. Next to him his bejeweled, bottle-blonde wife who sported oversized sunglasses, cosmetic breasts and a goofy oversized sunhat let out a piercing shriek. Plopped miserably in the back seat looking as though they'd rather be having a root canal slumped two sour- looking, gum-chewing adolescent girls, wrapped in gaudy beach towels and serious attitude. Their lacquered hair was crowned by backwards ball caps; one with a “NY” logo, the other with a “Hello, Kitty” graphic. This bunch, no doubt relieved to be away from the absolutely brutal winter conditions back in the northern States, stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed in momentary silence as I stood above them, paralyzed, on my porch. Suddenly like a beehive smashed with a sharp rock, they all erupted! Everyone was hollering their best New York curses, shaking their fists and giving me furious middle finger salutes.</span></p>
<p><span>“Yo, crazy man, what the f**k you think yer doin'?” roared Bronx man. Wife shrieked something unintelligible while the two teens glared and each gave me their best double-handed middle finger salute from the Jeep's open windows. “Hello Kitty” stuck out her tongue.</span></p>
</div></div>
</div><div class="page" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust:auto;-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;caret-color:rgb(0, 0, 0);color:rgb(0, 0, 0);font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-weight:400;letter-spacing:normal;orphans:auto;text-align:start;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:auto;word-spacing:0px;" title="Page 5"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span>Mortified, I momentarily feared Poppy just might feel the need to demonstrate his machismo by springing out of the Jeep and, leaping up the high walled embankment in an adrenaline-fueled rage, nailing me to the porch wall. I probably deserved it.</span></p>
<p><span>“I am so, so sorry,” I sincerely apologized. Trying to lighten things up a little, I smiled, “Bet you thought you could get away from all those blizzards back home, eh? See, I was defrosting my refrigerator and...” but before I could finish my explanation they'd roared off, tires screeching, shiny red fenders dripping cold water, windshield wipers flapping wildly. I thought I could still hear shouting - “You crazy sumbitch” - and I am fairly sure I could make out a couple of middle finger salutes through the Jeep's blacked out rear windows as they tore off towards Salt Pond.</span></p>
<p style="text-align:center;"><span>*****</span></p>
<p><span>That night I had a dream. It was about Kelvin. Like a kitchen Frankenstein, he had been brought into this world cursed, from some dark, gothic factory hidden somewhere deep in Eastern Europe. Dark forces had installed a demonic component inside of him that made him behave in mysteriously untoward and sometimes evil ways. Kelvin looked normal alright, just like all the other Kelvinators of his vintage: white, boxy, small and rectangular – the perfect size to fit innocuously in an apartment, perhaps under a counter.</span></p>
<p><span>But Kelvin was different and odd things had happened to the people with whom Kelvin resided. Things like routinely blown electrical fuses, broken water pipes resulting in ruinous floods, spoiled food and strange nighttime noises. Peculiar, localized meteorological disturbances often accompanied these events. Each successive owner of Kelvin began to wonder whether perhaps it was that weird little 'fridge of theirs that may have had something to do with the disturbingly annoying events that plagued their homes. Each, in turn, got rid of him. And lucky for them, too, because things were steadily going from bad to worse with Kelvin.</span></p>
<p><span>Just before Kelvin was sent away for the last time to the Salvation Army where an enthusiastic church pastor from the outback would pick him up to be used in their parish commissary, the poor island family with whom Kelvin had last resided found themselves in a terrible state of inconsolable grief. The family had several small children and their youngest daughter, a sweet little girl of three, had mysteriously disappeared a few days ago without a trace. There were no witnesses, no clues. “One minute she on de floor playin' wit' her toy animals, de nex', </span><i>BAM! </i><span>she jus' gone, jus' like dat!” a distraught auntie later told the befuddled detective. The authorities were clearly stumped.</span></p>
<p><span>A few days later, the distraught mother went to the village's old wise woman for consolation and sage advice. The old wise woman sat silently in her tiny wooden shack upon what had once been the front seat of a Jeep. She slowly fingered a length of old electrical cord like a string of worry beads. Her long, snowy hair flowed in snake-like braids down around her waist. Deep from within her leathery, wrinkled face, ice blue eyes stared mysteriously from her open door to the high mountain peaks visible in the faraway distance. Despite it being summertime, snow and ice could plainly be seen. After a long while sitting in a transcendent state, the old woman turned slowly to the tearful mother sitting at her gnarled feet, opened her toothless mouth and solemnly uttered, “Kelvin ate her.”</span></p>
<p><span>Then I awoke with an urgent desire to get a new refrigerator.</span></p>
</div></div></div><p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/68819712022-01-28T03:45:02-12:002022-01-31T07:16:37-12:00The Ragtime Millionaire's Wild Ride<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/8eda4b761480507f47a32b2271357edcaa1b848a/original/ragtime-millionaires-ride.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>There are times when on the road of one’s career, one finds that they might benefit from a new direction, a fresh beginning, a different map. Such was the 'pit-stop' I found myself in with the music biz many years ago. But I had no idea of just what kind of jump-start it would entail to get me out of the break-down lane I was in and back on the road of my less-than-lustrous musical odyssey. </p>
<p>Let’s roll back the curtain and tweak the knobs of the time machine, shall we, to the dark days of the late ‘70s when disco reigned, punk started making pissed-off noises to drown out the synthesized nu-wavers and lanky, big-haired pretty-boys sporting spandex strutted and preened. There was some good stuff out there too, but you really had to hunt for it because there wasn’t much of it on the radio and MTV was still in gestation. </p>
<p>The folk music boom had mummified to dust. Acoustic musicians and sensitive singer/songwriter types had had their moment to bask in the sun and were now 'sun-burned', or had evaporated, relegated to obscure gatherings of like-minded souls and second-hand record bins. Yeah, records - no CDs yet either. Maybe I should have waited for records to make their comeback. So what was an aspiring, struggling acoustic guitarist singer-songwriter supposed to do about it? Reinvent himself, that’s what. </p>
<p>So here is the tale of my reincarnation as "The Ragtime Millionaire", and his Wild Ride. And I swear, it’s all true. Mostly. </p>
<p>After leaving the rock ‘n roll rhythm guitar role I had played in Max Creek for several years, I found myself really getting into the music of Rev. Gary Davis, Mississippi John Hurt, Elizabeth Cotten, Lightnin' Hopkins and other black bluesmen. There were some white fellas, too, who grabbed my ear:. John Fahey, Stefan Grossman, John Renbourne, David Bromberg and Jorma Kaukonen – their guitar playing created a complete 'band in the hand’ sound. I loved it. I added Larry Johnson, Roy Book Binder, Leon Redbone and Guy van Duser to my collection. I practiced until my fingers were raw and bleeding, but I cared not - I’d found my path and I was on my grail-quest to reveal the uniquely quirky singer and consummate guitarist that was residing within. I would be a “Retro-visionary”: equal parts antique curmudgeon and pithy, witty sage. I would become “The Ragtime Millionaire”, which was pretty funny because in reality I resided one step from destitution’s door. </p>
<p>Around this time, my wife and I decided to follow the prophetic words of Joni Mitchell's “Woodstock”. We were going to “get back to the garden”. We moved to a small farm in the St. Lawrence River valley of NY State. The Plan: we would sustenance farm, raise our daughter and I would perform my newfound solo artist thing throughout the northeast. The world would embrace me and I would enjoy the fruits of my labor. The world apparently had other plans. </p>
<p>All this led to me finding myself alternately behind the wheel of a 1932 Allis-Chalmers tractor, or encased (soimetimes for days) behind the wheel of a 1970 VW camper that had no heat. Grinding gears and wearing out tires, I traversed from gig to gig on the lonely highways and byways of upstate NY and New England. The over-worked, heavily-burdened VW's cargo area futilely crammed with a collection of tattered guitar cases, two-ton speakers and sundry dilapidated amplifiers. </p>
<p>My fear of terminal vehicular breakdown, combined with a dose of vanity, made me long for something different from the plebian, beat up VW van. A vehicle that was unique! A vehicle that would create a buzz and proudly announce my arrival wherever I went. And then I found it . . . </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/2bfb4330f3e5ea85c3f78f2e1f733af839e504d9/original/ragtime-ride.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Enter a fire-engine red, tricked-out 1942 Chevrolet Panel Van with a 390 cubic inch high-performance Corvette engine, gulping $.72 a gallon gasoline with its twin 4-barrel carburetors, sonorously blowing exhaust through a pair of deep-throated glass-packs. </p>
<p>Unexplicably, the mighty Corvette power plant was bolted to the original 1942 3-speed truck transmission which made the power seriously high and the gearing ridiculously low. I could climb Mt. Everest in this thing! My new antique chariot rolled on four Competition White, deep-dish mag wheels sporting 20” wide-ride Firestone tires – not exactly ideal for North Country roads, especially in winter! </p>
<p>The van's spacious interior had been gutted, its walls paneled with faux walnut - complete with coach-light sconces. Both floor and ceiling were carpeted in coffee & cream-colored high-pile shag carpeting – perhaps in anticipation of future beverage spillage? The high-backed, brown cloth bench seat in the front was scavenged from an AMC Gremlin. Though permanently welded to the floor, it fit perfectly despite its grim lineage. There were no seats in the rear - unless I added a folding lawn chair or two, which I did from time to time. This added a little extra excitement for anyone daring enough ride back there. A large blue toolbox was bolted to the floor just behind the seat, and if one put a cushion on it, it too could become a makeshift seat. Seatbelts? We didn't need no stinkin' seatbelts! </p>
<p>The old truck’s split windshield, cranked by a worn chrome lever, opened out wide, allowing for a brisk flow of fresh air - and insects! This was post-war air conditioning at its finest! The heater, the size of a cider barrel, hung down below the passenger's side of the thick, heavy steel dashboard. It had two speeds – ‘Off’ and ‘Scald’. You could employ either the heater mode or the defroster, but not both. This made for some interesting visibility challenges as I was to discover. </p>
<p>The double rear doors opened wide and the handy, built-in step bumper made it relatively easy to load my music gear. There was plenty of room to stretch out and sleep in the back if one wanted to, which I usually did not. I installed a stereo cassette tape player with fourJensen speakers and a CB. That’s CB radio, people, not CD player for they had not been invented yet. The crowning touch? Graphics of a wildly dancing yellow buzzard – hand painted by some artist unknown – adorned both exterior sides. Perfect. </p>
<p>Originally built as a munitions transporter for the US war effort during WWII, legend had it that this Chevy had seen action in the North African theatre. I don’t know exactly what was playing in that theatre, but I think it had something to do with Herr Rommel. Later in its post-war life it had seen active duty as a community ambulance. But now it was 1977 and this van was gonna rock ‘n roll as The Ragtime Millionaire’s Ride! No munitions, no sick or wounded allowed! </p>
<p>I retired my VW camper and sold it to some farm kid who aspired to be a hippie and gleefully readied the Ol’ 42 for a new, and hopefully more joyous life. Some interesting times were had on the road together indeed! For instance . . . </p>
<p>There was the time I played a bar gig in Lake Placid - was it at the Brass Capricorn? - while the French Olympic speed skating team was practicing nearby. After their training sessions we would hang out, communicating in French as effectively as my high school French would allow, goofing on tourists and drinking beer. I don’t know how they did it, all that drinking and then olympic training early the next day. I seem to remember a lot of Molsons, hearty laughs and gargantuan thighs. Somehow, this actually led to a pretty good gig for me later during the 1980 Winter Olympics. But I was not on skates. </p>
<p>Then there was the time I hooked up with this guy named Barry Freed. After hearing me play a gig somewhere in the 1000 Islands on the St. Lawrence River, he asked me to help him write a theme song for his new 'Save The River Foundation'. He was hell-bent on stopping nuke plants on the St. Lawrence with his protests and sit-ins. He was getting a lot of notice, good and bad. We met afterwards in a seedy rivertown bar. I swore I’d seen him somewhere before - I just couldn't place where. Maybe he just liked my truck? I think I made him nervous. </p>
<p>Barry wrote the lyrics, and I the tune. Later, I heard he’d been using it at different rallies and community meetings along the St. Lawrence, but I never saw Barry again. That is, until years later he suddenly died and it was plastered all over the news that he really was none other than Abbie Hoffman of the notorious Weather Underground and Chicago 7. He’d been hiding out up on the river for years. And unbeknownst to me, I'd found him. </p>
<p>Or the time I was booked - unheard and unknown – by the late Lena Spence of Café Lena in Saratoga Springs, NY. I was going to open for a Nellie Somebody (I've forgotten her full name) who to me was equally unknown and unheard. I rattled into town just in time for sound-check. I met Nellie, who sported a crew-cut and was dressed like a man. She was nice enough, but a bit, um, distant. Her audience, nearly all womyn, mostly resembled lumberjacks and gym teachers. I was feeling really uncomfortable. A little threatened, even. </p>
<p>Anyway, the show had to go on, so on I went. On, and on, and on. My 30-minute opening set felt interminable! I did my well-rehearsed, finger-picked rinky-tinky, plinky-planky ragtime numbers with all their spunky sexual innuendos and clever double entendres, along with some of my best heart-on-my-sleeve originals. Apparently cultures had unceremoniously collided that evening for the audience sat there as if embalmed. What were they contemplating? Castration, maybe? My throat parched. My mind fragmented like a neuroleptic grenade. I forgot the words to my own songs. T i m e . . . </p>
<p>s t o o d . . . s t i l l. When at long last my final notes decayed, scattered, anemic applause ushered me off-stage. I cannot recall ever having left a stage so quickly, before or since. I wanted to be invisible. But that was going to be difficult, what with my bright red, tricked-out 1942 Chevrolet panel van with the 390 cubic inch Corvette engine and dual glass-packs parked out front of Lena's door! </p>
<p>Ah, yes. Then there was that time my new neighbor needed a favor. Jack, like me, was a transplant to the North Country. Unlike me, he was a high school drop-out from New Jersey who had returned from Viet Nam with PTSD and a limp. He was funny as hell, but also had a wicked temper. One never knew which Jack you'd get. Anyway, he had gone over to Canada to visit with 'friends'. As we lived practically on the St. Lawrence River with two international border crossings within an hour's drive, it was not at all uncommon for folks from either country to go back and forth regularly to shop, go to a hockey game or visit family...or 'friends'. I was not aware that Jack had Canadian friends. He'd never mentioned them to me. </p>
<p>Jack's wife dropped him off at the Canadian customs that morning. Wearing his tattered Army-issued fatigue jacket, he walked effortlessly through and was met by his 'friends' on the other side. An hour or two later, the friendly visit accomplished, he called his wife to pick him up on the American side. She refused. That explained why I received a very anxious phone call from Jack asking if I could pick him up at the border crossing. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed, ignoring a little voice inside that warned, “This could be weird. Or worse.” </p>
<p>I saddled up the ol' Chevy and off we went on the hour's drive to the Massena, NY border crossing. I expected to see Jack waiting for me at the US side of the crossing; I'd scoop him up and back to home we'd ride. Nope, no Jack. I pulled over near the Customs station to wait. Several US Customs agents eyed me from afar. I was used to such notice behind the wheel of a bright red, tricked-out 1942 Chevy panel van, so I didn't pay much mind. And then I spied Jack, on the Canadian side of the Customs station, frantically waving his arms in my direction. I fired up the engine, got out my documents and drove to the Canadian Customs station prepared to enter another country. What was actually about to occur was that I was going to pass through another Gate of Hell. </p>
<p>I presented my documents to the Canadian Customs agent. “Real nice truck, eh,” he smiled as he quickly looked the papers over and waved me through. O, Canada! I rumbled about a hundred yards into our neighborly neighbor's yard and saw Jack running towards me. I pulled a U-turn, only stopping to pick up a winded, very nervous Jack, and headed right back, this time to the US Customs station. The US Customs agent, having witnessed all of this, went through his robotic litany of the usual questions and then said curtly, “Pull the truck over there,” pointing to a garage-like structure. “Then you two wait inside here,” he grunted, pointing to the Customs station. </p>
<p>Inside the US Customs station, Jack and I sat on a bench. I was reminded of Arlo Guthrie, Alice's Restaurant and the garbage. We watched through the window as two Customs agents bristling with fire-power - one straining to hold a slathering German shepherd on a lead - walk to my van. I looked at Jack. “What is going on here,” I implored. Shrugging, he told me “I forgot my documents and couldn't get back into the US without them. I called Janine to bring them, but she's pissed at me. We were in a hassle with each other when she dropped me off and now she's refusing to pick me up. That's why I called you. Thanks, man.” </p>
<p>He'd figured that I could retrieve the necessary documents from his wife, deliver them to him and then take him home. Unfortunately for both of us, Jack had failed to tell me that I was supposed to bring the documents with me. Uh, oh. </p>
<p>So here we sat. I watched through the window as the US agents opened the truck's hood and doors. They peered in and around it, checking beneath with large mirrors. Then the dog, by now in a furious lather, was allowed to leap inside my van. I could not see what was happening, but I had a distinct feeling it was not good. I heard excited barking, and then the agents yanked the apoplectic animal out, tied it to a pole and went in themselves, armed with hammers and a crowbar. “What in bloody hell is going on now?” I fumed. </p>
<p>About forty-five minutes later, the agents emerged from the garage. One of them came in to the office and nonchalantly, perhaps disappointedly, said “You can leave now,” handing me my registration and drivers license. Just like that. No further document checks, finger prints, mug shots, pat downs. Nothing. Jack looked extremely relieved. </p>
<p>We walked to the garage to retrieve my van. “Holy Mother of Hiroshima, what the f*ck happened in here?” I gasped as I looked into the old truck. All the carpeting had been torn from the floor and ceiling. The faux-walnut paneling had been ripped from the walls, exposing the truck's steely ribs. My CB radio had been yanked from beneath the dash, leaving a web of dangling wires. All this left in a heap on the van's floor. On top of the detritus lay the thoroughly dessicated corpse of a rather large rodent. I am left to guess that the rampaging dog had sniffed out something 'suspect' within the walls and had alerted his masters that they ought begin the demolition. Maybe they had hoped to find a mother-lode of contraband. Or, maybe, just maybe, they were busting the chops of a couple of hippies by placing their dead rodent 'coup d'grace' on top of the mess they'd created? </p>
<p>On our journey home Jack let out a long, relieved sigh. He reached down into his jeans and produced a bulging bag of weed. “I thought for sure they were gonna find this,” he smiled. Jack is fortunate that the German Shepherd didn't remove his balls and that I let him live! I grumpily spent the next several days reassembling my van - sans rodent! </p>
<p>But I'm really digressing, aren't I. This was supposed to be about “The Ragtime Millionaire's Wild Ride”, wasn't it. OK. Here it is . . . </p>
<p>It was a lovely North Country summer morning in Chipman, NY as I readied the Ol' 42 for a trip back to visit family and to play a show at one of my favorite old watering holes, The Old Newgate Tavern in East Granby, CT. I had loaded up the van with all the necessary gear for a gig, a wife and a baby - though not necessarily in that order. Arising early, we were on the road by 6AM. I intended to beat any mid-day heat and allow for chance diversions. What had I intuited? </p>
<p>The sun shone brightly, the sky was cloudless and the birds were cheerily singing - or I think they probably were, but we couldn’t hear them over the growl and thrum of the 'Vette's engine and throaty exhaust. We had been gone slightly shy of an hour when the first link in the long disaster-chain of events busted loose. </p>
<p>One of the exhaust pipes, snapping off from the engine manifold, dropped to the pavement rushing below. As it pivoted around on its hanger, announcing its presence with a roaring engine and a horrible scraping, grinding noise The erstwhile pipe punctured the right rear 20" Firestone with a Hindenberg-like, earth-shattering explosion. We were on Rt. 56 in East Cupcake somewhere in the Adirondak foothills - no one, nothing around. The crippled van limped sadly off to the side of a narrow mountain road, coming to rumbling halt. </p>
<p>This now provided me the opportunity to discover several revelations about the old chariot: 1) The tirejack was missing; 2) I did not have a lug wrench that fit the wheel's lugs; and 3) None of that really mattered because we had no spare tire anyway! </p>
<p>After sitting for two hours by the side of some overgrown field, the sun was getting higher and temperatures all around were rising. Except for the periodic cricket chirps and nasty condemnations from my wife, it was pretty darn quiet. Eventually a grizzled farmer in an old green pick-up truck pulled up and, using his tools, helped me remove my destroyed tire. He was not going back to town, so back I walked the way I’d come, attempting to roll a flattened, 20” tire in front of me. After what seemed like days, I was picked up by a sympathetic, chain-smoking and probably deranged, woman who took me to a Potsdam tire dealer where I replaced the tire to the tune of $150. From the tire shop, I called a local friend who, despite his hangover, came and brought me back to the stranded Chevy and helped me reinstall the wheel. </p>
<p>About four hours had elapsed since I’d abandoned the van, and my wife’s disposition had not improved. In fact, my infant daughter had joined her in her displeasure. I tossed the rusted, broken-off exhaust pipe and muffler into the back and we were off with a deafening roar. </p>
<p>About five hours and way past lunchtime later, we approached the sleepy hamlet of Warrensburg. I noticed that the fuel gauge had dropped to nearly empty. I knew the big motor was normally thirsty, but we hadn’t really traveled all that far. I'd grown used to guestimating the amount of fuel left in the tank. The gas gauge was always vascillating wildly between “E” and “F”, its needle doing a hyper-kinetic St. Vitus's dance. Got gas? Guess! </p>
<p>Spying a Stewarts Shop, I eased the Chevy next to a gas pump. As my cranky family went in search of some form of non-nutrative repast, I smelled gasoline. Lots of it. I bent over and looked under the truck. Sure enough, fuel dripped ominously onto the pavement. Leaving my family in the store and the truck at the pump, I walked a couple blocks to an auto parts store where I purchased some sort of Goop stuff. Crawling again under the gas tank, I smeared it onto the tank’s dripping seam with my bare hands. I then filled the tank only halfway with fuel and ducked under to examine - Sweet Jesus, it didn't leak! </p>
<p>Climbing stiffly back into the cab next to a forboding wife and squirming baby, I turned the key and punched the starter button – nothing! Out again I sprang. I checked all the battery and starter cable connections; all seemed tight. “OK, we'll simply jump start it,” I muttered, trying to remain calm though I was surely becoming peeved. My wife, up until now having reigned in most of her smug comments, loosed her Italian temper and let a vitriolic volley fly. </p>
<p>She had never driven the Chevy before and was begrudgingly forced into action behind the wheel. I got behind the van and began to push. And push. That brute would not move! So, as customers came into Stewarts, I recruited them to help me push, instructing my wife to turn on the ignition, put it in 2nd gear and pop the clutch once we got it rolling and I gave her the GO! </p>
<p>After several herky-jerky false starts in the Stewarts parking lot, my wife pointed the Chevy out onto the road and released the clutch – KA-POW! – that 390 cubic inch Corvette engine ignited, startling the small gathering of curious onlookers. My wife, with a fresh coffee and adrenaline induced jolt, floored the gas pedal. That fire engine red Chevrolet panel van lit up those 20” rear tires with a smoke show that amazed the astounded onlookers as it leapt the curb and straddled both road and sidewalk! Narrowly missing several telephone poles for nearly a hundred yards, the truck, piloted by a terrified bride, rocketed across the parking lot of the post office! Astonished postal patrons scattered as the unhinged vehicle tore across the manicured lawn of an adjacent funeral home. </p>
<p>I raced down the street in hot pursuit, arms waving, screaming above the din of the unmuffled engine for her to “Step on the clutch!” and “Turn off the ignition!” I was imagining my little daughter rattling around inside the van like a BB in an oil drum. My wife, bless her heart, located her wits and stepped on the clutch and brake and shifted into neutral, thereby bringing the raging van to rest, inches away from a flagpole by the town hall’s front entrance. I ran up, flung open the driver’s door and slid her into the passenger seat as I jumped behind the wheel and gingerly extricated the shuddering Chevy from its precarious, very public, position. </p>
<p>My daughter, wide-eyed but unhurt, lay strapped in her car seat, pink Binky pulsating wildly. Without a word, I eased the old truck onto Rt. 28 and nonchalantly headed south out of town before Johnny Law could learn of our whereabouts. My own adrenaline-fueled pulse did not calm down until we’d pulled onto the Northway and put many miles south between us and the once drowsy hamlet of Warrensburg. By this time, we’d been on the road about nine hours - still well under halfway to our Connecticut destination. In 'normal' conditions, the entire trip would have take around seven hours. </p>
<p>It was late afternoon, but we were thrumming along nicely, front windshield cranked open, allowing a fine summer breeze to cool us as David Bromberg boogied on the stereo. I got on the CB and learned from northbound truckers that we were “clean ‘n green” of police radar southbound all the way to the I-90 Thruway. Well, OK! </p>
<p>About thirty-five miles north of Albany and still many miles from the Thruway, the view from our open windshield began to change as the terrain transitioned from rural to urban. The western sky, all day having been a brilliant, cloudless blue, was turning ominously dark. Greenish, blue-grey clouds were quickly forming and roiling hellishly overhead. Occasional bursts of wind buffeted our nicely cruising van. Suddenly, random splats of rain spanked the windshield. I reached up to the tiny chrome knob above the windshield and turned on the single, vacuum-powered wiper. The little 10” blade began its solo slip-sliding dance over my half of the windshield, its rhythm dictated by whether the engine was accelerating (stop wiping) or decelerating (start wiping). There was no wiper on the passenger side. </p>
<p>The clouds seriously thickened and the rain began to pound down in sheets. This was looking less like a passing summer shower and more like a tropical monsoon. Time to close the windshield! Reaching over the tall, vibrating shifter with its black 8-Ball knob and the wildly shimmying emergency brake lever, I grabbed the windshield crank and turned. Nothing. Around and around the crank went, but the windshield remained open. Gritty spray was whipping through the 8" gap above the dashboard. I pounded on the dashboard, hoping to engage the crank, but but my useless beatings could not be heard over the vertically slashing rain, the buckshot cracking of thunder and hail, the rushing of wide tires over rapidly flooding highway and the roar of an unmuffled 390 cubic inch, high-performance Corvette engine! </p>
<p>Dirty water poured into the cab through the open windshield, cascading over the dashboard, saturating our legs on its way to the floor. The Chevy was transformed into a land-locked simulcrum of Niagara Falls' "Maid of the Mist". I worried that the rushing water would flow behind the dash and short out the wild tangle of wires and fuses hidden within. </p>
<p>My wife had pulled out towels and diapers from my daughter's bag and was futilely attempting to plug up the windshield gap. My daughter remained wide-eyed, strapped in her car seat to the rear floor, Binky still pulsating wildly. The little pneumatic windshield wiper valiantly slashed at the relentless deluge. “That wiper is next to worthless,” I shouted over the din. </p>
<p>Apparently hearing me and not appreciating my critique, the wiper, as if on cue, swung itself in a 360 degree arc before completely detaching itself from its motor and hurled itself sacrificially onto the Northway. I imagined it was about to meet its untimely demise under the crushing wheels of a Peterbuilt or Kenworth. </p>
<p>From what I could see, which now wasn't much, things were going from bad to worse in short order. I saw nothing at all beyond the grey, streaked, glass of the windshield. Trying to find a bit of humor in it all, I mused to myself, “So, this is what it must have been like to be Jules Verne? Or a marine mammal?” Mindlessly, I pulled on the headlight switch, hoping those old beacons would somehow enable the blind to see. It was as if the headlights had cataracts - they were useless. The BakeLite switch knob came off in my hand. In a blind rage, I threw it out the window. </p>
<p>A rancid smell of ozone began to permeate the cab and the dim dash lights began to flicker. The headlights blinked on and off in a schizophrenic Morse code. David Bromberg ceased to sing. And then the engine stopped. Then started. Then stopped. Then started again and ran for about thirty seconds before it died with a waterlogged wheeze. I somehow managed to pull off the highway without impaling ourselves on a guardrail or crashing into a piling. My wife stared straight ahead, wouldn’t look at me and said nothing. Anybody'swords at this point would be destined to fail. </p>
<p>I leapt from the cab, slammed the windshield shut with my flattened palms - “Should have done this earlier!” - and raised the hood. Within five seconds I was drenched. I once again checked the battery cables, and wiggled the broiling-hot spark plug wires as if this ju-ju would somehow make things right. Other blinded vehicles were now crawling over as I returned to the relative dryness of the steamy, foggy cab. </p>
<p>I sat silently fuming for about five minutes - then I exploded! I pounded the slimy dashboard with my Goopy, greasy hands. I stomped and squished the waterlogged shag carpet with my sloshing boots and screeched like a banshee into the relentless wind and rain. </p>
<p>My daughter, duly alarmed by my meltdown, explosively discharged her pink Binky with a shriek of her own and joined the fracas. The wife, exercising amazing zen-like restraint, remained silently smoldering. I kicked the spindly shifter with its stupid Eight-Ball knob. Then, like a mule, I kicked the emergency brake lever, and - EUREKA! - the lights came on! I kicked the brake lever again and again. The lights flashed on and off with each accost. </p>
<p>Once again I braved the deluge, this time slithering under the van like a water snake as torrents of greasy, muddy road water broke over my shoulders and filled my pockets with trash and silt. I located the brake lever and noted that, A) the lever had come loose from the chassis, and B) some genius had attached the vehicle’s ground strap to this loose, vibrating lever! Wishing I had a wrench, I finger- tightened the bolt and - voila! - the lights flashed on! I slogged back to the cab and pushed the starter button – nothing. “For f*ck's sake, what now!” I howled. </p>
<p>Grabbing a screwdriver – the only tool I had in the blue toolbox - I waded back out into the typhoon, and again raised the hood, searching this time for the starter motor. I screamed over the slashing rain for my wife to put the engine into neutral and her foot on the brake. As I arced the starter with my screwdriver - VRRRROOOOOOM! - the engine roared to life! </p>
<p>Back in the cab, engine purring contentedly - the only thing that seemed content - I set the giant heater to ‘Defrost’ in the hope of drying off the windshield. As the defroster’s sleepy electric motor gained momentum, hot, steamy air filled the cab and before long the entire interior was transformed into a rolling, roiling Finnish sauna. </p>
<p>At this point I momentarily considered walking to Connecticut - alone! But I quickly discarded that notion. Night was creeping in and we still had miles to go before we slept. I rolled down the windows to get rid of the risidual cabin fog and eased our way out onto the highway where we navigated around a somnolent Albany like damp, sightless moles pointed towards Rt. 90, eastbound. </p>
<p>Despite the moist, sauna-like conditions inside the old Chevy, the remainder of the ride onto the Massachusetts Turnpike and through the Berkshire Hills into Connecticut was uneventful, though the mood between us was decidedly tense and the climate unseasonably chilly. Drained and exhausted, we continued along our down-trodden route, illuminated by the two, pale yellow headlamps. It was nearly 11 o’clock when we arrived at my in-law’s home in northwest CT – seventeen hours since we'd left home that morning! </p>
<p>The quaint, Victorian house was situated on a quiet, rather hilly, side-street. It appeared as if the entire neighborhood had fallen asleep. Surely, no one was quite prepared for what would happen next. As unobtrusively as a B-52 bomber with no landing gear attempting to land on a flight deck, the fire engine red Chevy with the dancing buzzard graphics roared up the hill and into the front of the family house. </p>
<p>My Italian mother-in-law, in her housecoat and headful of curlers, burst from the door screeching “Madone! Turn that damn thing off!” as we rolled to a creaking stop. Up and down the street, lights could be seen flickering on as I extinguished the van’s lights, set the brake, shifted the transmission into gear and shut down the engine. The silence was deafening as we spilled like sodden rag-dolls out onto the street. I shall not go into the details of the ensuing dialog amongst my wife, in-laws and me. Suffice it to say, if murder were legal, I would not be writing this now. </p>
<p>After settling my daughter into bed and convincing the in-laws that I needn’t be immediately committed, I returned to the street to unload our stuff from the van. But, where was the van? I knew I was fatigued, had probably inhaled way too much carbon monoxide, but I could have sworn I remembered parking it right in front of the house. Nope, not there. </p>
<p>It was then that I noticed that the house at the bottom of the street, just where the road took a right elbow turn parallel to the river, was fully illuminated and the silhouettes of several people could be seen running frantically around. I casually strolled down the street towards the bustling activity to investigate the commotion, carefully remaining in the shadows, </p>
<p>And there it was - the tricked-out, fire engine red, 1942 Chevrolet Panel Van with the 390 cubic inch high-performance Corvette engine, the deep-dish Competition White mag wheels twisting the 20” Firestone tires (but minus one glass-packed muffler), faux-walnut paneling and matching brown and cream high-pile shag carpeting - sitting balanced precariously on top of the guardrail, hanging out over a ravine where the storm-swollen rapids of the Salmon River frighteningly churned and broke below. </p>
<p>Before long, the sirens and flashing blue and red lights from assorted police, fire and emergency vehicles had awakened the rest of the neighborhood, alerting them that some dummy had driven a relic truck up onto the guardrail and that at any moment it would likely be tumbling into the ravine where it would burst into a fireball to rival Hiroshima. Bedroom lights up and down the street continued to flicker on, revealing the heads of the curious peering from opened windows. I nonchalantly strolled onto the scene as if I hadn’t already a clue as to what was happening. </p>
<p>Feigning surprise, I approached a tired-looking police officer and identified myself. I told him that, sadly, it was indeed my truck suspended there over the river. I tried to explain what I thought had happened. He incredulously glanced alternately between me and the suicidal Chevrolet. </p>
<p>Fortunately, the cop was somehow related to my in-laws and no violations were issued. It had taken a pair of wreckers to hoist the errant van from its perch and be towed it to a local garage where it was committed for several days' observation. But it would take me months to pay off the hefty extrication, towing and storage fees! </p>
<p>Early the next morning I surreptitiously returned to the scene. The sun rose dimly as I wearily retraced the tracks of the van’s psychopathic rampage. It had traversed across two adjoining yards, leaving deep, muddy ruts as it gathered speed. It tore up a length of privet hedge, knocking down a split-rail fence and flattening a three foot fuel oil fill-pipe on its quest for vehicular repose. The van had avoided a neighbor’s porch by mere inches, preferring instead to crush a Big Wheel tricycle and a potted palm before bouncing over the curb and crossing the road before attempting to hurdle the guardrail. </p>
<p>True to its military heritage, that ’42 Chevy was built like a tank. It survived its ordeal with only a few minor scratches. My in-laws, now thoroughly convinced - with NO room for discussion! - that I was a fool, rented a sensible car for my wife and daughter in which to return home. I completed my business in CT and returned to the farm – driving the ol’ van – a few days later, complete with a new tailpipe and muffler...and gas tank! </p>
<p>The Ragtime Millionaire rode that ol' Chevrolet several more years and thousands more miles, collecting many more adventures. Our relationship actually lasted longer than my marriage did, but who's surprised? I certainly won’t tell you that those years were carefree, though. Finally, after the barrel heater broke and I spent an entire, brutal winter frozen to the steering wheel, I felt compelled to replace the ol’ ride with another - a much newer and more reliable VW van. </p>
<p>Still, I just couldn’t bear to part with my old partner and road warrior. It followed me around - unregistered, uninsured, forlorn - for several more years. I began to actually feel sorry for it. The ol' rattle-trap deserved a good home with someone who’d learn to love/hate it like I did. Some guy just over the New York line offered me a few hundred bucks. I took it. The '42 Chevy van was gonna go home to New York and that felt right. This guy really hot-rodded it up, painted it lemon yellow. I saw this reincarnation once in a custom car show a few years later. My ol' ride looked really sharp and I was sure glad to see it! Funny, but that Chevy wouldn’t look back at me. I understood. </p>
<p>Years later, I am no longer The Ragtime Millionaire, but I’m still driving around in a van full of tattered guitar cases and amps. It is fire engine red. It's outfitted with mags and wide tires. It's got a lo-performance, four cylinder engine, four-on-the-floor, all-wheel-drive tranny and quiet factory exhaust. The windows and nifty sun-roof open with a push of a button - no more crank-open stuff for me – and there's real air conditioning! My Honda Element may not be as showy as a customized '42 Chevy panel van with a 390 cubic inch Corvette engine, walnut paneling, shag carpeting and hand-painted buzzard graphics on the side, but it sure is reliable. </p>
<p>I may still be a little vain. Now, I’m The Practical Penny Pincher, but you can call me Pecuniarium.</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356902022-01-23T11:02:29-12:002023-05-09T04:44:03-12:00Who Is Dr. Ea$y?<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/b5679463a5f46ccd182279d3a61c13ae60b35911/original/drlogoart.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDMzOSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="339" width="350" /></p><p><span class="text-big"> Readers of my stories and gig announcements will often see a reference to a certain “Dr. Easy”. There never seems to be an actual, verified photo or video of him; he's nowhere to be found backstage at shows; no one that I know has actually seen him, nor heard him. The only evidence that I have his existence are some forgotten sunglasses (he likes sunglasses, even at night), an errant old hat (he loves hats of all kinds, but seems to lose them...probably just an excuse to get another?), or an empty rum bottle...or two. He never loses a cell phone because he hates them. Won't buy one, either, though he's quite happy to borrow one. He is no fan of technology and proudly admits to being "a analog mon inna digital worl'!" But I can assure you, he <i>does</i> exist for he's actually an amalgam of several, very real qualities. </span></p><p><span class="text-big"> Some wonderful colleagues in one of my prior lives as a hospital Emergency Room psychiatric clinician got a kick out of my initials – DR – and took to calling me “Doctor” for no really good reason other than that. After one particularly grueling sixteen-hour night shift, I was asked how I'd managed the intense crazy I'd been dealt, I simply replied, “Easy.” From that point onward I was lovingly(?) referred to as Dr. Easy, an ironic, 'gallows humor', tongue-in-cheek wink to the extremely necessary and difficult work we did. </span></p><p><span class="text-big"> The moniker stuck, but<i> I</i> am not the real<i> </i>Dr. Easy. The <i>real </i>Dr. Ea$y likes to spell his name using a dollar $ign instead of the letter “s”, and as is often the case, this<i> </i>is as close to any money of his own that he ever gets. He says he “likes to t'ink big and do t'ings dif'runt.” I tend to agree.</span></p><p><span class="text-big">The <i>real </i>Dr. Ea$y seems to like me alright. He tells people that he's my wildly talented, though reluctant, contrarian muse - sort of a creative, alter-ego-sometimes-buddy with a crotchety disposition. Unless, of course, you have some good, Caribbean rum on hand! Then things can get jolly - and wild - real quick!</span></p><p><span class="text-big"> I never know when he'll present himself and am always surprised when he does. He doesn't return any of my calls. He says, “I am di-rek<i> </i>from the ether, meh-son. I operate on my <i>own </i>time.” So it would seem, but the 'ether' always seems to know when it's mealtime. Or that I'm in the shower. Or attempting to fall asleep. Or otherwise predisposed! It's in moments such as these that he offers his unsolicited two-cent's worth about whatever topic he cares to discuss, regardless of any interest I might have. One can almost always count on him to disappear when a helping hand is exactly what's needed, leaving behind a sink of dirty dishes, a few empties, the aforementioned sunglasses or rumpled hat and a faint odor of salt air. He sets the agenda - I do not - and I've come to understand from our interactions that I have to carefully mine any truly useful tidbits of info or good counsel like well-hidden, elusive diamonds sequestered within a mountain of dense BS.</span></p><p><span class="text-big"> Remarkably, though, the Doctor is almost always right - except when he is not. He likes to tell me how I should do things: Like how I need to play the guitar a particular way (despite his not knowing the first thing about how to play a guitar), or how I ought to interpret a song (though he sings like a howler monkey). That said, his choices of tunes are usually pretty good and make up a significant part of my repertoire. Should I choose to ignore him or his suggestions though, he'll sulk and get snippy with me. </span></p><p><span class="text-big"> Dr. Ea$y typically embodies the smooth, laid-back easy cool of several of my West Indian musician friends, speaking in their patois from time to time. However, his moods can swell up like a Caribbean squall and he can turn into a cantankerous old feral island cat just like that. I can tell that he enjoys hanging out with me - pontificating about almost anything, anywhere, anytime. But mostly he prefers to keep to himself. As he says, “I'm meh own bes' audience. You got ta take this here tip I'm offerin' you, bwoy.”</span></p><p><span class="text-big">If you ever do see him out and about in your travels, say “Hello" to him for me, but don't ask him for any advice - or to play his guitar. Or sing. Others around you may think you are talking to yourself, but we know better, don't we.</span></p><p><span class="text-big">By the way, the drawing above was done by a forensic artist from my best description. He says it was the most challenging piece of work he's ever encountered. 'Bout sums the good Doctor up, too.</span></p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/68776342022-01-23T10:47:47-12:002022-01-31T07:18:06-12:00Close Encounters<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/02058fff2d0ccf44a0d0bed176990c57635c3159/original/dildo-the-turk.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_thin" alt="" /></p>
<p>Nothing was unusual about my walk back from Drunk Bay - just down the path from the Salt Pond Bay that lay east of Coral Bay, St. John. I'd done it dozens of times over the years. On this beautiful morning I'd just finished shooting some promotional photographs of my cigar box guitars set amongst the whimsical coral, rock, driftwood and found object sculptures, obelisks and wacky who-knows-what created along this wild and windswept stretch of uninhabited beach by artists unknown. But then, out of nowhere, things took a turn for the weird. It was here that I had an awkward, somewhat surreal encounter that bears retelling. </p>
<p>Earlier that morning I'd packed up my little Canon camera, two of my homemade cigar box guitars and went down to the sculpture-strewn beachhead at Drunk Bay to take some promotional photos of the cigar boxes before the shadows took over. I was heading back on the little path to my tattered, borrowed Jeep - a real 'island car' - that waited like a loyal old steed in the parking area beyond. I always enjoy hiking this particular path, the sun gloriously warming my face as I leave the crashing waves of the Atlantic over my shoulder. I wend my way first through ancient coral barrens, carefully stepping over loose rock and chunks of coral so as not to bash the guitars to splinters, and then through the scrubby bush - choked with thorny catch 'n keep, Christmas bush (one does NOT want to receive a Christmas gift from this bush for it is pain that keeps on giving!) and stubby, wind-scupted seagrapes. Shortly, the path opens up on the left to the real salt pond - a shallow, brackish body of copper colored water with tiny clouds of salt foam scudding across the surface and collecting upon the shore. Salt Pond, where old-time West Indians still harvest salt and, when ill, go to bathe in its allegedly curative waters, slathering themselves with its mineral-rich, rejuvenating mud. Strolling along, I passed various long-legged wading birds languidly hanging out by the pond's edge. I can't figure out why they're there </p>
<p>for I've never seen fish, or any life, whatsoever. And, the water smells really rank! They must know something I don't. </p>
<p>As the sandy path meanders along the lee of the salt pond's shore and away from Drunk Bay, the wind dies and the tropical heat turns up. Off to the right the vegetation thickens, broken only by a tangled, barely visible path, or more accurately, nocturnal byway for bush goats, deer and the errant wild donkeys. Now and again the landscape gets punctuated by tuberous, prickly succulents like aloe - good stuff for those sunburns...and cactus wounds! Gigantic, stately bluish-green century plants - some with a single, otherworldly stalk protruding like a steroidal asparagus from its core – mingle with pointed green and red pineapple bush, mutant generations away from their fruit-bearing Hawaiian cousins. But to me, the most striking of the vegetation inhabitants in this arid, tropical terrain are the cacti. There are a few different varieties, but I only know the names of two. </p>
<p>I am familiar with the Turks Head cactus because, well, it looks like an unshaven, short, plump, green Turk wearing his colorful red fez. Some show-off Turks Heads will wear multiple fezzes (fezii?) and can get rather rotund though they will rarely stand more than two feet tall. Probably related to the barrel cacti family, the Turks Head fez produces a delicious little fruit that looks like a miniature, very pink chili pepper. But it's not hot like a pepper; it's simultaneously sweet and tart - and very high in vitamin C. The trouble is, each fez produces only one or two tiny fruits at a time, so if you want to have a tasty snack, better plan on traipsing around in the bush, getting sunburnt and certainly stabbed by more than a few stationary, though angry, Turks! But, then there's always the aloe! </p>
<p>The other cactus is less cute and somewhat more dramatic with its great, almost tree-like height and multiple, cylindrical green arms, rife with rows of small, spiky thorns no more than half an inch long. The thorns are almost invisible from afar. To a careless hiker, the arms of these cacti can have a long reach and are capable of providing quite the laceration. These cacti look much like smaller versions of southwest America's saguaro cacti, but here in the Virgin Islands, the West Indians call them “dildo”. Their perverted idea of humor, perhaps? </p>
<p>Anyway, as I was ambling along the path back to the beach at Salt Pond Bay, enjoying a brisk seabreeze on my sweating back and the midmorning sun's warmth on my face, the magical scenery unfolded before me. I was not thinking of anything in particular when I thought I heard voices. Not the Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus kind of voices, nor those from the hordes of sun-burned tourists beginning to arrive at the Salt Pond Bay beach - I was still too far away from there and the wind wasn't right for that. These voices sounded a bit...shrill and, well, amazed. A few steps closer and I discerned that they were women's voices. A few steps more and their British Empire accents became plain. </p>
<p>The path to Drunk Bay is not routinely traversed by tourists, especially in mid-day. At a tad more than half-mile in length, it's too short for a good vigorous hike, so those looking for a lung-busting cardiac workout would be sorely disappointed. Nor does the path lead to a comfortable, family-oriented sandy beach with shady palms and a tiki bar. It will take you by that stinky, orange pond. And, it's too damn hot. Even the lizards don't show themselves! Unless one were purposely going to see Drunk Bay's wonderfully wacky, transient assemblages, fashioned by the mercies of the sea and the whim of the artistic types who erect them, no one would be out here now. Except, perhaps another nut like me. Or two. </p>
<p>“Oooooh, just look at that, Agnes!” chirped a melodious voice in utter amazement. </p>
<p>“You better stand away from it, Olive, dear. It looks most dangerous,” worried Agnes, who nervously drew out the word “dangerous”, adding emphasis to her anxiety. </p>
<p>“Pah! You sound just my son, you do, always telling me to be careful. Watch out for this...watch out for that! Tiddles to you, my dear Agnes! This terrain is fascinating and I shall get as close as I like,” </p>
<p>chided Olive. “I'm getting my camera ready for this, I am! The garden club will surely want to lay eyes on these fine fellows!” she continued defensively, clipping her words in a high-class British sort of way. “You don't think I shall need my tripod, do you? This wind is unpredictably ghastly.” </p>
<p>Just then I rounded the bend about twenty five feet from the pair. I was sweating profusely, unruly hair blowing wildy in the wind; I had removed my damp shirt. In one hand I carried the shirt, in the other a pair of cigar box guitars. My camera bulged obscenely within my shorts pocket. The two women had paused by a tiny clearing just off the path and were admiring something not yet visible to me. They appeared quite fit, though each had to be well into their 70s, perhaps early 80s! It was hard to tell by their garb. </p>
<p>Each wore a variety of safari bush gear that I imagined one might find in a British Army-Navy surplus store: long-sleeved khaki shirts, sturdy hiking boots with calf-length, black woolen socks pulled up over matching khaki jodpurs. Each wore a vest, outfitted with countless pockets filled with God knows what - perhaps a Middle English copy of the Canterbury Tales, a Cadbury or two, a tin of Darjeeling...maybe a refreshing Schweppe's or a nip of Bombay? Olive's vest was green (but of course) and Agnes's a regimental khaki. Olive, rather a stout woman, wore a genuine English pith helmet over her hair which was tightly pinned in a bun. She sported a large red bandana around her neck, Boy Scout-style, and in addition to her binoculars, a pair of cameras and a compass hung precariously low. Olive was, as they say, definitely 'large and in charge'. </p>
<p>Agnes was considerably thinner and a bit shorter than her compatriot. Under her broad, floppy- brimmed cloth hat (also khaki) she wore a long, loose, Lawrence of Arabia styled white scarf that trailed down behind her thin back. She seemed preoccupied by her round, black, heavily-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down her damp nose. She repeatedly pushed them back, only to have them slowly ease back down. I imagined that her nose was well lubricated with sun screen. She too had binoculars suspended from her neck. And a whistle on a woven lanyard. Each had a canteen strapped to their waists, a sturdy knapsack to their back, and bore stout wooden hiking sticks like war clubs. Imagine a female version of Laurel & Hardy cast in Lawrence of Arabia, or as holdovers from the front lines of the Boer War. They hunched over a small cactus, peering intently, cautiously, at it as if it might suddenly lurch onto their path. </p>
<p>I had noticed them for about five seconds before they noticed me ambling along the path. As I entered their peripheral vision, they startled and stood up straight, clutching their hiking sticks tightly. </p>
<p>“Oh! Oh!!!” whooped Agnes, quickly taking a small step closer to Olive, nearly knocking her over onto the cactus. Both women stood erect with their mouths open, speechless, staring wide-eyed as I approached. Now, I'm certainly no Jason Momoa, or even Jason Alexander for that matter. I'm just a harmless, old Woodstock-era dude. But with my wild windblown hair, week-old beard and sweating shirtless paunch, I must have appeared for all the world to them as an island castaway. Or demented pirate? Worse, I was heading their way! </p>
<p>I held up my hand that carried the cigar box guitars and waved at them with my other. They could only blink, mouths agape. I thought that at any moment they might either break off in a sprint crashing through the bush or, just as likely, give me a sound thrashing with their sticks. That old “never get another chance to make a good first impression” saying flit through my mind. </p>
<p>Olive bravely broke the silence. “I say there, my fine fellow, do you reside here? Perhaps you know what these are?” Olive gestured with her stick towards a bulbous pair of rotund cacti. </p>
<p>“I sure do,” I said cheerily, trying to put them at ease, as I slowly approached. “I have a little shackteau about a mile from here, just above Miss Lucy's. Those two little guys you are looking at are Turk's Head cacti. See the little red fez each is wearing?” </p>
<p>“Astounding!” gasped Olive, taking out a pencil and tiny notebook. She scribbled something in it. Agnes, remaining silent, still wasn't so sure about me. “We wish to photograph the local flora here on this delightful island for our garden club back in Sussex. That's in England,” she said, as if I were daft. </p>
<p>“And this tall, rangy fellow here,” continued Olive pointing her stick at the dildo cactus. “Do you happen to know what it's name is, too?” I could see in her bright, hazel eyes that Olive was beginning to get just a little bit excited. Except for the fluttering of her Lawrence of Arabia scarf and oversized hat brim in the sea breeze, Agnes remained as motionless as a da Vinci statue. </p>
<p>“We really should be trotting on, Olive dear,” said Agnes, sotto voce as she clutched Olive's sleeve. “I should think that they'll be wondering where we are.” </p>
<p>“Pish-posh, Agnes! This gentleman seems to know some things about the flora that surely will be of interest to the girls. Now, what did you say you call this tall fellow here, then?” chirped Olive, turning to me. She lowered her stick and raised her pencil. </p>
<p>“I don't know its Latin name, but I do know what the West Indians call it. It's kind of crudely suggestive and I don't I want to offend you proper English ladies,” I said, trying to add a bit of humor and perhaps defuse Agnes who I was not yet convinced wouldn't bolt off like an iguana through the bush. </p>
<p>“Why, whatever do you mean, sir? We did not fall off a dustman's lorry yesterday you know,” retorted Olive, waving the little notebook in my direction, a bit of annoyance flared in her voice. She now reminded me of Hyacinth, a character in the BritCom, Keeping Up Appearances. “I do believe I can well manage learning the bloody name of one of the residents of God's great garden!” She hooted at me like an astonished owl. </p>
<p>Well, OK then. “It's called the dildo cactus,” I said, looking at them directly. </p>
<p>Wide-eyed, Agnes grasped Olive's forearm more tightly, knuckles whitening. She seemed as if she might faint away at any moment. Agnes glanced anxiously at the camera bulging in my shorts. Both ladies' mouths again dropped open and they stared at me like an island deer in the headlights. For a brief moment even Olive was speechless. It was as if the earth stood still. I thought maybe this could be the catalyst that would ignite Agnes and make her begin blowing her whistle, but she remained stunned. </p>
<p>'I've tazered them with my words!' I mused to myself. </p>
<p>It was Olive who, again, broke the awkward stalemate. “Very well then. Thank you, sir, you have been most helpful and now we really must be going. Come along, Agnes!” And off they traipsed . . . straight into the bush! </p>
<p>I knew they wouldn't make it very far at all into the thick, tangled bush before they realized that they'd better recalculate their route! I would have liked to have stayed around to watch this tiny drama unfold, but I figured the pair had had enough embarrassment for one morning. I resumed my walk along the path to my Jeep, further into my day. </p>
<p>***** </p>
<p>As often occurs on this small Caribbean island, peoples' paths cross all the time, sometimes quite unexpectedly. Olive and Agnes would soon experience this phenomenon as their paths would soon cross again with mine. </p>
<p>The next evening, I recognized both expeditionary English ladies dining seaside with their two adult children at Miss Lucy's Caribbean restaurant where I supported myself by playing music for the guests several nights a week. I almost didn't recognize them without their khaki uniforms and field gear - or in </p>
<p>the company that they were currently keeping. I did not want to embarrass them so I avoided their curious stares ricocheting in my direction. </p>
<p>As fate would have it, here sat Agnes' daughter, the lithe and lively blonde Sylvia, who was married to Olive's chubby, pasty, son, Teddy. And there they were, all together, escaping England's dismal winter on a tropical holiday in St. John. Sylvia and Teddy had already heard me play at Estate Concordia earlier in the week and had become new 'fans'. In fact, it was the bikini-clad Sylvia who had chased me down the Salt Pond Bay beach earlier that day to ask if she could have Teddy take her photo with me and my cigar box guitars – only moments after I'd had my cactus encounter with their mothers on the path to Drunk Bay! </p>
<p>As I was preparing to take my first-set break at Miss Lucy's, Sylvia walked up and invited me to meet her mother along with Teddy's mum. I nervously agreed and we strolled back to their table shaded by an ancient sea grape tree. Sylvia introduced me to her mother and mother-in-law. When I smiled, “I believe we've already met,” Olive and Agnes, suddenly recognizing me, exploded in laughter! It was now Sylvia and Teddy's turn to be confused and stunned. </p>
<p>We exchanged stories and enjoyed several more wonderful laughs that evening. They stayed for my entire show and we “closed up” Lucy's. As we walked together to the parking lot – they even helped me load-out my gear! - Olive took me aside. Touching me lightly on the arm she said quietly, “You know, young man, you have contributed wonderfully to our holiday. Thank you.” </p>
<p>I chuckled to myself at the 'young man' reference. “Not at all,” I replied, for I had to admit that they, too, also created more island memories for me. Close encounters: You just never know when you're going to have them, do you? And maybe, just maybe, one does get a second chance to make a good impression?</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/68776322022-01-23T10:43:17-12:002024-01-12T09:50:54-12:00The 8th Gate of Hell - or No Bar-B-Q for You!<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/ea742016e99923e6458c1fce16c05ee5b3ed1932/original/img-0825.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" alt="" /></p><p align="CENTER"><font size="4"><strong>The Eighth Gate of Hell</strong></font></p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Prelude</strong></p><p>“I think <i>you</i> should deal with this,” she said.</p><p>Something about the emphasis on 'you' got me to put my coffee down and look at the letter she slid across the table. I noticed our car's branded logo prominently featured on the letterhead. “What now?” I mused as I scanned the letter. What sort of fresh hell was before me, deigned to ruin a perfectly good day? If I'd only known. Perhaps I <i>did.</i></p><p>“<i>Your vehicle's On*Star is about to EXPIRE!”</i></p><p>Oh, so what. I'll be happy to <i>not</i> have my car sending me annoying messages on the dashboard, texting me stuff I already, or don't want to, know. <i>I'll</i> keep track of when my windshield wiper fluid is low, when my oil needs changing, when I should rotate my tires or check their pressure, when the road is wet, or if it's dark outside. I've driven for well over 50 years and never had to have my vehicle tell me what to do, or when, thank you very much. I am not particularly interested in having some On*Star satellite device tracking my whereabouts, my speed and who knows what else. At one point I had even asked the dealer if I could turn all that junk off. “No. And why would you want to?” he replied. He just wouldn't understand.</p><p>“<i>To keep apace of improved technology, we are phasing out all 3G On*Star systems and moving over to a more powerful 5G network! Your current 3G On*Star subscription is due to expire on January 1, 2022. Please contact your authorized dealer to schedule a </i><span>free </span><i>5G update before January 15, 2022. After that date you will be charged for this service. Thank you, Valued Customer!”</i></p><p>“Sweetie, I don't want this thing,” I sputtered to my wife. “It can only be installed by a dealer, the closest being an hour away from here. We'll have to sit around some Miracle Mile car lot wasting a good day to get something we don't use or want. I say 'no'.”</p><p>She understands my resistance. She knows that technology and I historically have not gotten along very well. “Well, I think we should. It won't cost us anything,” she said, tapping the letter pointedly with her index finger – a sure sign that she meant business. “Hummmphhh,” I grumped to myself.</p><p>And so it was to be. I reluctantly called for an appointment and was given my choice of day and time. I picked one and wrote it on my wall calendar in pencil. My wife entered the info into the scheduler on her iPhone – a skill I have yet to acquire, nor do I intend to for I am proudly an analog man in a digital world. Another way of admitting “I am a dinosaur.”</p><p>A day before the appointment as I was preparing to engage in my daily practice of the guitar, the phone rang. A chipper young woman's voice asked if I was enjoying my day. This sort of thing makes me immediately suspicious. What sort of ticking bomb was cloaked inside her overtly pleasant greeting?</p><p>“So far,” I replied.</p><p>“Oh, good,” she chirped, “I'm really sorry to tell you, Mr. Reed, that your appointment scheduled for tomorrow's 5G On*Star update has to be changed. Unfortunately we double-booked you. Could you come in on Thursday?”</p><p>As performing musician most of my life, I've had my share of double-bookings. Not a good thing and I've never gotten used to them. Her call set off some dormant resentments that bubbled sourly to the surface. Fortunately, I remembered that she was only the messenger and that I probably should not kill her. I held my tongue.</p><p>“No, Thursday does not work,” I replied tersely, thinking to myself “Why the hell didn't the <i>other</i> double-booked party get bounced? Was it because ours was a factory recall that we were not obligated to pay for?” I'm going with that - “Follow the money”.</p><p>“I'm so sorry,” she said cheerily, “what would you like to do then?” Now, <i>that</i> was a loaded question she might not like to hear me answer truthfully, but I continued to maintain a modicum of cool though hackles began to rise.</p><p>“Next week will be fine,” I replied, attempting to veil the chill in my tone.</p><p>“Great! Same day and time work for you?” Sure, I thought, as long as you don't pull a repeat play on me.</p><p>“Okey-dokey,” I feigned my best affability.</p><p>“Great! We'll put you on the schedule. Anything else I can do for you today?” Another loaded question.</p><p>“Do you know how long this procedure will take?” I asked.</p><p>“It shouldn't be more than three or four hours,” she chirped.</p><p>“Three or four hours! What am I getting? A heart transplant? I have to drive an hour each way for this?” So much for maintaining any cool.</p><p>“I'm sorry,” she said. I think she actually meant it. “Some folks get out of here in two and a half hours.” Hmmmmph - “Some folks?”</p><p>I exhaled. “Thank you. See you then.”</p><p>“You have a great rest of your day, Mr. Reed!”</p><p>“Sure thing. You too.”</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Fugue</strong></p><p>The appointed day came. As we headed out onto the super crowded super highway, the bride and I discussed the old saw about when life hands you lemons, better make sure you don't have a paper cut...or something like that. In order to rescue what was destined to be a wasted day, we decided that maybe it would be fun to find some tasty bar-b-cue for lunch, you know, to break up our monotonous travail. I looked forward to that possibility, though as I had not been to this dealership before, I had no real idea of where it was. Ergo, I had no idea whether there would be any tasty bar-b-cue nearby. Turns out, my premonistic vision of it being located amidst a cheek-by-jowl jumble of Miracle Mile chain stores, repair shops, tire dealers, car washes, mattress stores, fast-food joints, assorted warehouses and competing auto dealerships was <i>right on the money.</i></p><p>We pulled into the sparkling dealership and were cordially greeted by a smiling, not too unctuous, Service Writer who confirmed our appointment and took all the necessary info “to get you right into our system”. I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that.</p><p>“You'll be dropping the car off, or will you be waiting?”</p><p>“Oh, I suspect we'll be waiting. And waiting some more,” I said with a wry smile. “How long do you think this will take?” The Service Writer looked at me the way a heron stares at the water just before he spears a fish. “The 5G transfer procedure usually takes at least three hours, although a guy got out of here last week in two and half.” Where had I heard that? I resisted the urge to repeat my heart surgery quip. As we would be waiting for our car, he then summarily directed us to the Visitors Lounge. Little did I know what was to befall me.</p><p>He herded us outside across a breezy paved atrium devoid of life. We entered a somewhat sterile, modern, glass enclosed area with high, auditorium-like ceilings that served as both Visitors Lounge <i>and</i> New Car Showroom. Brilliant marketing strategy, methinks: Stick a bunch of disgruntled folks who'll have to wait interminably for their broken vehicle to be repaired – which could possibly cost them a second mortgage to retrieve - in very close proximity to a fleet of shiny, sleek new models with all the latest screens and gizmos designed to entrance and distract from the vehicle's rather sizable price tag. Also standing aloofly around, waiting to be at your service, is another fleet of equally shiny, sleek new model sales personnel - smiling, well-dressed and appealing, enticing you to come closer, to look, to touch, to smell, to feel, to <i>experience</i> the newest, the absolutely most luxurious...car. It's a freekin' car, for goshsakes!</p><p>The VL (visitor's lounge) was outfitted with some comfy, well-padded faux leather arm chairs. Apparently the dealership knew that one was going to be there awhile and they wanted you to be as comfortable as possible while you awaited your sticker-shock. They provided a modern, stainless steel Italian-looking coffee machine. And there was hot tea, bottled water and some munchy-crunchy snack like things. <i>All for free! </i>Well, not really free because you surely would be paying for it all later when the bill arrived. However, we were relieved to observe in this pandemic time of Covid that the armchairs were 'socially distanced' and that nearly all the other lounge denizens were masked – except the nondescript, 60ish woman wearing a well-worn “Do you Q?” t-shirt who stared vacantly at her pocketbook nestled in her lap the entire time.</p><p>I settled in with my Kindle book, my wife with her crossword puzzle. “Three hours? Gonna be a real endurance test for this ol' cowpoke,” I mused, half aloud. “Don't think about it,” counseled my wife. Sure. OK. I began reading my book. And then it hit me between the ears like a riveting ball-peen hammer: Canned muzak - played too loudly - through cheap ceiling speakers. Hip-hop alternating with New Country. Hip-hop. New Country. Hip-hop. New Country. Hip-hop. Ad nauseum.</p><p>As a professional musician, I like to think that my musical palette is as deep as it is broad. But when it comes to these two genres, I am apparently closed up tighter than a Wellfleet oyster. I acknowledge that hip-hop is a vital and powerfully representational form of urban street poetry, but it ain't what I call music. With its computerized samples and loops, voice pitch modulators and other sundry electronic gimmickry - and rarely a live musical instrument to be heard - it just doesn't fit my construct of 'music'. However, if one ascribes to the 20<sup>th</sup> century electronic music composer Vladimir Usachevsky's simplistic definition of music as “man's organization of sound”, hip-hop falls right into that pocket. But I don't like Vladamir Usachevsky either. Try as I might, I simply can not decipher most hip-hop lyrics, and the ones that I can, I don't like the violent, misogynistic, bristling with machismo content. While I can understand the lyrics and stories in the New Country genre, they all seem thematically and lyrically recycled, musically redundant - and very boring.</p><p>I know, I know. 'Variety is the spice of life', 'Different strokes for different folks,' 'Change is the only constant' and all that. I willingly admit to some - OK, <i>a lot</i> - of ol' fogeyism on my part, attributed to my being a white, middle-class, suburban old hippie guy with all the cultural biases this implies. That's my rationale and I'm sticking with it.</p><p>As I sat squirming in my seat, the two unnerving genres conspired to beat me mercilessly with their nauseating ostinato phrases, redundant rhythms and undecipherable lyrics. There was no 'Off' switch. Seated beneath the ceaseless aural assault emanating from the ceiling and reflecting off of the bare walls and windows, I wondered about how the art of songwriting could have morphed into such overtly banal, homogenous tripe – and how long would it take me to go ditheringly insane? I began to mimic one of the simplistic, repetitive phrases out loud.</p><p>“Will you just <i>shush</i>!” my wife whispered to me, gesturing slightly with her eyes towards the woman with the “Q” t-shirt who'd stopped staring at her pocketbook and had begun to glare at me. “It's times like this I envy the hard of hearing,” I muttered to my wife. I got up and walked out into the New Car showroom to seek any possible sonic relief.</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Scherzo</strong></p><p>“May we be of assistance to you, sir?” said a pleasant young saleswoman, as she stood, smoothing her skirt. I looked around. Except for a lone vehicle and the saleswoman, the cavernous room was completely empty. Unless one counted the several vacant desks behind which sat no one, I wondered who was the “we”?</p><p>“Uh, where are all the cars?” I asked.</p><p>“Oh, on nice days we like to put them outside,” she smiled, tossing her hair and gesturing with her arm to several rows of shiny vehicles lined up beyond the glass – some no doubt overheating in the warm sun, others enjoying the shade of the live oaks. “Wow!” I mused, “just like barnyard animals!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” I smiled back. “I'm just stretching my legs. Got a long wait. I'm having heart surgery,” I gestured with my thumb towards the Lounge.</p><p>“What!?”</p><p>The saleswoman, appearing stunned, stared and then turned on her heels and returned to sit at one of the desks. Seeing I wasn't <i>a live one</i>, she redirected her focus to her iPhone. I left, relieved that I did not receive an aggressive sales pitch, and trudged back to my lounge seat to the accompaniment of the staccato, primal beats shooting from the speakers like BBs and the muffled phone conversation of the saleswoman who looked askance at me as if I were diseased.</p><p>“What did you see?” asked my wife, looking up from her crossword puzzle.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Well, you're in a mood.” She quietly returned to the challenge of her NY Times puzzle, leaving me to stew. I admire her tenacity, her ability to overlook niggling annoyances. This may have been a survival skill she has developed living with me.</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Adagio Molto</strong></p><p>Time crawled painfully on hands and knees, leaving abraded scars on my patience. The aural barrage, unrelenting. Outside, afternoon shadows lengthened. My stomach growled; at least I was not alone in my suffering. My mind wandered from my book - When can we get something to eat? Might we find some delicious bar-b-cue? I don't want that crappy junk food. How much longer do we have to wait? I began to note that much of the hip-hop selections used identical, interchangeable beats; the New Country songs were nearly all in the same key – Eb I think, but I don't have perfect pitch. Thank god.</p><p>People who'd come into the VL to wait long after we'd arrived in the morning were beginning to leave, their service writer cheerfully greeting them with slips of paper that would reveal the damages they were about to pay. I envied them. I attempted to catch one of the service writer's eye as he breezed by. He didn't notice. The beat went on.</p><p>Eyes glazed, I slumped back into my faux leather chair. There was no clock on the wall. I know why. A good thing. For them. “If I'm going to die here, get it over with!” I thought. And then, bursting through the door came our Saviour, our lord Service Writer, bearing documents.</p><p>“Emancipation!” I cried. My wife glared at me.</p><p>“Mr. Reed?” the young fellow drawled. He moved faster than he spoke.</p><p>“That's me. Done already? Lawd, those three and a half hours really flew by!” I said, standing up.</p><p>“Mr. Reed, we noticed that your vehicle is due for its engine and cabin air filters to be replaced. Do you want us to do that now while you're here?”</p><p>“Ay yi yi! How long is <i>that</i> going to take?” I gasped. My wife gave me “the look”.</p><p>“Oh, we're not finished with your 5G upgrade yet, so I think we should be able to change those filters while it finishes up.”</p><p>“How much?”</p><p>“Do it,” my wife interjected. And that was that. I slumped back into the chair. I pondered whether I could make earplugs out of the complimentary coffee napkins.</p><p>I tried my best to concentrate on my book. Nope, not happening. I attempted to recall my efforts at meditation: “Just focus on your breath...in...out...in...out - letting any thoughts pass by, gently observing and then letting them go. In...out...in...out. You are at one with your . . . <i>Holy Mother of Tinnitus give me a rocket launcher, a blow gun, anything, just deliver me from this gawdawful noise!”</i> My brain was buzzing around busier than a bee in a tar bucket.</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Allegro non Troppo</strong></p><p>We'd been in the VL nearly over hours and I was falling deeper into a murmurating abyss of negativity. And then, another jolly service writer burst energetically through the door. “Wow, Mr. Reed, you're still here!? You must be getting really hungry. I've got a loaner car you can use – it's the grey one out there - why don't you and the missus go and get yerself some lunch! Want to?”</p><p>WANT TO!? Want to? Damn freekin' hey I want to! I sprang from my chair, fell to my knees and kissed his greasy Acme steel-toed boots. No, I really didn't do that, but I could have. I gratefully accepted the loaner key fob, and asked him if he could recommend any bar-b-cue places nearby.</p><p>“Naw, no bar-b-cue. But we got a Wendy's, Starbucks and a Dunkin' up the road a-ways,” he drawled apologetically. “It's a keyless car. Kin ya operate one those?”</p><p>Keyless bulldozer, steamship, unicycle...whatever it was, I was just happy for a chance to get away from that damnable muzak!</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Marche Triomphe</strong></p><p align="LEFT">My bride, who'd been sitting the entire time, creaked out of her faux leather lounge chair. “Let's get out of here,” she said. It's the first evidence I had that she was wearing thin as well. We hobbled out into the waning afternoon light, keyless fob in hand. “It's the grey one,” she says, as if I needed reminding. Gripping the keyless fob, I squinted into sun at <i>three</i> identical grey cars parked next to each other. Our mission: to figure out which car the fob belonged to. I aimed, waving the fob around at the three grey cars like some crazed Luke Skywalker with a tiny light sword, randomly pressing buttons on it. I received “the look”. I might as well have been in Las Vegas at the slots because, eventually one of the vehicles began to chirp like a robot and flash its lights. Jackpot!</p><p align="LEFT">We plopped into the new car and I availed myself to its myriad dials and the mysterious machinations of a rather large screen which occupied most of the dashboard. As this was a keyless car, there was no place to insert a key to start it, so finding the proper button to press to start the car took some exploration. Like a blind man reading braille, I eventually figured it out and we headed out of the parking lot and onto the Miracle Mile in search of something to stave off our hunger.</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Danse Joyoso</strong></p><p align="LEFT">“Where shall we go?” I asked my co-pilot.</p><p align="LEFT">“I don't know where we are, so how can I tell you?” Uh-huh, someone else is cranky, too.</p><p align="LEFT">“Well, why don't you ask your electronic guru where some bar-b-cue might be?” I queried.</p><p align="LEFT">“Good idea,” she said and dug around her knapsack for her iPhone. “Siri, is there any bar-b-cue restaurant around here?”</p><p align="LEFT">In a moment Siri's insipid Australian accent replied: “I have found a Krystal restaurant. It is .6 miles from here. It gets one and a half stars. Do you want that one?”</p><p align="LEFT">“Crystal? Crystal what,” I moaned. “I think Crystal is a regional fast-food joint. Or a meth lab. It's not bar-b-cue. Or perhaps we've simply passed over into another dimension?”<br>As I am speaking this, we pass a Krystal (with a “K”) restaurant, and indeed I am correct - it is a cheap, regional burger chain. It's dilapidated sign informed us, “Sorry, We're Out of Business”. Of course.</p><p align="LEFT">“Let's cruise the strip a little and see if there's anything a little more interesting, shall we?” trying to keep any modicum of culinary hope alive.</p><p align="LEFT">We drove another mile up the strip, not noticing anything at all promising. Back down the strip we drove and then - my wife noticed a Wendy's nestled cheek by jowl with a huge Discount Tire Center. We knew what Wendy's was and what we'd find there. Wendy's was, well, Wendy's and it pretty much didn't matter where you were. Wendy's was Wendy's. We were becoming <i>hangry</i> and more than a little bored. Neither of us could remember when we'd last had fast food, so it was a consensus: Wendy's it would be! <i>Huzzah!</i></p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Danse al Dente</strong></p><p><span>We pulled into Wendy's drive-thru. We each chose an ol' reliable: Single cheeseburger, small fries and chocolate Frostee shake. We placed our order. We drove up to the pay window, and in a few minutes drove to the pick-up window where we were handed our food. Just as the clerk was handing us our bags o'lunch, we mutually looked at each other and burst into laughter. There, on the back edge of the Wendy's parking lot, sitting on a small patch of tired, vacant land with no flag, no sign, no nothing to announce their presence, was...you guessed it: </span><i><span>Bar-b-cue!</span></i></p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Danse Macabre</strong></p><p align="LEFT">Two old men wearing sooty overalls shuffled in and out of a tiny, tumble-down shack with blistering paint and a rusting tin roof as they labored over a pair of ancient, homemade 55 gallon drum smokers, both stained by years of the smoky soot, grease and the sauce of <i>real</i> bar-b-cue. A small stack of freshly split hickory and orange wood leaned against one of the smoker stands. Sweet wood smoke wafted from the lids of the drums as the old black man reached in with a heavy pair of cast-iron tongs and flipped over a great rack of smoky ribs. His white colleague, shirt spattered with sauce, placed another log in the smoker as his partner closed the lid. He then opened the other smoker and revealed several large, whole chickens that appeared nearly ready as one by one the other pitman gently turned them over. You could tell by the way they moved in concert with each other, this pair had done this delicious dance together for a long time. We rolled our windows down and inhaled the magical scent of the lunch we didn't have.</p><p align="LEFT">On another fire nearby, a great pot was steaming away. We lusted to know what savory goodness was within that blessed, soot-covered cauldron and what other tempting delights might be on their fare of the day. But we just didn't feel it would be prudent to go over and nose around their pit after we'd just bought our lunch at a corporate chain restaurant. Instead we stared longingly at them as they grilled. We wolfed down our cheap food, interrupted only by our spontaneous laughs of incredulity, vowing that if we ever had to return to this car dealership again, we'd know where to eat!</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Recapitulation</strong></p><p align="LEFT">After finishing our anti-climactic lunch, we reluctantly reversed course and returned to the dealership. I steeled myself for what fate lay ahead. We parked the grey car by the other grey cars and returned to the VL. The lounge was empty. Our same faux leather chairs, clearly conformed to <i>our</i> backsides, loyally awaited. We plopped down in our accustomed spots. Nearly five hours had passed since we had entered the VL. I was astounded to recognize exactly the same muzak we'd heard before. It was on a loop and had begun to cycle around again. My psyche was about to explode! It was then that I felt entitled to contribute to Dante's “Seven Gates of Hell” an “Eighth Gate” - forever doomed to an eternity of Muzakian Horrors from which I would never emerge. My wife displayed some sympathy for me and spared me any off-the-cuff remarks about my misery.</p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Danse il Soccorso</strong></p><p align="LEFT">I was beginning shake my foot and rock uncontrollably in my chair when yet another enthusiastic Service Writer came through the Gate and announced “Your vehicle is ready, Mr. Reed!” I leapt up and ran towards him babbling. I embraced him and kissed his cheeks in gratitude, promising him that I would dedicate my life to him...and even bring him bar-b-cue. No, I didn't do any of that. I just followed him into his Service Writer's kiosk and handed him my credit card, saying <i>nothing.</i></p><p align="CENTER"><strong>Finale</strong></p><p align="LEFT">I mean, what else could one do but chalk it up to another First World problem?</p><p align="LEFT">St. Augustine, FL</p><p align="LEFT">January 2022</p><p align="LEFT">photo: Claudia d'Alessandro</p><p align="LEFT">Munch's “The Scream” as bedspread art by C. d'Alessandro</p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p align="LEFT"> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356512022-01-23T10:27:34-12:002022-01-31T07:18:52-12:00Modern Flight<center style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/2dd7a6bcfcccf58d04c5aae6cdbfffd019708c58/original/modern-flight-stamp.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM3NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="374" width="450" /> <br> </center>
<center style="text-align: left;">
<p>It’s a Tuesday evening in early February and I am sitting on the porch of my funky, remote Shackteau in Coral Bay, St. John staring at quickly fading sunset, the illuminated cumulus clouds floating placidly over Tortola, BVI. A pair of lonesome donkeys meanders slowly down the road below accompanied by the distant sounds of bleating goats and the occasional rooster crowing from the bush. </p>
<p>“Me donkey wan’ wattah,” I hum this old Bajan calypso tune to myself. I am privy to a twilight exchange between an awakening coki frog and some retiring doves. A steady breeze blows across Drake’s Passage from the BVI and in the gossamer light of a rising full moon I can easily see the surf breaking over the shoals out in the bay. Quite different from last night when it rained and blew so hard that puddles were left on the floor inside and a screen blew out of my window and sailed across the room. Subtle whiffs of roasting fish now ride the freshening wind up from the little restaurant below. I’ll be playing music there soon. I am tired, but very glad to be back. </p>
<p>My flight from Hartford seemed like it was long ago and worlds away. But it was really only yesterday. I was accompanied by a few dozen travelers bound for Puerto Rico who muttered prayers, crossed themselves and kissed crucifixes every time we hit some turbulence - of which there was plenty. A lively, muscular Latin gentleman with a broad, gold-capped grin and shaved head sat next to me. His noggin had become a canvas for some elaborately garish tattoos – crude vignettes of the Last Supper, angry panthers clawing their bloody way across his cranium and some script that may have been a Spanish poem. Or curse? He carried onto the plane only a long fishing pole. It sure was interesting watching him maneuver that into the overhead bin! His English was as sub-rudimentary as my Spanish. We grinned and mimed like monkeys amicably at each other as we settled in. I wondered if he was planning to do some trolling from 37 thousand feet? Ave, Pescadero! </p>
<p>The baby in the next aisle behaved as if she had fire ants in her diaper. Like feral animal, she spent the entire trip squirming, pulling, wailing, raging, against the restraints of her plastic carrier. Mommy seemed preoccupied with an electronic device that no doubt had its headphone volume turned up to 11. She didn't seem to notice the histrionics on dispaly only inches away from her. Another toddler in the seat behind me coughed like a tubercular octogenarian, barking incessantly as she kicked my seat back with the fervor of a linebacker. </p>
<p>When at last we landed in Puerto Rico, such jubilation and applause erupted from the plane you'd have thought our pilot had just discovered The New World. Maybe he had? And I was most ready to get off that plane to see whatever it was! </p>
<p>The next leg of the journey was to be in an aging, rickety twin-engine puddle-jumper that seats perhaps 30 passengers for a 25-minute, low altitude excursion from Puerto Rico that would hopefully land in St. Thomas, USVI without devolving into a sea-cruise! I always marvel how these tiny old planes can carry all that stuff and remain airborne, but they do! For the most part. But before I would find out how the flight would turn out, I would have three hours in the San Juan airport to wonder about it. And wonder I did. </p>
<p>My travel companions for this next leg of the journey were an odd lot. There’s a saying on St. <br>John: "The odds are good, but the goods are odd". And here they were! Three generations from two families of garrulous hillbillies from Kain-tucky were encamped in the small airport departure room awaiting the same flight to St. Thomas as I. They’d apparently been there for a few hours already - all thirteen of them, along with sundry and assorted gym bags, luggage, boxes and strollers. From their colorful declarations and exclamations I deduced that they had recently embarked on their first-ever, non-stop-fun-adventure-of-a-lifetime-Carnival-Caribbean-cruise that the matriarch, Loo-eese – who they all referred to as “Maw-ma” - had won by guessing the number of jelly beans in a jar at Piggly Wiggly! Their first stop: fly to Miami. Then, catch the “big ol' boat” to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Yee- haw! When cultures collide! Sure ain't nuthin' like that in Loo-ville or Ver-say-lees! </p>
<p>"Ah thought when they let us off’n that boat we'd a-had sumtime to see sumpin good, but no, sir" bellows Paw-pa the patriarch, a loose hearing aid dangling from one ear. “Jus’ a mess o’ t-shirts an’ ol’ buildin's is all. If’n ah wanted t’see ol’ buildin’s, ah coulda stayed raht a-home at Dink's Fork! Ah coont unnahstan' wut they wuz sayin', neither. Where you put that t-shirt I botcha, Oobie?” </p>
<p>“Y’all ain’ got no buildin’s like ‘at where you live at, Paw-pa” says a scruffy little boy about 9 years old in a torn SpongeBob t-shirt. He sports a bright green Mohawk and is in perpetual motion – the poster child for ADHD? He looks like he could use a good tubbing. He chews on something too large for his mouth while taunting a few other younger kids in the pack by sticking his tongue out to reveal a great wad of purplish goo. The other kids dash and tumble after him as he leaps about to escape their sticky grasps . This must be Oobie - I am assuming the short form for "Hubert"? I wonder how long it'll take before somebody trips over their untied shoelaces and spurts blood? </p>
<p>“Hell I don’!” shouts Paw-pa, who never did clarify what “sumpin good” actually was, leaving what that could be entirely to my imagination. Perhaps alligator wrestling? A sausage museum? A spittoon collection? A good 'ol pileup on Turn 5? Hooters? Yeah. Hooters. </p>
<p>At any rate, this bunch must have found plenty of “sumpin good” somewhere in San Juan to distract them because they were abandoned high ‘n dry yesterday when their Carnival cruise ship left port </p>
<p>without them. Maybe they had gotten lost, time just slipping away? Or, could it have been a ‘planned oversight’ on the captain’s part, having just spent an overnight sail with them from Miami? The results were that the family had had to find someplace for thirteen to stay in San Juan for the night. Now, that must have been an ordeal best left to one's imagination! </p>
<p>So here they were, sitting in the San Juan airport, having to find their sorry way over to St. Thomas to reunite with their cruise ship that was docked in Charlotte Amalie. It was sort of like a bizarre amalgam of the TV series “The Great Race” and “Survivor”. But this race did not present as so great, and it wasn't entirely certain whether anyone would survive. </p>
<p>Paw-pa - aka “Em-ry” - was probably pushing 70, though it was hard to tell. He weighed-in at about 85 pounds soaking wet. An oxygen canula protruded precariously from his beaklike nose. He sat in a walker-chair that had a basket attached to the handlebars, the basket full of cheap, plastic touristy trinkets and lots of empty soda cans. The walker-chair had a handbrake on it. It was difficult to imagine him ever getting up enough steam to require putting the brakes to that thing. </p>
<p>Paw-pa had a head of snowy-white hair that appeared as if it had been trimmed by a rice picker and a wispy, grey, too-long beard that ensnared his oxygen tube and tickled his trucker belt buckle. His grey pants were food-stained and the too-short pant legs revealed a few inches of Paw-pa's extremely shiny shins – did he polish those things? - that protruded from worn boots that looked way too tight. “No wonder he's in a walker-chair,” I mused, “He can't feel his feet!” Paw-pa wore a red t-shirt that was several sizes too large and embossed with the pronouncement: “I’M WITH STUPID”. </p>
<p>“You have quite a selection to pick from, mister!” I thought. His stentorian voice belied his diminutive size as his every word reverberated throughout the airline waiting room. He seemed to be this tribe’s red-neck Moses. </p>
<p>"Ah ain' feelin' so hot now, Maw. Prolly cuz ah finished up all mah pills yestiddy and now ah ain' got no more," Paw-pa told everyone in the waiting room. "Damn boat took alla ma pills las' naht." </p>
<p>"You ain' got no more witchu?" screeches Maw-ma incredulously, not masking her irritation with Paw- pa. “Now whatchu gone do? You ain’ better roon this here trip fer me an' the res’ of us, you stoopit ol' Sockbag!” </p>
<p>Maw-ma, who tipped the scales at around 300 pounds, had a dyed, sickly yellow-orange brush-cut hair- do - dark grey roots still showing - that bristled angrily above her slightly crossed, piercing blue eyes; eyes that were just a tad too close together. Maybe the extreme tightness of her new bejeweled, factory- torn jeans made her eyes cross? She paced back and forth pulling on her sleeves, her gravelly voice and pinched, wrinkly mouth betrayed her habit as a long-term, hard-core smoker - a smoker who was about to crash across her personal nicotine withdrawal ‘red line’. </p>
<p>"Nope, ah ain' roonin' nuthin',” caws Paw-pa. “Prolly just die rychere in this here airpoht. That'll fix that, if'n y'all lucky! But ah'm thinkin' ah jes' might maybe make it back to that big ol' boat fust though. Ah shore don’ wanna miss enny more o’ that real good eatin’, mmmm-hmmmm!” he declares, running a bony claw through his beard, perhaps searching for a leftover crumb? “Gimme one mah cig'rets, willya, Loo-eese?” </p>
<p>“Ha ha, you think yer so dam funny, you gitcher own cig'gret! Ya know why yer takin' ta feelin’ sick? Ah shore do! Ya ate like a damn hog yestiddy, stuffin’ yer pie-hole like there wuz no tomorra, that's why!" rebuked Maw-ma. </p>
<p>“Good thing I diddit then, cuz there was no tomorra, wuz there!” Paw-pa grinned at her, displaying a set of ill-fitting false teeth. </p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, you jus' go grinnin' like a damn monkey," Maw-ma raved on, "but ah ain' goan be nursing the likes o' you all naht jus' cuz you ain got no moyer pills, ol' man!" </p>
<p>Paw-pa spit out a laugh, slapping his knee, "Ahm sho you won't! Ahma jus' gonna fine me anuther nurse, then! A real purty one this time!" Oobie grabbed Paw-pa's walker and shot across the waiting room, behind him a wake of hooting, screaming children. </p>
<p>"Ah jus’ cain’ unnerstan’ it!" she fretted, ignoring Paw-pa's barb, waving her bony arms around and pacing up and down like a caged tiger, sweat beading on her wrinkled forehead. "Why cain' they jus' lettus smoke inna airpoht? ‘Tain’ like we’s gonna burn the damn place down or nothin’. Already hotter'n th' blazin' hammers of hell in heah ennyway!" </p>
<p>Apparently Maw-ma had been several hours without a butt. "Ah’m-a goan hafta kill sumbody if ah cain' have me a smoke! Ah’m-a jus’ go outside, rahht through them thar doors ennyway, don’ even cair ‘bout no stupid alarms,” hissed Maw-ma, waving dismissively at the heavy security doors separating us from the tarmac as she stomped around in circles. “Mebbe ah jus' light up rychere! An’ ah don' cair if them stupid cops come or not. Wut they goan do, 'rest me?" </p>
<p>What followed was a lively inter-generational melee aimed at preventing - or perhaps inciting? - a TSA/security meltdown. The family erupted, ranting and railing at once. They reminded me of a flock of chickens who suddenly sees a hawk's shadow. Thankfully cooler heads prevailed, though I'm not sure which ones, and Maw-ma was dissuaded from lighting up and inciting a security riot. A few West Indian travelers waiting for the St. Thomas flight could NOT believe what was going on and we would catch each others glances and roll our eyes. </p>
<p>Paw-pa, who seemed to be receiving signals from another planet, obliviously interjected to no one in particular: "Ah know ah been on'y gone jus' a short l'il while. Dint ah leave y'all on Satiddy las'? By gaw', feels lahk been two weeks gone a'ready! Wut day is it ennyway?" It was only Monday. "Jiminy, thatus some grand feed they give us on that cruiser boat, eh?” reminisced Paw-pa as he repeatedly stroked his beard. “Too bad we hadda missit today don'cha think, Dick? Dick, you lissenin' to me, boy?" </p>
<p>Dick (perhaps Paw-pa’s brother-in-law judging from the close-set eyes and stubbly brush-cut) calls back as he’s rubbing his protruding belly, "Don’chu worry none, Em’ry," he hollered, "we'll make up fer it later in St. Tommy! You jus’ wait, you an’ me prolly nevah leave th’ table all dern week!" I wondered: How does Paw-pa stay so thin? </p>
<p>One of several daughters, Door-leen - around 40ish and not entirely unattractive like her maw-ma - nervously bounced her tattooed leg around as she and her husband(?) Luther gorged themselves on greasy, over-priced airport pizza. Door-leen stopped chewing long enough to proclaim to the waiting room that she apparently "had enough gas to blow this gawd-dern place right ta hell". This is not the kind of thing to be saying in an airport these days. “Luthah” - Door-leen's husband? - had a greasy red Mopar cap plopped backwards on his balding pate. He never stopped chewing. Luther had no neck at all. Never did he take his eyes from the pizza box that was dwarfed by his ample lap. A long piece of stringy cheese draped over the fender of Dale Ernhardt’s race-car that was emblazoned on the front of Luther’s too small and way-too-tight, faded NASCAR T-shirt. I am guessing that most of the herd of undulating children were the spawn of this breeding pair. </p>
<p>Door-leen’s announcement of her current intestinal status apparently distracted Maw-ma from her nicotine perambulations long enough to bark at her daughter, "Now you jes' listen to me, gurl! You may think yor smoort, but you don' know evahthing 'bout evahthing! Lay yerse’f rychere onna floor now, Door-leen. Raht is wrong, left is raht, 'member that? Jes' lie on yer lef' side rychere. That’s where yer gut is at. 'Member that?" </p>
<p>"Ah ain' doin' that," shouts Door-leen, rocketing from her seat as if propelled by a hot coal, sending pizza crusts flying. Luther, chewing uninterruptedly, silently looked over at her, annoyed that she’d just wasted some perfectly good crust. His eyes are dull, brown, vacant. I think: Bovine. </p>
<p>"Awright then, you jes' bloat up like some big ol’ dead heifer! Go 'head," yells Maw-ma, crossed eyes flashing, “see if ah even cair!” She returns to pacing, her pink imitation Nikes squeaking like there are live mice trapped inside. I am wishing that the control tower would give her permission to take off! Door-leen let out an exasperated huff, then unceremoniously lay down on her right side in the middle of the waiting room floor. "Yer other raht side, Door-leen,” chides Maw-ma from several seats distance. “Ain’ ah already tol’ you, raht is wrong, left is raht, Hon!” </p>
<p>Door-leen obliges and rolls over. “That's wut," says Maw-ma approvingly. "You ought be belchin' up real good soon." Door-leen looks up miserably at her mother and uncomfortably whines, "Ah don' think so, Maw-ma. Ah feel lahk ah'm-a gonna fort." </p>
<p>I could no longer contain myself and I burst out laughing. Several of the West Indians, including two elderly, dignified Bible-bearing women with large woven straw bags, got up and moved several rows away. A young dreadlocked Rastafarian joined them. A few more just sucked their teeth - a true West Indian sign of disgust. </p>
<p>The family circus continued unabated with assorted members coming and going, bickering and bantering, proudly and loudly, until at long last our flight was called. I was relieved that I didn't have to sit next to any of them - especially Door-leen! - on the flight to St. Thomas. But it was a small plane and I could still hear them yelling and guffawing in the back while a petite Latina stewardess stood in the aisle staring at them, dumbfounded. </p>
<p>Puerto Rico vanished beneath us, but over the roar of the twin-prop engines I could still hear Maw-ma hectoring her clan as we bounced and jounced through tumbling cumulus cloud banks towards St. Thomas. “Ah cain’ wait to git me a cig'rette. Ah’m-a smoke a whole pack soon as mah feet hits the groun’! Hope you got yer teeth all glued in good, Em’ry! Feelin' lahk sum seer-yus lumpy air. You awful quiet Dick...you talkin’ to li’l baybee Jay-sus again? Y’all ain’ gonna puke, are ya, Door-leen? This plane ain' so bad. Ah ben uther places in this worl' before ya know, like Sin-sin-atti. Losssss Vegas. Now they was some scary airplane rides, ah'm-a tellin' you!" I can only imagine. </p>
<p>When the tires finally screeched to the runway and we taxied to the gate at Cyril King Airport in St. Thomas, I gratefully left the plane, leaving this bit of southern culture on the skids behind. But not before I smiled at Paw-pa, who was wrestling with his walker-chair, and said, “Be sure to try the saltfish pate!”</p>
</center>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/68610032022-01-06T05:27:47-12:002022-02-01T06:06:07-12:00Dupy & Me or - How I Got My Hand Back<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/86e0f2db4618bfdfe8e24eac1afcb3e386bb7ccf/original/post-op-scarhand.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>“Oh! I see you have Dupuytren's,” said the old man to me as he stared curiously at my left hand. He took my hand and turned it over, revealing my lumpy palm. “Lay your hand flat on the table,” Frank ordered. My hand would not cooperate. It lay there like a poorly formed catcher's mitt. Frank was a revered psychology professor at a well known university and my former girlfriend's step dad. A distinguished, bespectacled gent with a small pointed goatee, he had the proclivity to talk incessantly and to know everything about anything. Typically, though I didn't always want to admit it, he was correct. And in my case, he'd identified an issue that was of growing concern to me. </p>
<p>“What's that?” I asked, knowing I would get a thorough, in-depth lecture about the disorder, its history, treatments, etc. and indeed I did. Named after a 17th century Dutch physician who is credited with its 'discovery', Dupuytren's Contracture as it is known, is a genetic disorder primarily afflicting the hands, sometimes feet and, rarely, the penis(!), of middle-aged men of northern European descent. Yes, women can have it, but statistically few do. It is a gradual buildup of collagen in the palms of the hand that produces thick, lumpy pads constellating around the knuckles of primarily the ring and little fingers, although sometimes other fingers can be affected. Eventually, this excess collagen adheres to the tendons of the afflicted fingers and causes them to contract inconveniently towards the palm. As I was to experience over time, this creates a real impediment to a whole lot of things I had been accustomed to doing. I was also told that I would not enjoy the treatment options available. Sadly, the Prof was right about that, too. </p>
<p>As I was to discover, my descent into Dupuytren's hell was fairly typical, except . . . my voyage would take longer. Much longer. </p>
<p>Prior to the 2008 revelation provided me by the Professor when I was 58, I'd noticed since my late 30s that the palms of my hands would itch. “Ah, you're gonna come into some money!” was the typical response by anyone who would see me scratching my palms. If that had been the case, I certainly should have been rollin' in dough. Though the periodic itching drove me to distraction, I could not see any rash, allergen or abrasion that would cause it. As time went on, I noticed that there were two or </p>
<p>three little puckered 'dimples' on each palm; the itching seemed to emanate from them. “What the hell?” was all I could come up with to assess the situation. My response was to scratch it when it itched and ignore it when it didn't. It never occurred to me to discuss this with my doctor when I'd have my annual physical. I mean, I wasn't actively dying or anything. </p>
<p>This oblivious rationale continued to suffice for several more years as I observed the dimples transform into small, itchy pits, and what I thought were callouses had begun to form over the knuckles of my ring and pinky fingers - mostly on my left hand. I simply assumed that my left-hand dominance was why callouses were forming. Though I wasn't really engaged in any activity that would warrant heavy callouses, there they were. My response was typical: Just ignore it. </p>
<p>By the mid-2000s it became evident that whatever this weird hand thing was, it was not going away. In fact it continued to transmogrify my hand's appearance and functioning, albeit at glacial speed. While the imagined callouses continued to expand and thicken, it was becoming more evident that perhaps these were not callouses at all. As they morphed into thicker, more cushiony pads, they gave the appearance that my hand was becoming stuffed with . . . something? There was no pain, but I found myself obsessively probing, poking and massaging my palm in the hopes of shrinking the unwanted 'palm pillows'. </p>
<p>As a professional guitarist and percussionist, I'd become increasingly concerned that this annoyance eventually would have some deleterious impact upon my playing. I had begun to notice that it felt like there were a couple of squishy marbles between my palm and the guitar's neck, but as they weren't particularly painful, nor did they seem to make any noticeable difference in my playing, I continued to default to “just ignore it”. I did, however, observe that playing my hand drums had become somewhat uncomfortable and the occasional rim-shot would send a painful stab through my hand and up my wrist. Uh-oh. </p>
<p>Then the dimples appeared on my right hand palm. Fantastic. The crud was creeping. </p>
<p>As this progressed I noticed that the ring and pinky fingers of my left hand began to curve downward slightly towards the palm and sometimes, usually while I was asleep, a burst of pain like a quick knife slash would go through the tendons of those fingers and awaken me with a jolt. My knuckles began to swell. What the bloody hell was happening to my hands!? It was around this time that I got 'diagnosed' by the Professor who had observed the increasing curvature of my fingers. </p>
<p>For the next few years, the palm pads expanded, growing thicker, and my fingers continued to contract. I had researched Dupuytren's Contracture - also known as “the Viking disease” as lore seemed to indicate it was rather common with this bunch - and I learned that the palm pads were actually collagen-filled nodules. That's all good if one wants enhanced breasts or the puffy lip look, but the collagen proteins were now creating a sheath around my finger tendons and causing them to contract. Barring the intermittent nocturnal slicing pain in my hand, I opted not to engage in the current treatment options though I did schedule a consultation with a well known hand surgeon, Dr. Michael Nancolis, who informed me that there were three options available: 1) Do nothing, 2) a needlectomy – a procedure which would involve several weeks of uncomfortable injections that would relieve the contracture but not remove the pads, or 3) surgery, which promised to be painful and would involve a protracted, perhaps year-long, recovery period, but whose results would be more long-lasting. All options held no guaranteed results. </p>
<p>How would I continue to play music, or create in my woodworking shop where I'd begun making cigar </p>
<p>box guitars if my hand was “out of commission” for months? Or possibly years? </p>
<p>Somewhere in 2018, whatever process was driving this Dupuytren's thing was picking up momentum and things began to worsen precipitously for me. I was actually - impaired! I could no longer wear a glove on my left hand. I could barely put on or take off my car's seatbelt without excessive gyrations. Putting my hand through a sleeve without snagging was next to impossible. More importantly, I could not reach chordal positions on my guitar that were once staple for my style; my flexibility and span were seriously compromised. Playing the piano was completely verboten. I could no longer hold a pen properly and typing became an impossible, nearly apoplectic experience as my fingers would not, could not, go where intended. I couldn't ride my bike or motorcycle very far without pain. My lawnmower's vibration was most unpleasant. My hand drumming had ceased to be. </p>
<p>Stubbornly, I continued to resist treatment options 2 and 3. Instead, I expended more time developing my cigar box guitar playing as that entailed wearing a slide on only one finger and required no dexterity from the others. I'd simply jam my deformed pinky into that small chromium tube and groove away. I learned a lot of new stuff, explored virgin musical territory and was really enjoying myself. Until . . . </p>
<p>One day I was in my woodworking shop creating a new instrument. While putting a piece of mahogany on its way to becoming a new instrument neck through my jointer-planer, my left hand, unable to properly grip the guide holding the wood as it passed over the rapidly rotating drum of razor- sharp blades, slipped and the nascent neck went careening across the room and smashed into the wall with tremendous impact, denting the wall and ruining the wood. Well, now, that was frightening! </p>
<p>The time had come. Though it had been a few years since my initial surgical consultation, Dr. Nancolis remembered me: “Oh, the guitarist. I wondered if you'd return.” We set up another consultation and he concurred that surgery was now the best, if not only, option. He observed that my case was quite unusual as my Dupuytren's process since its initial inception was, in his words, “remarkably slow”; most cases were far more rapidly developing. He theorized that the disease process' slow pace could be attributed to the routine hand involvement with my guitars and woodworking hand tools. I did not tell him about the planer incident. Additionally, the COVID 19 virus had become a raging pandemic at this time and all my scheduled performances had been cancelled. Venues were shuttering everywhere. Indeed, it seemed the entire world was impacted and closing up shop. Who knew when anyone could return to 'normal'. I wagered that this would be the optimum time for me to be 'out of commission'. We scheduled surgery for July 2020. </p>
<p>On the appointed day, I went under the knife. When I awoke, my hand was heavily bandaged, but it did not hurt. Dr. Nancolis assured me that the procedure had gone well. A Y-shaped incision stretching from mid-palm up through both the ring and pinky fingers had been made; the collagen deposits on the tendons removed, and most of the heavy pads had been excised. The wound was then sutured, bandaged and splinted. I was told to take Tylenol for pain. That does not work for me and I wondered how I'd do after the anesthesia wore off. For several hours there was no problem. Then, YOWZAH! Welcome to Post-op Pain City! Ice and ibuprophen became my new best friends for weeks. </p>
<p>For several days I had to change the dressings – gross! - and at night I had to wear a cumbersome splint that kept my fingers extended and me awake. In the second week I began physical therapy twice a week with a wonderful, good-humored PT named Lynn who massaged and ultra-sounded the wound into eventual submission. I was told I could begin playing the guitar a few minutes each day but not to </p>
<p>overdo it. I followed protocol – mostly – and after almost four months of this, I was nearly as good as new. Except for the rather sizable, ugly and sometimes painful scar, I had regained nearly full range of motion, flexibility and span. I could “hit all the chords”. I could play keyboards, but needed to avoid playing my hand drums for a few more months. I could effortlessly manage my car seatbelt and put on a jacket. Happily, I could type again! </p>
<p>What's the long-view prognosis? It's now 2022, and I understand that Dupuytren's could possibly rear its ugly head again in a few years. Or not. What about those not-so-cute dimples on my right hand? Or the tiny nodule that appeared on the sole of my foot? They seem to come and go, and according to the Doc, Dupuytren's can do this and as long as they're not giving me trouble, take the advice of the Beatles and “Let It Be”. Shall do. </p>
<p>Would I advise treating Dupuytren's if you have it? I'm not sure. Assuming one has the insurance to pay for the procedure and ensuing physical therapy, each has to assess their own risk/benefit ratio, and determine whether you want to endure what is truly a major surgery with its inherent cost, pain and inconvenience. I'm hoping my procedure will be enduring. And I am glad I did it. Time will tell.</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/67241692021-08-22T12:47:57-12:002024-01-28T05:14:06-12:00BuskerBlog - by Ari Jewel - July, 2021<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/f5880c16773db619441194e66b7ac8758255f6a5/original/wine-n-bwoy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>As I write, I’m thinking about “street culture,” and how I could define, or imagine, that phrase. For me, street culture is about the art and connection happening inside museums, music venues, and online, coming out to the sidewalks and the streets. It’s about community, and it’s about the comfort of leaving your house and still being at home. </p><p>I’m realizing that, up until this point, nearly this entire blog post has boiled down to recognizing comfort. The comfort of hearing a familiar song, the comfort with which Lucky 4 perched on the street corner like they had been there forever, and the comfort of the streets becoming a center of community and home. </p><p>But, before I wrap up, I want to talk about covers for a second longer. Beyond the joy of familiarity, covers can have an element of shock as well. Sometimes the best rendition of a familiar song is one which is altogether unfamiliar. For example, Aretha Franklin was a master of this skill. I’m thinking especially of her cover of “Eleanor Rigby,” in which she lyrically changes the entire plot (singing as Eleanor Rigby) and barely imitates The Beatles’ production. </p><p>On Friday night, I stood for maybe an entire minute watching David Reed before recognizing the song he was performing. He played a three-string cigar box guitar with a slide on one finger, and tapped a tambourine with his left foot and a box drum pedal with his right. Reed’s talent is remarkable — I stood with Berkshire Busk! director Gene Carr as I watched, and when Reed began to play, Gene said to himself, “Oh my god!” </p><p>Eventually we realized what song he was performing: Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.” On a slide guitar, playing in a style he calls “groove music,” Reed’s version of the song is so unlike Simon’s. It’s hard to imagine successfully messing with a song so well-loved and admired, but somehow Reed did it — even slipping into a brief chorus of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” midway through the song. </p><p>The delight of watching Reed perform was different from hearing versions of “Moondance” and “Exactly Like You” earlier in the day. I wrote in my notes, “mostly I feel like I’m watching genius.” While the other covers I’d heard that day had felt like generous recognitions of the love we share for classic tunes, this performance felt miraculously new. For me, his performance rewrote the canon a bit — even if Paul Simon’s recording of his song will always be the same, I can never hear it the same way again. I will never hear it without this new possibility. </p><p>I feel self-conscious of the fact that, each week, my post essentially comes to the same conclusion: this live music is changing me, and it is, for me, a direct link to joy. This week, I wanted to talk about covers and comfort and that intersection of new and old, but, still, the thesis has remained the same. There is a richness here. There is a huge euphoria. And even though I’m repeating myself, isn’t that repetition needed? Don’t we need every reminder we can get of this abundant and easy joy? </p><ul><li>Ari Jewell - 2021</li></ul>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356912019-02-14T12:00:00-12:002020-02-26T09:54:02-12:00The Making of Gypsy Davy<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/b5fe1f7911f2abf112cdb7cddb889aa113e19a41/original/gypsy-davy-cd-cover-copy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDM1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="350" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="350" /></p>
<p> <span class="font_large"> In November 2018 I began recording this, my fourth, studio album. I seem to enter the recording studio, whether I want to or not, about every ten years. I suppose I'm a little late for this one, but I've not exactly been sitting around. Alright, there's been <em>some </em>sitting around, but I've managed to accomplish a few things since the last studio go-round in 2008. For instance, I began building and playing cigar box guitars and these rootsy, primitive little rascals have found their way into my heart...and onto this recording! To date, I've made 198 of these quirky instruments and there's no sign of stopping. Lucky for you, I've laid down several tracks on this recording with a bounty of these bodacious boxes.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Another thing I'd been doing was attempting to conceptualize another album. I've not been avoiding making another record. Well, yes, I suppose I have. You see, it's difficult for me to conceive of <em style="font-family: 'Droid Serif', serif;">what </em>to record. Critics, on the one hand love the eclectic variety of my live shows, while on the other hand they have no idea how to categorize me. I'm not exactly rock. Nor country, nor folk, nor reggae, nor blues. But I'm like all of these things, and <em style="font-family: 'Droid Serif', serif;">more</em>, all mashed together. It's a unique gumbo of styles, especially coming from a classically trained trumpeter, but that's how I roll. You could say it's a new stylistic classification: Eclectica! Struggling with which tunes we might record, I decided that something that resembled one of our live sets would be the way to go. Here they are, and a nice variety of musical munchies they be, wethinks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> When it was time to name the project, I had nothing. I believe that names eventually find their rightful owners and this would be no exception. Sure enough, it hit me while we were mixing the song Gypsy Davy (that quintessential raggle-taggle pirate gypsy guy whose been an international character in song and legend for hundreds of years) - “Gypsy Davy works quite nicely!” Now I would need representative artwork for the Gypsy Davy CD. I searched for days for the right image – again <em style="font-family: 'Droid Serif', serif;">nothing</em>. And then, staring right at me from a framed photo on my wall, came my answer. Claudia's dad, Eugene Cook (1917-1986), was a brilliant photographer and editor at LIFE magazine from the late '40s through the '60s. He is known for his iconic photos of personalities and places, and right here, grinning at me from my wall, was Gene's photo of an Italian gypsy guitarist with his admiring bevy of beauties taken in the early '50s. “He'll do nicely!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Initially, I thought Gypsy Davy would be a simple, raw David Reed & The Introverts trio record. So in November 2018, with Introverts Sam Earnshaw (drums) and Scott McKenney (bass) in tow, I entered into Luke Germain's “Walkout Studio” with producer Bruce Blair thinking that a new trio recording was about to get underway. And then I got ideas. “How about if I invite my old Max Creek bandmates Scott Murawski (lead guitar) and Mark Mercier (keys) to play on a few tracks?” They immediately obliged and contributed stellar performances to several songs.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"> “Well,” thought I, “that went well! What about a fiddle on a couple of my originals?” Eric Martin answered the call, with not only his violin, but also a sweet viola and made those songs sparkle. We were on a roll! “An accordion on the Simon tune would be cool!” Dave Vittone nicely squeezed right in. “I'm thinking some added vocals on choruses here and there would be fabulous!” My gal Claudia d'Alessandro, along with friends Lee Everett, Wendy Darling, Michael Brady, Jeannie Bachetti, 'Producer Brucer' and engineer Luke dove right in and added some polish, depth (and some party noises!) to my vocals. “Maybe my son Brendan Reed would drop a djembe part into a couple songs?” He sure did! “What if there was a little saxophone spice on a tune or two?” Mark Tuomenoksa added just the right amount of sax appeal. I contributed some auxilliary percussion parts and a trumpet here and there. Thanks to all these wonderful people, Gypsy Davy bloomed into a tapestry of sonic color, stylistic diversity, deep grooves and <em style="font-family: 'Droid Serif', serif;">eclectic </em>fun!</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> I hope you have as much fun listening to Gypsy Davy as we did in making it. Be on the lookout for another record from me - in around 10 years or so?</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><a data-imported="1" href="https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/davidreedtheintroverts" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="font-family: 'Droid Serif', serif;" target="_blank">https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/davidreedtheintroverts</a> </span></p>
<p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356892016-11-21T12:00:00-12:002024-01-28T09:01:07-12:00Dr. Ea$y's Cigar Box Goes South. Sort of.<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/55ae7245a948514874f617900561d32ded1cd531/original/gypsy-photo.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIxeDM0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="340" width="321" /> </p><p>The other night I was sitting around the wood stove and scrolling through Facebook when I came upon some intriguing posts by Gypsy Elise. I'd heard of this ballsy, brassy singer from N'awlins who is currently residing with her husband Ryan in Orlando, FL. Together, and with other assorted musicians they select for each gig, they form Gypsy Elise & The Royal Blues, bringing their own brand of "New Orleans Funky Blues" to clubs, festivals and venues all over the American south. </p><p>Gypsy was on a tear. She is vehemently and vocally opposed to the new American president-elect, D. Trump, and wasn't afraid to say so. She, along with a significant majority of sensible people, are outraged and incensed by this man's ignorant, hateful racist and misogynistic rhetoric and, like so many of the nation's populace, is incredulous that he was actually elected and ostensibly will be sitting in the White House after January 20 - despite the myriad legal charges he has pending against him. So, rather than allow all that well deserved vitriol go to waste, she penned a song - <i>"Who's Got the Next Round?"</i> She and Ryan assembled the band and pushed "Record" - and immediately posted the tune on fB. </p><p>A day later up in snow-covered Massachusetts, I pushed "Play". Cool! This plinky-plunky, plucky ragtimey, I-ain't-buyin'-your-nasty-shit ditty bounced out of my speakers. Gypsy nailed the gestalt of the anti-Trump camp in under 5 minutes...complete with a singalong chorus. I wanted to go to <i>her</i> camp, especially if it sounded like this. An hour so and several fB posts later, Gypsy posted that she'd welcome vocal/instrumental contributions to <i>"Who's Got the Next Round?"</i> I thought, "One of Dr. Easy's cigar boxes would fit pretty perfectly on this tune!" So I contacted her and asked her to check out my website (just like you're doin' right now!).</p><p>Gypsy got right back to me. She said that she would be glad to have one of my CBGs on her song. We communicated back and forth, and while I was invited to Orlando to record in person, it simply wasn't practical at this time. And so, through the miracle of computerized home recording (aka: GarageBand), I downloaded her song, tuned up one of my CBGs and went to work. Several hours later, I had a track that I could live with. I converted it into a MP3 file and pushed "Send". </p><p>A few minutes later, she got back to me - "Perfect! Mama likes!" She gave it to Ryan who fit me into the mix and the next day - Voila! I am playing with The Royal Blues. Hope y'all like it. BTW: Who <i>is</i> picking up the next round, and round of <i>what?</i></p><p>You can get a clue by listening to<i> "Who's Got the Next Round?" </i>on <strong>Dr. Ea$y's Record Machine</strong>...right here on this website!</p><p>BTW: Check out Gypsy Elise's bio and recordings. It'll make ya glad!</p><p> </p><hr><p> </p><p><i>"Gypsy Elise is the rarest form of vocalist, a beautiful female contralto~ With her 4 octave range, and silken, throaty lower range, often, Milady Gypsy is mistaken for a male vocalist. That is until you see her... then it's crystal clear that she is not only 100% gorgeous female vocalist, she is also keyboardist Ryan De Sade Way's wife. She is also the very proud Mama to three beautiful children. Gypsy Elise is a force of nature, a super-charged rose to be reckoned with! </i></p><p><i>Refining her vocals and assuming her position as troubadour, Gypsy Elise, with the aid of her Royal Blues, vividly captures the mysterious chambers of human emotion when reciting a torch or blues ballad. Together their sound recalls Gypsy's transient kindred with a whimsical bohemian, yet mesmerizing sensual mash-up of blues, R&B, jazz, rock, and funk. Their repertoire ranged from soft, dulcet melodies to psychedelic powered rock, but invariably provokes a teeming crowd from tears to twinkle-toes." </i><br> - Haley Hemenway Sledge, Ogden Museum of Southern Arts, Intern/ With Edward Rio, Publicist</p><p>New Orleans Louisiana's #1 Rockin Blues Band! Worldwide fan base, over 50 original songs all in radio rotation. This IS the band to have at your performance! ~The "world bred, traveled and seasoned" vocalist/band leader, Gypsy Elise De Sade-Way is Basque Gypsy by birth, but essentially southern musician by trade. Born in 1959 to a family of entertainers, her flower-child era rearing is clearly heard in her music. A savvy lady who finally cashed in her chips from years of entrepreneurship, Gypsy Elise has plucked a bouquet of talented musicians, dubbed The Royal Blues, including her husband Ryan De Sade-Way on the primary keys and key bass, John Lisi on guitar, Herman Halphen on the drums, and Reginald "The Voodoo Ninja" Smith Jr. on saxophone. </p><p><br>From the first notes, this is one HIGHLY engaging band! The audience is immediately drawn into the show as Gypsy Elise begins her entertaining dialogue that makes everyone feel both welcomed and appreciated at once. Throughout the show, her warm and open personality, hilarious wit, and brilliant smile are a winning combination when interlaced with her powerful vocals and original lyrics. The cover music that the band does shines far past the norm. With an impressive three original albums to their credit this past year alone, it is a proven fact that the blend of skills and musicianship will undoubtedly carry this Gypsy and her talented krewe to exactly where they want to be. </p><p><br>Gypsy Elise bloomed to the beats of the standards of music rooted in blues, jazz, funk, and ballads. Pair a musical family upbringing with a vocal range to rival Jacob's Ladder and hear the sultry vocals inspiring a sensual and swampy fusion. Gypsy has performed with, and been on the recordings of, some of music's most powerful performers. To include that list here, however, would be overwhelming to the reader. Suffice it to say, she is no stranger to the largest, finest, and most coveted stages of the world. Mostly though, Gypsy Elise prefers the more intimate settings that allow her to be up close and personal with her always enrapt audiences~</p><p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356842014-01-31T12:00:00-12:002021-11-05T06:11:21-12:00Will Power In the Land O'Goshen<p> </p>
<p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>
<p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/4a070da96b2b257b4d8bea23b5ded4e54bc277f7/original/terry-hall-drumming-goshen-fair.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM3OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="378" width="450" /></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">Will Power in the Land o'Goshen</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000">I had occasion to play a Labor Day gig this year with a r&b band called Will Power. They are usually a 5-piece show band outfit that plays in casino settings like Atlantic City, Las Vegas and wherever native Americans have set up shop to seek revenge for over 400 years of persecution. The band typically wears matching suits and shiny shoes. Terry Hall (Arlo Guthrie's drummer) and I (no one's drummer) are not usually part of the band and were new acquisitions for this gig, possibly replacing musicians who possessed better sense. We don't own fancy suits or shiny shoes. Because of us, everyone got to dress casual. More realistically, perhaps, it was simply because Will Power's show was at a rural country fair and the fancy Vegas suits and shiny shoes would somehow not been deemed <em>de rigeur</em> amongst the sweaty, heaving draught horses, greased pig races and copious amounts of poop?</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">My arrival at the fairgrounds in a deluge worthy of Noah was my first auspicious hint that this was to be a show of note, as it were. In what took a full hour of trying to locate exactly where in the fairgrounds I was supposed to be playing, a door to a world of Fellini-esque dimension was kicked wide open. Despite having earlier printed out a fairground map and parking pass that clearly stated that Will Power was to play in the 'gazebo', no one, beginning with the first of several beefy parking lot ladies, could tell me where the gazebo actually was - “Somewhere over there” pretty much pinpointed it. I was cheerfully referred to several parking 'authorities' with walkie-talkies, one after another, and finally I was directed to one very grumpy, power-tripping CT State cop with fierce eyes who interacted with me as if I were a terrorist leper. Everyone had a different opinion. I was entreated to way too many comments like: You can't get there from here; Cars aren't allowed in there, where do you think you're going?; You're not supposed to play there, you're supposed to be on The Entertainment Stage; I'll radio HQ and find out......wait, nope, they don't know where you're supposed to be either; You sure you have the right day? And then from a friendly man in a golf cart who resembled someone's Uncle Efe - "Follow me!" It was the best offer I'd had since I arrived, so . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><font color="#000000">Off I drove in my red Honda Elephant, flashers flashing, through the bowels of the Goshen Fair following Uncle Efe and his golf cart. We tootled past humongous tractors with two-story wheels that roared and belched ominous clouds of diesel smoke as they pulled tons of concrete slabs to nowhere. Past scads of tawdry booths selling overpriced, deliciously poisonous foods like corn dogs, sausage & peppers, fried dough, $10 bags of caramel corn, 'Whole Belly Clams' (what, no half-belly clams?), bilious pink & blue <span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">fibrous sugary</span> things on sticks, etc,. We rolled slowly past the giant, daft-looking draught horses waiting to impress the throngs with their muscle, and multifarious barns chock full of bellowing, crowing, oinking, screeching, smelly things. On and on we went, past tootling ferris wheels, shrieking frantic tilt-a-whirls, thumping bumper cars and other various slam-you-around-until-you-puke contrivances that were lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve. Further still, past rows and rows of games of chance & luck (Fat chance, Mr. Lucky!) and even a small field with burly women throwing cast iron frying pans like discuses (disci?). Where in bleedin' hell <em>was</em> I?</font><br><br><font color="#000000">All the while I was parting a sea of some of the most nefarious, elemental forms of humanoid life I've seen in one place for a long, long while. I swear to christ, I've not seen more bad tattoos, acres of cellulite, horrid dental hygiene, shaved heads and badly dyed hair...and this was just the women! The men, most with no necks and attired in some motley confusion of biker-meets-mercenary soldier-meets-mutant lumberjack, were equally frightening. And here's the really scary part: It would appear that the vast majority of this tired, poor and huddled mass longing to be free was either pushing baby strollers overflowing with snot-nosed spawn, their grubby mitts full of inflatable green martians, mutant teddies and sticky food, or they were herding hordes of knee-high, mud-caked mini-clones of themselves. Several barked at me as I rolled by in slow motion that "the parking lot ain't in here", or playfully stuck out their thumbs to hitch a ride. They couldn't have known I was as lost as they were. Or could they? </font></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">It had been raining a good part of the past two days and the <em>entire</em> fairgrounds was a slimy sea of slop... which seemed to fit the theme nicely. Eventually Uncle Efe and I wound up at...uh-huh - The Entertainment Stage! It was quite large, equipped with a huge, flying PA and presumably a sound guy to operate it, though I didn't actually see one. Onstage there was a 9-piece Santana-wannabe band. They sounded pretty darn good, too, but really - Carlos had nothing to fear. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">Scanning the haphazard crowd, I spied drummer Terry and guitarist Will ambling about...The Entertainment Stage. They were lost. They told me that we weren't playing here at...The Entertainment Stage. But according to their map and parking pass, we were supposed to be at the 'gazebo'. But of course! They, too, were told that they didn't belong at the gazebo and were herded to...The Entertainment Stage. But of course! Good, I was not going crazy. At least not alone.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><font color="#000000">It was nearly 5PM. Load-in and sound-check was supposed to have been at 4:30 with a kick @ 6. No one seemed happy. No one. Uncle Efe and his golf cart had disappeared into the din leaving us to ponder, yet again, the whereabouts of the gazebo. Will was determined to find the elusive, secret gazebo, soooo, OFF WE GO, back through the same freekin' madness (only in reverse) with me in my red Elephant following, <span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">lights</span> flashing, but instead of Uncle Efe's golf cart, a hot-rod Mustang convertible containing a befuddled munchkin drummer with a cigar-chomping hipster guitarist at the helm.</font></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">When at last after another rain-drenched, hair-raising, slow motion cruise thru the inner dark nightmare of modern country culture we located the elusive Secret Gazebo, we were greeted by a phalanx of more grumpy State Police, the ancient order of VFW Vets, and cranky firemen/EMTs that all informed us, like some surreal Greek chorus: "You guys can't park here". I was hungry. I was soaked. I was tired. I was ready to kill. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">Standing next to the Secret Gazebo were Will Power's pianist/saxman Marky-T, singer Iris and bassist Scotty. Exactly how they knew how to get there without all the hoo-hah that we had endured remains unknown to this day. Perhaps Scotty 'beamed them up'? I was relieved to have arrived at last, but was surprised to find there - Live and in person on the gazebo stage - an ancient 40-piece brass band badly blasting away on Sousa marches. How the hell was Will Power supposed to load in all their gear, set up, sound check and be ready to kick it in less than 40 minutes? Yeah, yeah, I guessed the answer...Will Power. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"> Once the brass band finally got off stage - no mean feat as the average age was 76 (as in “76 Trombones”) - and they removed all their music stands, walkers, instruments and themselves...they still left the 40+ chairs for us to remove. I resigned myself to “It's not my problem.” Except that it was. I moved chairs.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">Meanwhile it was still raining cats and dogs, or probably more appropriately, sheep and goats. Marky-T was his usual jolly self, grinning and levying directives. He had to set up the complicated PA/monitors (What? No house PA or sound guy?) plus all mics and his keyboards. Terry and I got busy with assembling the myriad drums and percussion instruments. And what do you know, by 6:10 we were off and running! </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"> But apparently so was the crowd. Hordes of humanity, like drowning rats, were trooping out of the fairgrounds in slogging, waterlogged throngs. The rain had driven all the VFW guys to bivouac together under their sagging olive-drab tent; the grumpy state cops went back to directing traffic that was now rolling through the mud in waves; the fire department stood ready, lights flashing with the occasional electronic blipping siren sounds being emitting from the transformer-like fire apparatus parked 10 feet from the gazebo stage. I watched, stomach growling, as a popcorn vendor kept tossing huge boxes of popcorn into the trash. Hell, I would have eaten some of <em>that.</em> Now I was mad at him, too. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"> The racing pigs had crossed the finish line long ago. The draught horses and two-storey tractors were ensconced in their respective stables. Sausage and fried dough booths shut their awnings and closed their windows like somnalent eyes. The beer tent dropped its elephant-ear flaps. In the distance, the lights of the ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl defied the thunder and lightning and continued to twinkle like some intergalactic slot machine. However, devoid of human contact, they had ceased their death-defying gyrations. And the rain continued to pour down.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"> Amidst all of this, Will Power hit the stage of the Secret Gazebo and brightly and energetically began their three hour long set of mostly r&b and soft-jazz covers.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"> <em>Post Script:</em><br>Overall the show was, well....<em>interesting</em>. Playing with a genius like Terry is always wonderful fun. Neither of us knew the material, but Marky-T conducted us well and we were able to follow his start/stop/dynamic cues fairly easily. I don't think either of us newbies did the band any harm! </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000"> Iris and Will have real charisma. Will sings and plays his guitar well, has great stage presence and is an entertaining frontman. Scott is a yeoman bassist...solid, understated and right-on the beat. Marky-T is, well, Marky-T – grinning and hopping around the stage here and there like a hobbit on psychedelics, he plays damn righteous piano and sax, too. Iris has a most beguiling stage presence, sings adequately and she played the seductive carny huckster, imploring (in her charming Dutch accent) anyone stolid, or silly, enough to have remained on the flooded fairgrounds to step up onto the gazebo because "We have lots of dry chairs- just for you". And sometimes that actually worked. Several soggy, high-spirited high school boys took her up on it and loudly enjoyed themselves, much to the somewhat stunned disbelieve of two elderly couples who more sought respite from the rain than having any real desire to rock out with Will Power.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color:#000000">By 9PM it was over. My hands were swollen so much from spanking the congas that I couldn't put my ring back on! The fairgrounds was nearly deserted, pervaded by a storm-wracked eeriness. We then had to dismantle mountains of gear and pack it up. Still, there was time for a celebratory cigar with the band afterwards. But the best news of all for me was: <em>the Secret Gazebo was located only 100' from the exit gate and I drove right out and into what was left of the night. </em><span style="font-style:normal">This, friends, is the Lush Life!</span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000"> </span></p>
<p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><span style="color:#000000"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000"> </span></p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356802013-04-13T12:00:00-12:002022-01-31T07:26:17-12:00Dr. Ea$y's Sonic Boxes<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="bL5u83oAos0" data-video-thumb-url="https://img.youtube.com/vi/bL5u83oAos0/mqdefault.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bL5u83oAos0?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="180" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></p>
<center style="text-align: left;"><big>For almost three years, Dr. Easy has been sneaking down into the woodshop and foolin' around with David's tools and nicking as much of David's decorative wood as he dares to use on his cigar box instruments. Over the years Dr. E's amassed quite the collection of used cigar boxes, cookie & candy tins, funky hardware, used plumbing parts and whatever interesting things that catch his fancy. <em>He</em> thinks they're interesting, but you should watch this video and reserve your own judgement as to that!<br><br>To date, Dr. E has made over 101 instruments from all this junk: 3- and 4-string cigar box guitars, cookie tin banjos and ukeleles, calabash diddly-bows (and a banjo!) and even a bass out of an old mahogany silver service box. Once, when he discovered that the carpenter renovating David's bathroom had tossed out some finished birch plywood and shower board scraps, he gathered them up and made a cool wooden cajon and bongo that he regularly beats the daylights out of!<br><br>Dr. Easy has been bugging David to make a video of his creations for many moons. So this year while he was sequestered in his Shackteau in the USVI for several weeks, David got to work on said video. Using iMovie, he mounted a rather steep learning curve, gathered a number of photos of the Doctor's CBGs, recorded a soundtrack using just a pair of CBGs, a detuned acoustic guitar (for a bass!) and a drum loop; and then he dubbed in the narrative voiceover.<br><br>"Looks pretty OK, meh-son," quipped the Doctor upon seeing his work for the first time as a video montage. "But don' go lookin' for no Oscar. Or nah money from me!"<br><br>Thanks, Doc.</big></center>
<p><br style="font-family: 'Droid Serif',serif; font-size: medium;"><big><small> </small></big></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356792013-03-12T12:00:00-12:002022-05-10T05:20:38-12:00Origins of the Reggae Banjo<p style="text-align: left;"> <big><small>Six string banjoist and self-proclaimed founder of the 'reggae banjo', Banjo Bwoy, attempts to join Bun E. Twinkle's new reggae band. He tries to convince her that her band really needs the wonky new sound of the reggae banjo, but finds Bun E. to be a hard sell. However, Banjo Bwoy can be <em>very</em> convincing as you shall see in this cartoon from Noodlicious Productions. We can't say for certain, but this cartoon seems to have Dr. Easy's mark all over it. What do you think? </small></big><br> </p>
<center> </center>
<p> </p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe class="wrapped wrapped" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/yGku1VlwPc8?rel=0" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="560"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356682012-09-26T12:00:00-12:002022-02-05T07:26:01-12:00Birdbrains<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/e40aa76a1c9e23a27e8fae9ae638a5f7e9f832fd/original/kamikaze-robin.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM2MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="361" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /> <br><br><br><br>THUMP! Scrape. THUMP! Scrape. THUMP! Scrape.<br><br><br>“What in hell?” I murmured as I rolled over and extricated myself from the tender arms of somnolence. I reluctantly blinked at the clock that blinked back at me: 5:15AM. The day, or what there was of it at that hour, presented as murky, dull and grey. The same could be said of my brain as I groggily wrapped erratically firing synapses around the strange, percussive sound that was emanating from the next room.<br><br>THUMP! Scrape. THUMP! Scrape. THUMP! Scrape.</p>
<p>The irritating rhythm persisted. Gratefully, it wasn't the sort of crashing and bashing that had awakened me around a month ago when a large black bear of very little brain yanked my bar-b-q grill through the deck railing, smashing the lattice in the process, and made off with the grill's greasy griddle in his jubilant jaws. No, this muffled yet distinct sound had a story all its own and over the ensuing month, it would nearly prove to be my undoing. And as you shall see, it was not simply sonic intrusion alone that nearly drove me to the precipice of madness and terminal mayhem. It had some help in the corporeal form of my muse and grand frommage, Doctor Ea$y, and a feathered fiend I came to know as the Kamikaze Robin.</p>
<p>THUMP! Scrape!<br><br>The thumping and scraping continued unabated. Rolling back over, I shut my eyes and told myself that the noise, while intrusive and decidedly annoying, didn't sound particularly dangerous. Not able to fall back asleep, I found myself counting the interval of time between impacts: consistently 4 to 5 seconds. I got up to investigate. I shuffled barefoot into the adjoining living room, looked out from the wide double bay windows where the emerging day had taken on a lighter shade of grey. Seeing nothing unusual, I turned to go back to bed when . . .<br><br>THUMP! Scrape.<br><br>I whirled around just in time to see a small dark object hurl itself at my window and fall to the deck below. Closer investigation revealed a rather irate, seriously determined projectile disguised as a robin. It would appear that he had seen his reflection in the windows, become filled with wild bird machismo, and was simply defending his turf from a fierce and threatening interloper who looked - just like himself. It all made sense now. Sort of. I returned to my bed thinking that he'd go at it until daylight revealed the truth and put an end to his pugnacious delusion. Or he broke his own fool neck.<br><br>But I was wrong. So very wrong. The thumping and scraping wore on, making it impossible to sleep. So I arose and prepared for the day. As I sat at the table with my coffee and read the news, the bird continued to hurl himself senselessly into the windows. I'd get up and walk towards the window; he'd fly away. I'd sit back down; he rapidly return to his shadow boxing routine. It became mildly amusing. As amusing as four hours of sleep would allow anyway.</p>
<p>I headed downstairs to my workshop to continue the construction of two recently commissioned cigar box guitars. Four hours later when I came back upstairs to grab a bite to eat, the bird was still at it. “How long do you plan to keep this up?” I wondered aloud. Little did I know. After my lunch, accompanied by his non-stop thrashing and banging, I went back to the workshop and returned at 6 o'clock for supper. Guess who was still exercising his territorial privilege? As I sat eating my evening fare, the robin continued his rabid display of relentless, concussive tactics. The day may have been waning, but he definitely was not!<br><br>I watched as this foolish fellow, looking more than slightly rumpled, sat on the deck railing cocking his head this way and that. Then, as if jolted by lightning, he'd leap into the air and fly with full, feathered force into the window...THUMP! As the laws of gravity pulled him earthward, he angrily kicked his yellow feet at his reflection while his flailing wings uselessly throttled the window as he fell to the deck. Momentarily stunned, the robin would sit on the deck, ruffle his feathers and then excrete a large, whitish poop. He would then fly back to the deck railing and repeat this entire manoeuvre again. And again. Sometimes he'd add some variety by charging a different window and instead of falling to the deck, he would crash onto the lawn. But that didn't seem to matter and this routine – <em>Charge! THUMP! Scrape! Crash! Ruffle! Poop!</em> - continued until it was too dark to see.<br><br>I went to bed as usual and fell asleep reading. Next thing I knew, there it was: THUMP! Scrape. THUMP! Scrape. THUMP! Scrape. I looked at the clock. It was 5AM. Someone was getting an even earlier start. I leapt up out of bed and stomped through the house towards the bay windows. The robin, in mid-flight, saw me and rapidly changed course and flew high up into a tall hemlock tree. I opened the door and bellowed “Get the hell outta here, you idiot!” Suddenly I realized that if my neighbors, typically early risers, had happened to hear me they'd have yet another reason to wonder about their neighbor - “Yup, wonder what's up with that strange fella this time...out there screamin' at the trees.” I slammed the door and returned to bed. I hadn't lain down for more than a few seconds and the attack upon my domicile resumed.<br><br>Chagrinned, I rationalized that this robin was only doing what robins do. Surely he would stop all this nonsense in a few days after he tired himself out and realized that the unwelcome interloper was simply his own rather benign reflection. I had obviously overestimated his intellect - the term “birdbrain” made perfect sense to me. This jerk just wasn't getting it. This bird was most certainly brain-injured and totally incapable of learning anything. And he was NOT going away. For days he kept up his moronic blitz from dawn 'til dusk, non-stop. Even wind, rainstorms and the weatherman's shrill threat of tornadoes didn't stop him. He thrashed his soaking frame against my windows, imprinting muddy lithographs of himself on every glass surface. After a week of this my windows were a haze of dislodged feathers, bird snot and mud. And my deck and railings were slimy with poop.<br><br>I was up against a stupid yet formidably frustrating foe. I was held hostage by a Kamikaze Robin! And he had crossed the line – this was to be all-out WAR! In reality, though, our skirmishes more resembled cartoon scenes from the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote.<br><br>After another week of stomping around and yelling obscenities at the bird, it occurred to me that my boogey-man scare tactics were ridiculous and I became reminded of Einstein's description of insanity - something about repeating the same actions over and over and expecting different results! The Kamikaze Robin was clearly winning. That I was being regularly trumped by a “birdbrain” did little for my esteem. I needed to plot different, more effective strategies. In response I put masking tape on the windows so the bird's reflection would be broken. This seemed to slow down the percussive invasions for a day or two and I actually thought I might declare victory. It was, however, a very short-lived respite, for soon there returned the repetitive, numbing thump and scrape that was the signature of the dreaded Kamikaze Robin. And now my windows were also covered with tape.<br><br>I figured that if I wasn't going to scare this maniacal bird away, perhaps a natural predator might. It occurred to me that right now might be a great time for Owl to be employed into service. Owl is a life-size, life-like plastic...Owl. He has a 360 degree rotating head, his huge eyes are alert, his beak intimidating. Three years ago I bought Owl to threaten the chipmunks and squirrels that were eating all the peaches from my backyard tree. Owl did a lousy job. Every single peach was purloined, I never tasted a one and Owl retired, sulking on my mantle. But here was an opportunity for Owl to redeem himself; surely Owl could stand up to a - robin? So I installed Owl on the deck railing, directly upon the Kamikaze Robin's launching pad, with the strict orders, “Keep that little twerp away!” Again for nearly two days, there was no noise, no sign of the robin. Owl had redeemed himself and would be my hero! <em>Huzzah! </em>for Owl!<br><br>Then one evening as I was sitting at my table eating dinner and enjoying the gentle woodland chorus of twilight birdcalls and crickets, a dark blur appeared just on the edge of my peripheral vision. Another fluttering motion caught my full attention. There was the Kamikaze Robin, head cocked jauntily, hopping boldly along the railing towards the stalwart Owl. He got to within inches of Owl, looked up with beady eyes, spun around, looked at Owl again, ruffled his feathers confrontationally and let a loose, white poop drop to the deck below. Owl did not seem to notice and kept his gaze as steady and unplacable as the Queen's Guard at Buckingham Palace. The robin gave his feathers a quick preen and suddenly catapulted into the window – THUMP! Scrape. “DAMN!” I cried.<br><br>Not to be deterred, I tried moving Owl around to different strategic spots. He went inside the house to sit in full profile upon the window sill. He moved to different windows. He shared the windows with more masking tape and cut-out cardboard silhouettes of raptors – thus proving that the combination of two ineffective techniques was twice as ineffective. I don't know why – just crazy, I guess - but I again reintroduced Owl outside to different stations on the deck. He would do his job for a few hours, but then his territorial imperative was rendered obsolete. Kamikaze Robin didn't take no shit from no plastic Owl. But he could sure dish it out!<br><br>As we approached the three week mark in our contentious pas de deux, I was becoming more and more sleep deprived. My tolerance was on low reserve, and my irritation was tinder-dry, ready to explode. I had taken to wearing ear plugs and running a white-noise fan in my bedroom. Kamikaze Robin celebrated his victories over Owl, masking tape decoys and my best boogey-man antics by ratcheting up his assaults. He attacked at first light and continued relentlessly until dusk. There was no evidence that he took a break for lunch. I, on the other hand, felt like I was out-to-lunch and ready to break. Every one of my attempts to vanquish the valiant bird fell puny before his superior feathered fury.<br><br>Late one afternoon as I sat slumped in my chair, eyes at half-mast, conspiring how I might procure an effective weapon of mass distraction that would eliminate the cursed bird, restore my rest and save my sanity, I felt a familiar presence.<br><br>“Look a' deh face on dat, will yah! Look like yah got deh grouch all ovah yah, meh-son!”<br><br>It was Dr. Ea$y, showing up as he often does when I'm about at the end of my rope. Time to tie a knot and hang on! And, as per usual, he arrived just before dinner time. “Wha' gwan witchu, meh-son? Yah look vex...an' like yah nah sleep feh days. Wha's for supper dis fine evenin'?”<br><br>I proceeded to recount my tale of feathered frustration, sleep deprivation and eroding sanity as the good Doctor rummaged around in my kitchen, banging cabinet doors and rooting through my refrigerator. “I be listenin' to yah, but meh belly be grouchin' jus' as loud as you! A man need sus'nance! Den meh put meh bes' min' to deh issue a' hand.”<br><br>He found a jar of peanuts, a banana, a piece of cheese and a can of ginger beer and came and sat down cross-legged on the floor across from me. He looked me square in the eye and said, “I be hopin' yah got somet'ing mo' substantial planned for our supper dis fine evenin', but dis be 'nuff to ge' me min' ta turnin'.”<br><br>“I wasn't exactly planning on company for dinner tonight, Doctor,” I replied as I wearily reached for some peanuts. It was then I realized I hadn't eaten since early morning. My days had become scrambled and preoccupied with robin eradication. “Any thoughts about how I can get this damn bird outta my hair? It's times like this I wish I had a gun!”<br><br>“Whoa now, meh-son! Yah nah be shootin' nah gun 'roun' here. Prolly shoot yah own foot and den yah have somet'ing to be grouch about! 'Sides, meh gah bettah plan. Clean an' quiet, an' it do deh job, jes' like we do it down deh island way. Nah fowl geh 'way from me. Yah gah an' ol' rubber tire tube? Gah piece o' ledder an' string? I mek meh a sling-shot do deh job quick. I gah meh good eye! Gi' me dese t'ings an' move yahse'f in deh kitchen on deh bizzy end o' dat fry pan!”<br><br>I was somewhat incredulous, but I was also worn down and had had enough experience with the Doctor to know that once he got his mind planted on a plan it would be futile to attempt to distract him. Besides, perhaps a sling-shot could be the solution I sought. I rummaged around in my workshop and found an old bicycle inner tube from which I cut a twelve-inch length. I then cut a three-inch square of canvas for a pouch and located some stout cord to fasten the pouch to the rubber sling.<br><br>While I got busy making us a light repast of omelets, toast and tea, Dr. Ea$y fashioned a pretty fair sling-shot from the materials I'd provided. He then went out to the stream in the back yard to find some small, smooth stones for projectiles. I looked out the kitchen window and saw him adjust his ever present cap and shades, take a small stone from his pocket and place it into the pouch. He held the rubber sling tightly in his right hand while he pulled back the pouch with its payload in it with his left. The rubber sling strained as it stretched thin, awaiting the release of its deadly force. He closed one eye, took aim at a tree about thirty feet away and released the pouch. The sling contracted with an audible snap and the stone missile sailed through the air, striking the trunk of the tree with a solid THUNK!<br><br>“Meh still gah it!” I heard him exclaim as he turned, grinning, and walked jauntily back to the house. “Dat fowl soon gon be tek he las' flight!” he said proudly.<br><br>As we ate our supper discussing further The Great Robin Eradication Plan, the unwitting Kamikaze Robin continued his wild accost upon my windows. “Nah backin' off, he!” exclaimed the Doctor. And then he added with a broad, reassuring smile, “Soon fowl be wishin' he nevah come 'roun' here! Enny mo' dem eggs, meh-son? Say, dey nah robin eggs, right?” Though I couldn't see them behind his shades, I knew his eyes were twinkling with anticipation.<br><br>After he'd eaten his fill, the Doctor restated his plan as if I wasn't sharp enough to have gotten it the first and second times. “OK. Yah stay inna house, an' don' mek no noise. Gotta work fas' while we still gah some light. Now, I a-go out deh back an' 'roun' deh house, sneak up on deh bird while he be settin' on deh deck poopin' an' plannin' his nex' move. When he smack deh window an' fall onna groun', I lets loose wit' de stone. Pop! Fowl all done! All yah gotta do is watch deh mastah do his wuk. An' den bury deh corpse!” There was a wild look in his eyes.<br><br>“Terrific,” I said, somewhat skeptically, “just don't shoot my window! Or put your own eye out!”<br><br>The Doctor gave me a scowl and disappeared out the door as evening shadows lengthened. For a few minutes I didn't see or hear him; the robin kept up his barrage. It amazed me that this bird was still alive after the past several weeks' assaults on his noggin. But here he was, like some nutty, lobotomized Narcissus staring at his own reflection, back on the railing in preparation for another window strafing.</p>
<p>“Well,” I smiled to myself as I sat quietly watching from my kitchen table, “it'll all be over soon. I think we're probably doing the robin gene pool a huge favor by removing your stupid self from it!”<br><br>Then from out of the shadow of an ancient hemlock tree darted Dr. Easy with his sling-shot drawn and a slightly crazed look upon his face. “BANZAI!” he screamed and he loosed the stone in the general direction of the startled bird.<br><br>“No!” I shrieked, leaping up, knocking my chair backwards onto the floor as I ran towards the door. “That's not how the plan is supposed to go!” In his enthusiastic heat-of-battle, Dr. Ea$y did not wait until the robin had attacked the window and fallen to the ground before he fired his sling-shot. Instead, he ignored his own battle plan and fired the first shot.<br><br>As if in slow motion, I heard the sling-shot <em>ssssnnnsnaaaaaaaaaapppppp</em> as the stone <em>whizzzzzzzzzed</em> through the air in a convoluted arc, followed by a pained cry of “Oooowwwwwwwooooo!”, punctuated with a loud CRACK!<br><br>The stone smacked into the deck railing several feet from the robin, ricocheted off the railing and back towards the hemlock's trunk. From there, losing little of its energy, the stone bounced off the tree trunk and struck the Doctor squarely on the forehead, knocking off his shades and his cap. The shocked robin evidently still had enough of his wits about him to realize that he needed to quickly get gone and bee-lined it up into the hemlock tree from whose high perch he looked down upon the Doctor who was leaping about, alternately rubbing his thumb and his forehead. The robin ruffled his feathers, cocked his head and let a volley of poop loose upon the dancing Doctor below.<br><br>“Enough already,” I shouted from the deck down to the wounded gladiator, “quit this shenanigans before you break something!”<br><br>“I t'ink I a'ready shoot meh own thumb up bad an' deh damn rock hit meh inna head! Mek meh face broke up...lookit!” he said, pointing to a burgeoning bruise above his eyebrow. “Wha' yah got meh into? I ha' 'nuff dis foolishness, meh-son! Yah on yer own wit' dis stupid vexation.” And as quickly as he had appeared from nowhere, Dr. Ea$y vanished.<br><br>I looked up into the hemlock tree. I was reasonably certain the robin was smirking at me. “You may have won this battle, bird, but you will NOT win the war!” I growled. The next morning I did what I should have done weeks ago: I went to the garden shop and bought thirty feet of fine, plastic netting and hung it from my eaves...enough to cover all the windows in the front of my house.<br><br>More than two weeks have passed since the slingshot debacle, and I've not heard a single thump 'n scrape. Owl has retired to sulk on the mantle. There's not been a single robin to be seen in my yard. Come to think of it, Doctor Ea$y hasn't been 'round either.</p>
<p>Yet one question still remains: Will the real birdbrain please stand up!<br><br> </p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"> </form>
<p> </p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356522011-05-30T12:00:00-12:002014-01-29T07:07:40-12:00Catsup
<center>
<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/f5b84e585af84a8ae70eff5753e5f70415febdb4/original/catsup.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjg4eDM4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="384" width="288" /> <br> <big><strong>You Guys Are Like Catsup!</strong></big>
</center>
<p><br> <small><small>May 31, 2011</small></small> <br>Last night I crossed paths with a musical colleague who was playing at one of my favorite venues, The Lion’s Den in Stockbridge, MA. Jeff Martell is an ol’ singin’, guitar-slingin’ road-dog whom I don’t see often, but when our paths cross it’s always an interesting exchange. Last night was no different. <br> <br>After we got caught up with each others comings and goings, we hit on the topic most of us itinerant solo musicians approach as our primary, yet necessary, annoyance: Booking and Self-promotion. Those of us who’ve been at this game for any length of time know that you just can’t avoid the Business of the music business. If you do, it will be at your peril. But that doesn’t mean we all like it or do it well. Finding and maintaining a balance between marketing yourself professionally and keeping your personal integrity (ie: keeping that Ego in check!) is sometimes a challenge, especially in our current Culture of Fame and Quest for Riches. <br> <br>As performers, Jeff and I agreed that it is incumbent upon us to do our homework as to which venues are appropriate for what we have to offer. Even with that said and done, dealing with concert promoters and venue owners or their managers can often be an ordeal as many of them, despite your carefully-worded press kits and sample music tracks, are fully programmed with vivid Expectations about who you are and what you will do for them. Some of them have not done their homework about your music and want to book you into an inappropriate venue. Some shortsighted promoters just don’t care who you are or what you play; they are simply interested in selling more tickets or beer. Some hope you are the next Biggest & Hippest Thing and that your mere presence in their room will guarantee to fill it to the rafters with adoring fans – all of whom will be buying copious amounts of food and beverages and leaving Large Tips. Finally, some of them simply have tin ears and <em>shouldn’t be doing the booking in the first place!</em> <br> <br>Jeff told me about a venue where he frequently plays in southern Vermont whose owner/manager has what I consider to be the best approach and attitude to booking musicians. Apparently while having a discussion on this very topic, this manager summed it up quite succinctly – and wisely - to Jeff: “To me, you performers are like catsup. I can’t serve up burgers and fries without catsup. And I am not going to serve my customers without some good live music.” <br> <br>This venue manager views his entertainment as an essential, viable component of his operation. He has his Expectations in proper perspective and, most importantly, realizes that having live music is <em>not</em> compensation for providing patrons with mediocre food or service. He takes what I call a Value-Added approach to what he offers his patrons: the entertainment gives them <em>more</em> for their money and (hopefully) they have a really enjoyable experience while they are in his establishment, will readily return, and will tell their friends about his place. With him, it’s not about just selling burgers & beer, it’s about providing his patrons with something a little bit extra. And according to Jeff, this place is always busy and is a great place to play a show. <br> <br>My hat goes off to this Vermont tavernier and to those like him for having this wider, and I think wiser, Value-Added perspective. <br> <br><em>Please, pass the catsup!</em> <br> <br><br> <small></small></p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356822011-05-06T12:00:00-12:002014-01-29T08:29:55-12:00Rattlin' Riddim Wit' Wesley
<p> </p>
<p><big><small></small></big></p>
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/3074af248e29527b26f4533db44b16315a618ca7/original/koko-rattlecaps-crop.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYweDI1NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="256" width="360" /></center>
<p><big><small> <small>photo * jaime elliot/Tradewinds, St. John, USVI</small> <br></small></big></p>
<center><strong><big>Rattlin' de Riddim Wit' Wesley</big></strong></center>
<p><big><small><br> KOKO & THE SUNSHINE BAND is a popular West Indian quelbe, or "scratch band", group from the island of St. John, USVI. Here they are performing for the 20th Annual Folklife Festival recently held at the Annaberg ruins near Maho Bay. Notice that the percussionist, Wesley (left), is playing a pair of genuine <strong>RattleCaps</strong> made by David Reed hisself! The man obviously knows what de riddim needs! You, too, can shake it (almost) like Wesley...just go to our Dry Ducks Records General Store page and order a <strong>RattleCap</strong> or two for your own self! <br><br></small></big></p>
<center></center>
<p><big><small></small></big></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356832011-04-27T12:00:00-12:002014-01-29T08:22:38-12:00DR & Max Creek - Together Again
<p> </p>
<p><big><small></small></big></p>
<center>
<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/934a085e295cd25ba65040c93f6eb91391bf23e9/original/max-creek-40th-the-original-line-up.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDMzMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="332" width="500" /> <br><br> <strong><big>David Reed Helps Celebrate Max Creek's 40th</big></strong>
</center>
<p><big><small><br> ONE OF THE COUNTRY'S most legendary and beloved jam bands, <strong>Max Creek</strong>, were still rockin' hard in April, 2011, as they celebrated forty years of stirrin' up the rock 'n roll jam. <br><br> As a founding member of the band back in 1971, David Reed was invited to join his old high school pal and first Max Creek drummer, Bob Gosselin, along with original bassist and current MC member, John Rider, for a lively set of musical reminiscences. Among the tunes they selected to play before an enthusiastically adoring crowd of 400 "Creekers" at The Old Well in Simsbury, CT were "July" (a John Stewart-penned chestnut Reed still keeps in his solo set-list), "Crystal Clear" (a Rider original), and "Wreck of the Old '97" (both tunes added to Reed's solo repertoire since the reunion!). <br><br>Later in the set, the original trio was joined by current keyboardist Mark Mercier (who replaced Reed when he left the band in 1976) and guitarist Scott Murawski (who once was a music student of Reed's and can sometimes be found moonlighting with members of the Allman Bros. Band, Phish and Jeff Pevar!) for a rousing version of Paul Simon's "Diamonds On the Soles of Her Shoes" and Reed's chicken-pickin' barn-burner, "Back Porch Boogie Blues" (a tune covered by Phish...see "A Real Phish Story" in the TamPro December 2008 WebJournal). <br><br></small></big></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/758daf48bda12cabfcf85a1e3d4f7603296c126e/original/max-creek1973.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDM1OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="359" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Max Creek c.1973 - Bob, David, Mark, John @ The Rockinghorse, Hartford, CT</em></p>
<center> </center>
<p><big><small></small></big></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356542011-01-31T12:00:00-12:002014-01-20T00:02:21-12:00DR & Miss Mary Invited to Sing Under Water!
<center> <big></big>
</center>
<p> <small><small>Feb-U-Wary 2011</small></small> </p>
<p><br>It isn't every day that one can hear what their records sound like when played under water, but early one day recently I got the chance. <br> <br>The phone rang mercilessly at 5 AM last week. I was in the midst of having a complicated dream about how many PA systems I could fit into a golf bag while The Chevster - my mildly psychotic, but cute, feline - lounging like the queen that she is on top of the refrigerator, was doing her best to get my attention by yowling "More! More!" in her quasi-deranged mewl. At first I thought the jangling phone was just part of my somnolent, warped nightscape. But when my own disembodied voice on the answering machine in the kitchen announced that I was not there to take the call, my eyes cracked open like two brittle iguana eggs. <br> <br>"Day-vit! You still inna bed? You gonna wan' pick up this phone and spek wit' me." Dr. Easy. What the heck was he calling me about at this hour? I assumed the good Daktah had probably just rolled in from a night of mischief-making of his own sort and wanted to hold me hostage while bragging about his nocturnal adventures and misdeeds as he was wont to do. I wasn't in the mood, so I let the machine be his impartial, though receptive, audience. But he wasn't going away and continued to prattle on. <br> <br>"Day-vit! I jus' heard you an' Miss Mary singin' wit' the fishes. You ain't gonna believe it!" <br> <br>WTF? Doctor Easy has regaled me with all sorts of nonsense over the years and has been the genesis of many of my own regrets, but he potentially may have bested himself in the Weird Dept. with this one. <br> <br>"Day-vit! You gon' be famous! You surrounded by fishes an' singin' to 'em! Miss Mary, too. You pick up dis phone, mistah, right now!" <br> <br>I hauled my carcass out of bed, yawning widely as my surreal PA-in-the-golf-bag-Ms.Chevy-on-the-refrigerator dream evaporated into the vapors of dawn. Snatching the cordless phone I mumbled with my best pre-coffee elocution "Hola, doctor. This better be good. You DO know what time it is, right?" <br> <br>"Day-vit! I cunna sleep, mi-son, so I go surfin' de web on me ol' ca'puter. I go visit de Blue Tang boys site 'bout de St. John island. Yah, mon, be de mos beautiful! So, wanderin' 'roun' go I an' den, 'Pwoosh!' I fin' dis li'l video an' push I deh 'Go' but-ton an' all dese fishes dey come swimmin' 'roun' an 'roun' - it wa' truly lovely, mi-son." <br> <br>"OK, take a breath," I yawned. <br> <br>"Yah, mon, and guess what? It wa' you an' Miss Mary singin' dem song while all dem fishes be swimmin' 'bout. Uh-huh, for true!" He could hardly contain himself, but he had, once again, seduced my attention. <br> <br>"OK, doc," I croaked as I shuffled over to my own "ca'puter" and woke it up. "Tell me where you found your underwater wonderworld." <br> <br>"OK, here 'tis. Yah ready, mon? Put dis address in you ca'puter. <a href="http://www.on-stjohn.com/2011/02/25/annies-animals-identifying-fish/" data-imported="1">Annie's Animals: Identifying Fish</a> See it! Right there! See it! OK, mi-son, I gotta go now. I right now goin' down to de beach an' bringin' me snorffle an' frog-feet. I goin' down and visitin' dem fishes fo' myse'f!" And just like that, he was gone. It was 5:05 AM and I was awake, contemplating the word "snorffle". </p>
<center> * * * * *</center>
<p><br> <br>The video that got Dr. Easy so aroused was created by St. John artist/photographer/sculptor/potter/sailor/gardener and bon vivant, Annie Caswell. She spent hours with her underwater camera photographing the fish and other underwater denizens of this Caribbean island's endangered coral reefs. As her soundtrack, she chose a guitar piece by local musicians Bo & Lauren to introduce her video, but then selected "Coming Up For Air", a Patty Larkin song that I recorded on my CD, Asleep At The Keel. Sure enough, a minute or so into the film, the aquaeous strains of yours-truly and Miss Mary fade into the background. <br> <br> <br>Together with the guys from Blue Tang, the talented web/photo/video St. John production company, Annie put together a most relaxing and informative little video gem that might make you want to dig out your own 'snorffle and frog-feet' and join 'em! <br> <br> <br> Annie's Website: <a href="http://anniecaswell.com/" data-imported="1">Kissed By Fire Creations</a> <br><br> Blue Tang's website: <a href="http://www.bluetangproductions.com/" data-imported="1">Blue Tang Productions</a> <br><br> <small></small></p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356552010-10-17T12:00:00-12:002014-01-31T03:20:04-12:00Dr. Easy's Wallapalooza Birthday Bash
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/700560e30180f9a2099b34b9683faa684dcd7d89/original/shock-n-awe2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDUzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="533" width="400" /></center>
<center></center>
<center></center>
<center>
<strong><big>Yowzah! It's that time again . . .</big></strong> <br> <br><em>Frost on de pumpkin, squirrels hidin' nuts, </em><br><em>Couches full o'football fans, sittin' on dere butts. </em><br><em>Days is gettin' shorter, an' nights is growin' long, </em><br><em>Hawaiian shirts tucked inna drawer, scratchy long-johns go on. </em><br><em>Firewood sits inna heap, tractor oil gets changed, </em><br><em>Watchin' dem birdies flyin' south, I feelin' a bit deranged. </em><br><em>Winter lurkin' 'roun' de bend - Oh, hail 'n ice 'n snow, </em><br><em>Caribbean islands' a long ways off, but "Soon-come", I know. </em><br><em>Another orbit 'round de sun, and what a year it be, </em><br><em>So, time to take dat worry down an' party wit' Dr. EZ! </em><br> <br>- excerpted from the not-so-private journal of Dr. Itzo Easy
</center>
<p><br> <br><strong>Friday, Roctober 29: David Reed</strong> and a cast of thousands pay homage to Dr. Itzo Easy as he enters his 7th (!?!) decade as the curmudgeonly muse to good ol' DR. Join David along with his guitars, banjos, harps, fingers, friends and friends' fingers, as they celebrate the "good Daktah" with song and . . . cake (the doctor loves cake - not pie - cake!). The photo in the poster above shows David holding his mouth. He is not going to up-chuck, nor is he shielding himself from the intense heat from all them candles. He was simply shocked that he was invited to this wing-ding. You will be too! <br> <br>Musicians from DR's past, present and future will be featured shoehorned (ummm...what's a 'shoehorn'?) into the notions aisle (right next to the sweatshirts and across from the coolers) of the Monterey General Store (Rt. 23/Main St., Monterey, MA).* <br> <br>"Who you talkin' 'bout?" you may ask. <br> <br>Well, for starters, there's none other than the peripatetic Miss Mary herself (steel drum, flute, mandolin, pipes, prettiness), the Samster (abbreviated drums, tallness), Dwight "The Other Man from Memphis" O'Neil (guitar, vox, dry wit), Rich "Phlyt Phinger" Hommel (guitar, bass, even more dry wit), Joel "The Chicago Gorilla" Shick (harps, uber-nonsense), Lee "Lee-Boy" Everett (shaky things, vox, still more wry dit - sorry, it's the lysdexia!), and making his musical debut for the very first time (don't you just love redundancy again?) Brendan "Highway-Boy" Reed (drumstuff, more tallness). More musicians call daily to volunteer their talents...so stay tuned for further updates! <br> <br>All this clap-trap will begin semi-promptly @ 7PM and proceed until 9PM (so Kenn can go home). TV and Press personnel are asked to wait on the other side of the stream. At 9PM, the crowd will then peacefully disperse to continue the festivities elsewhere. Better get there before 7PM if you think you wanna sit down! While there is no cover charge to attend this festive fiasco, DONATIONS to help defray the cost of the doctor's rehab would be appreciated. <br> <br><br> </p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/tkJhkYDUhMI?rel=0" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="420" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div> <small></small>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
<p><small></small></p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356572010-03-12T12:00:00-12:002014-01-20T00:07:12-12:00Toys
<p>Toys. It’s been some time since I thought of this word. Or needed to. My kids are long grown and on their own. I don’t think of myself as needing toys anymore. Sure, I have my diversions like anyone else. But toys? Turns out, I still like them, especially if I can make music with ‘em! <br> <br>I recently heard a young acoustic guitarist from the Amherst, MA band <em>Mafanti</em> who were opening up for <em>Ras Moon & Monsoon</em> – the band in which I play bass. He had a Martin D-18 guitar plugged into a pretty complicated, wired-up rig with multiple brightly colored foot-pedals, their various dials and blinking lights inviting him to create myriad sonic colors implemented by the tap of a foot. While I typically ignore all that sound-effect junk (I find it is often used to cover up lack of technique and overall bad musicianship), I was intrigued by this young guy’s tonal palette. Not only was he a wonderfully adroit guitarist, he wrote and sang many of the band’s songs, each textured and enhanced by various combinations of his electronic toys. Not a one of them detracted from his playing. <br> <br>I especially liked the way he could get his Martin acoustic to sound like a bass on the lower strings as he propelled the band forward in a variety of Afro-pop world-grooves. How was he doing this? I had to find out, so during the band’s break, I asked him “Where do you keep the bass?” He gladly showed me the small, brown Boss SuperOctave pedal. Just plug in, tweak the knobs, and Voila! – your guitar is a bass! Very cool. <br> <br>I found a used SuperOctave on-line for $80 and tried it out. What fun! Especially on my 6-string banjo. I now kick in the SuperOctave and the ragtime numbers all of a sudden have a tuba player! Pop it on for the calypso and reggae stuff, and that banjo sounds almost like a complete Rasta rhythm section! I’ve been fooling around with it for about a month now and have taken it out on gigs with me and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been approached by mystified audience members wondering where the bass player was. Stayed home, I guess. <br> <br>Last weekend I saw Australian CGP (Certified Guitar Player) Tommy Emmanuel in a solo show at the Troy Savings Bank Music Hall in Troy, NY. He had three Australian-made Maton guitars plugged into a unit about the size of a breadbox (remember what one of those is?). And <em>that</em>, folks, is all this fellow needed! He introduced his two hands as “his band members” and launched into a smokin’ Chet Atkins tune (Chet was his hero), right-hand thumb laying down the bass, right-hand fingers dancing the rhythm and providing melody while his left hand flew around the neck pointing the way in and around almost three hours’ worth of astounding, astonishing music. <br> <br>Now I’ve seen guitar players of all stripes. We all have, but you just know when you're in the presence of pure, unadulterated genius. And that night in Troy, genius prevailed. Mr. Emanuel has an amazing and eclectic repertoire from folk, jazz, rock, worldbeat, swing, country . . . you name it. Together with his awesome technique, gracious stage-presence and wry humor, he gave everyone a night to remember. Still, I was intrigued by what he kept in that “breadbox”, because there within, I believed, was magic! <br> <br>Later that night when I got home, I had to make two choices: Should I toss my guitars into the woodstove (because there was simply no use hoping that I could in any way play like Tommy!) or, keep practicing my butt off . . . even harder! I decided to go with the latter, but before I opened my guitar case, I decided to go on-line and find Tommy’s website. I wanted to know more about that <em>sound</em>, his magic sound. And lo, there was a description (and a photo!) of exactly what he kept in that “breadbox”. It was quite simple really: his guitar’s pre-amp and an Alesis digital sound processor! Two “toys-of-the-trade”. <br> <br>You can’t believe how much this pleased me (and I’ve been told I’m not that easy to please!). I already own a great pre-amp (a Tech 21 SansAmp Acoustic DI), but hidden in amongst my years’ of accumulating musical detritus was . . . an old Alesis NanoVerb sound processor! Not exactly the same as Tommy’s, but it would do. It had many of the sounds he used that night: reverbs, choruses and the best part, digital delay! Now <em>I</em> could attempt to try some of <em>his</em> magic for my own. <br> <br>I hooked up each of these small, electronic toys to my Fishman SoloAmp and “lit the fuse”. It’s been a bit over a week now, and several new, exciting sonic pathways have blasted open for me. Old tunes have renewed life. Brand new tunes are gestating. Different playing techniques are making themselves manifest. And I’m having a <em>blast!</em> Despite all this, I don’t think Tommy Emanuel has anything to worry about. Yet. <br> <br>PS: Just before she left on her 4-month world tour, Miss Mary gave me her old Boss RC-20XL Loop Station. Another new toy! Can‘t wait to see what happens with this thing. Most shocking to me about all of this is: <em>What is happening to the Analog Man?</em> <br> <br> <br><br> <small></small></p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356582010-02-18T12:00:00-12:002014-01-29T09:08:45-12:00Automobiliology
<p style="text-align: left;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/6c8ef8eccc449c71e73637e3f8184037f959162d/original/guinness-wagon.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDM3NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="375" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="500" /><br><br> <em><strong> WARNING! If you have absolutely no interest in cars, trucks, motorcycles or wheeled contrivances of any sort, DO NOT READ THIS STORY! Doing so may result in extreme boredom, or worse, annoyance. You have been warned. </strong></em> <br><br> There are many lenses through which one can view history: geologically, astrological, literary, artistically, genealogically and sociologically to name a few. Being a full-fledged, old-school analog guy, I tend to measure history automobilogically. In other words, I perceive <em>my</em> history from where the rubber meets the road. It has been said that you can tell a lot about a person by the car he or she drives. I suppose you'll have to be the judge of that. <br> <br>When I was born, my dad had a ’49 Ford Coupe - I wish I had one today! My folks wheeled me about our neighborhood in a white-rubber-wheeled baby buggy with a convertible top. Years later, after my younger sister was no longer traveling by this mode, my friends and I used the wheels from the buggy and some 2x4s to make our own race car, steered with a rope. We kept a lot of Band-Aids in our pockets. At around age three, and in honor of my first real word, <em>“tractor”</em>, my farmer grandfather bought me a 3-wheeled, pedal-powered, ride-on tractor with a wagon and front-end bucket loader. I picked up my first girls with this. (With the wagon, not the loader!) A few years later, I prepared myself for the road by practicing in the woods on my grandfather's mid-40's Ford 8-N. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/10383186cd0e480dbe493c460f232b5a583bb535/original/tractorwagon089.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzQxeDI1OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="258" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="341" /><br><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/b009ae62a6cdcf18c6a0b9ab28fd6f376e58b106/original/tractor-boy-circa-1960.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjg4eDI4NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="285" width="288" /> <br><br> At age six, I received my first “big boy bike”: a beige 24” Columbia 2-wheeler. And I did feel pretty big. That is until I realized that most of my buddies were cruising around on 26” bikes. I wobbled around, following them on that nondescript Columbia until Christmas of my 10th year when my parents gave me a shiny, black 26” English 3-speed Royce-Union bicycle. This was my primary ride until I got my driver’s license at sixteen and tooled around town in my parent’s very un-cool, poop-brown, 1963 Dodge Dart sedan with a push-button transmission. I suppose now that they've passed I can reveal that I wasn't really being chased by hoodlums on the night I buried that "Daht" up to its axles in the mud, and had to be towed by Arnold’s Garage from deep in the cornfields of Cresotti’s farm. I had been engaging in my first (but not last!) episode of “submarine races” with my girlfriend. <br> <br>Life really got on the road with my <em>own</em> first automobile: a red 1965 VW Beetle that my dad and I paid $800 for. I jazzed and juiced that Bug up, using nearly all my meager wages earned working in a Dairy Queen supply warehouse to add header pipes, Firestone Wide-Oval tires, chrome wheels, rallye lights (with wire-mesh brush screens for all the off-roading I might never do), a chrome competition air cleaner, faux-leather door panels, tachometer, seat covers and head rests, an extension speaker for the AM radio, and the crowning touch – <em>wood-grained contact paper</em> for the dashboard! I commuted for two years to college and then sold it, just before the 40 hp engine blew up, to a student from Long Island for $900. My father, a WWII vet, had been skeptical from the start of my foreign “peoples’ wagon”. He wanted his son to "get a good American car, like a Dodge!" Hell, I drove that Beetle for nearly three years and sold it for a hundred bucks more than I paid for it. I considered that "American" enough. <br> <br>Dad wanted so badly for me to "buy American" that he found a gold (champagne?) colored, 1965 Dodge Dart Sport with a Slant-6 engine. It had white bucket seats and a floor shifter for its automatic transmission. He pointed out that it already had a built-in extension speaker for its AM radio. It had been owned by a little old lady who only drove it to church. Uh-huh. It could not “smoke show” the tires. I hated this car. We paid $800 for it too. <br> <br>One day while idling around town in the "Ol' Gol' Daht”, I came across a shiny, red 1967 Austin Healey Sprite for sale in a local gas station. It needed an exhaust system and a new convertible top. The owner needed $800. I offered $700 and we settled on $750. I sold the “Daht” to my buddy Eddie for $700 - he drove it all through college - and I went right up and drove that jaunty, English Sprite home. My father wouldn’t talk to me for days. Again, I spent nearly all my DQ warehouse wages on a new exhaust system and convertible top. I installed them myself. <br> <br>That English sports car was a blast to drive and I went everywhere in it, including driving over sixty miles to a gig in a winter snowstorm with the top down. That's so I could fit my Fender Bandmaster amp and electric guitar in the jumpseat in back! Several of my buddies had English sports cars too. Our "club" consisted of: a Triumph TR-4 and Triumph Spitfire, a Sunbeam Alpine Tiger (that little sleeper had a V8 engine in it!), an MG-A (which was totaled on the Mass Pike and replaced with an MG-B). We tore it up over most of the Northeast. Sadly, I had to succumb to the fact that the Sprite simply would not start if it were raining or below 32 degrees. I once got so angry with it for leaving me stranded that I punished it by breaking off all the toggle switches from the dashboard. For revenge, the car made me stick wooden toothpicks into the headlight switch to "ignite the lamps"! After I was forced to rebuild the engine - to the tune of a thousand bucks! - when the opportunity to make an even trade for a 1965 Chevy van came along, I did the deed. <br><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/68b4a2f3ccf4be7934277e672d25afabdaea4f56/original/65-chevy-van084-copy.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzg0eDI2MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="263" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="384" /></p>
<p>It was around 1970 and the band that I was in, Max Creek, was starting to expand. We got more: <em>bigger amps and speakers, instruments, members, friends and hangers-on.</em> We began to travel further than our immediate Hartford surroundings. The Chevy van fit the bill – well, most of the time. I recall one trip in a wailing Nor'easter to a gig at Mt. Snow in VT when the wipers failed. We tied ropes to the wipers and pulled them back 'n forth through the open vent windows. It was very long, cold trip. We camped in it from time to time, though not always on purpose. The shag carpeting, paneled walls (complete with ‘accent lights’) and built-in double bed made this van the ideal multi-purpose, back-road ‘love machine’ - <em>if</em> you were in the right company! I painted the front of the van with a bright portrait of a blazing yellow sun with a nice platter of sizzlin' bacon ‘n eggs smack in the center. The band’s name was painted on the side. The 3-speed transmission would regularly lock up in third gear, necessitating that someone crawl under it with a long metal hook and free the stuck linkage – not a joy in nasty weather or on a highway ramp. <br> <br>Badly missing my Sprite, a drummer friend of mine convinced me to go in ‘halvsies' with him on a lime-green 1959 A-H Bug-Eye Sprite. I leaped at the chance. I should have looked before leaping. Twice. We had intended to use the car for weekend rallyes and parking lot gymkanas. We barely got the car home from the funky used car lot before its transmission exploded. The dealer refused to fix it or take it back - <em>"It's yours now, boys. I already spent yer money anyway".</em> It took several phone calls and a letter from an attorney, but we did get our $500 back. We had our "racer" less than 72 hours. That car is worth over 25 grand today. <br> <br>I eventually unloaded the Chevy van when I left the band. Can’t remember where it went. Probably a good thing. But I do remember that its demise necessitated the purchase of my first brand-new car. Except that it wasn’t a car. It was a 1972 Datsun (before they became Nissan) pick-up truck, screamin’ yellow, with a 4-speed transmission, wide mag wheels and a tonneau cover to keep the weather out of the bed – except that it didn’t. I recall a nearly cryogenic experience with hypothermia while camping in it at the Crafstbury, VT Fiddle Festival. Despite this shortcoming, I rather liked this li’l truck and kept it for the four years it took to pay it off – all $2995 of it. But I was getting restless for some adventure - and that Datsun rode like a buckboard. <br> <br>The adventurous path led me to a 1970 VW Camper Van, complete with a pop-top and (very uncomfortable) hammock, tilt-top table, fold-out double bed, sink, ice box, closet and – a <em>gasoline</em> heater! I had moved to "way upstate" New York (aka The Tundra) and that gasoline heater helped seal the deal! The "heater from hell" got a reputation for peeling the skin from the shins of anyone sitting in the back of the van, and for its periodic unexpected explosions that nearly broke the sound barrier, sending foot-long blue/orange flames shooting from its exhaust pipe and imposing shell-shock upon any living creature within fifty yards. Oh, but it had a 40-channel CB radio – <em>“That’s a big 10-4, Good Buddy!”</em> I liked this camper van a lot and felt that I pretty much got my $1200 worth from it. It was just that the Volkswagen 40 hp engine simply didn’t have enough nut to negotiate the rugged Adirondak Mountains, especially in the winter. I began to keep my eye out for another ride. <br><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/2bfb4330f3e5ea85c3f78f2e1f733af839e504d9/original/ragtime-ride.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDIyNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="224" width="450" /></p>
<p>And that’s when the 1942 Chevrolet Panel Delivery Van - aka a WWII munitions transporter - came along. This vehicle was so unique that it warrants its very own story. (My, my, it's your lucky day . . . I refer you to “The Ragtime Millionaire’s Ride” story found posted in the February 2009 issue of this very Web Journal. You'll learn more than you bargained for about this <em>very</em> unique rig). </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>After nearly driving "Old 42" into the ground – or was it the other way around? – I found myself longing for something that was more reliable, fun to drive, got better mileage and didn’t leave me deaf as a post (guess you'll have to check out the other story to find out what this means?). My wife discovered a 1971 British Racing Green, 4-door, Audi 100LS with tan leather seats. I had to agree with her (after all, she had once owned a racy little 1969 Fiat Spyder convertible) that this vehicle was a blast to drive . . . hugging curves, shooting down the highway, mile markers a-blur! Unfortunately I didn’t get to blur past too many mile-markers in the 100LS before a bitter divorce plotted the course for that ride and it drove out of my life almost as recklessly as it drove in. The ex eventually totaled it. <br> <br>I still had the ’42 Chevy, but couldn’t find anyone to buy it so I took it off the road and stowed it in my parent’s yard where it languished for a couple of years until I practically gave it away to a guy who turned it into a really classy hot rod. Nearly broke, I borrowed $1000 from my family and purchased a white and yellow 1971 Volkswagen van. Yup, another VW van. Never knowing when to leave well enough alone, I took out the middle seat, installed carpet and curtains, suspended the Union Jack from the ceiling, added a Jensen cassette stereo (with FM radio!) and, you betcha, Good Buddy, another CB radio! I was off ‘n runnin’ for another few years, rollin' down the highway, avoiding the "Smokies" and eventually frying two more engines. I would have kept the VW longer except the right rocker panel rusted out, releasing the sliding side door from its track, sending it flying off into the woods somewhere in northwest Connecticut. I duct taped the severely wounded door back on and sold the van to some kid for $350. I needed the money (and then some!) to buy my 1977 silver Audi Fox. <br> <br>Like its Audi 100LS predecessor, the Silver Fox was also quite a hoot to drive. Too bad it was such a money pit. Everything that could go wrong with it did. And just when I thought I’d fixed or replaced practically everything, nearly draining my bank account in the process, the top of both front fenders simultaneously rusted completely through shooting water, mud, sand, snow, <em>whatever,</em> flying up onto the windshield. The ballistic pebble that took out the windshield one dark night was the Silver Fox’s death knell, and I sold it to another kid for a few hundred. But that was OK, because I’d already found my next ride. <br> <br>The pristine, white 1967 Volvo P-1800 two-seater sports car with black leather, electronic overdrive, full gauges, fog lamps and Stebro exhaust was just what I needed. My girlfriend and I spent $1650 for it. But it wasn’t to be in my life for too long as my girlfriend and I had very different automotive requirements. She gardened and raised small livestock. I worked as a musician and newspaper ad salesman. I could carry my guitars and briefcase in the Volvo. She couldn’t carry three dogs, hay bales, peat moss, animal feed or live goats and chickens in the 2-seater “P”. But she did. It didn’t take long before the poor car took on a real hang-dog look, like it belonged to the Beverly Hillbillies – and it smelled worse than a compost heap. We eventually broke up and she got the Volvo. I no longer wanted it. <br> <br>That’s when I bought my second brand-new car – a maroon 1984 Subaru Brat. (BRAT = Bi-Radial All Terrain. Go figure). This jolly little number was the renegade marriage between a miniature Japanese 4x4 pickup truck and a mountain goat. It would go nearly anywhere, didn’t eat much, and was as reliable as Caribbean sunshine. That is, until it hit around 125k miles. Then its body began to disintegrate into dust and some serious mechanical nickel ‘n diming began. I’d returned to grad school in New Hampshire and could not afford to keep tossing a few hundred here and there to keep this delightfully odd vehicle roadworthy. I began to understand the <em>true</em> definition of Brat. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/44ad5b4e6284a93dddfb32803bb4fa5b5f7c3f06/original/1984-bmw-r100rt.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDI3NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="276" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /><br> <br> It was around this time when my mother was killed in a single-car crash on the MassPike. It was just before Christmas. It's never a good time to lose one's mother, but this seemed especially harsh. The following summer, to assuage my grief, I bought a beautiful, black 1984 BMW 1000-RT, a for-real, decked out touring machine. I had many road adventures on this motorcycle. But the Beemer seemed just too big, too fast, for the analog guy and my girlfriend at the time hated riding, so, somewhat reluctantly I sold it to a neurotic German who criticized my nothing-short-of-immaculate maintenance records. </p>
<p><br>I guess you could blame the sailboat for the arrival of the red and black, 2005 Honda Element. Some folks call it the Honda Elephant, a Toaster-on-Wheels. I call it my Swiss Army Knife Car. It has suicide doors just like the classic early ‘60’s Lincoln Continental. I can put nearly anything in it (including snow- and leaf-blowers, amps, guitars et al) and load it out again just as easily. The rubberized interior can be sponged clean in a jiffy. It has all-wheel drive, so its footing is sure. It has a spunky 4-cylinder, 5-speed so its performance and economy are quite good - a respectable 28mpg highway. The black plastic fenders and rocker panels resist dents and won’t rust out. There’s tons of headroom. The seats fold down to make a double bed. The 7-speaker sound system has a sub-woofer and it ROCKS! There's a compass <em>and</em> GPS (directional overkill), a radar detector (the Element can easily exceed the speed limit), an oversize <em>analog</em> clock and a jack for the mp3 player that I don't have. Best of all, the Element tows the sailboat without a whimper. <br><br></p>
<p><br> So what happened to the Passat? I kept it for awhile, but found I was spending most of my time in the Element, so I sold it to a local kid who pimped it out with free-flow exhaust, carbon wheels, performance computer chip, etc. I needed the money to buy a 2004 Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200 Custom. Hey, the old Triumph was getting lonely, and a man can’t ride just on four wheels all the time! <br><br></p>
<center> </center>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356592010-01-05T12:00:00-12:002014-01-29T07:10:06-12:00Sometimes a Guitar is Just a Guitar
<p> </p>
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/368eca96f8772dfd75aee7cadbb811db9a1c5f35/original/cargo3.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzUweDQ2NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="466" width="350" /></center>
<p><br> <br>Recently, a non-wooden, 21st century designed, all-black carbon-fiber acoustic guitar has been invited to take up residence at my house. This seemingly innocuous event has been somewhat disorienting for the Analog Man as it has taken his typically steady and principled moral compass and given it a rather vigorous and cognitively dissonant spin. And he <em>likes</em> it. Dr. Easy, on the other hand, is not quite so pleased. <br><br>I’ve already written about my being an Analog Man in a previous post (<em>“The Advent of Analog Man”</em> - February 2009), but I’d not described how this seemingly anachronistic state came to be. You see, I arrived at it early and often as I’d spent countless care-free hours under the influence and tutelage of the venerable Dr. Easy. Espousing the virtues of organic simplicity, he being from the old-school of “Use it up, wear it out, make do, do without” and “If you ain’t got the cash, you can’t afford the stash,” Dr. Easy carefully imprinted his values upon me. <br> <br>Dr. Easy always took pride in his being ‘green’, long before ‘green’ was PC. Back in the day when most folks thought ‘recycle’ meant "Why don't you go ride your bicycle again, kid", ‘solar power’ was Flash Gordon’s dream and ‘wind power’ referred to the dry, pedantic ramblings your most boring teacher, the good Daktah was a green-living zeitgeist. I once saw him salvage materials from a demolished house and with help from his friend Samster he built not one, but two nice decks onto his house, never spending a cent for building materials. Two huge Anderson casement windows found curbside and destined for the town dump became resurrected and transformed into a wall of light and solar-heat gain for his small house. And, of course, there’s the <em>SS Tamboura</em>, the recycled sailboat in which almost two decades ago the doctor gave me my ‘nautical legs’ and taught me to harness the wind. He’s especially proud that he generates only enough trash to make a municipal dump run every month and a half with three small containers: one for paper, one for garbage, and another for plastics and metals. <br> <br>He taught me to think about the food that I buy. “How much diesel you t’ink dem grapes from Chile use ta get here? For dat matter, why you eatin’ all dat foreign stuff ennyway...dey all got poisons on ‘em! You mus' be gettin' los' inna brain-fog again. It just ain’t natural! Gets yer food from de folks you know, or grow it yerself! You can fin’ good stuff to eat right in de woods if you know how.” I’ll leave that last part to those more adventurous (feral?) than I. One mushroom looks pretty much like another to me; besides, I’m not into trippin’ and am not quite ready for the ol’ dirt nap. <br> <br>Modern merchandising and packaging drives the doctor nuts. “Why dey got to wrap everyt’ing t’ree times in plastic?” He is always crowing about ‘How big your carbon footprint, boy’ or some such guilt-inducing statement if I should let it slip that I enjoy riding my motorcycle, just to ride it to nowhere in particular. Sometimes the doctor gets a tad shrill about this stuff. Yet any thinking person has to admit, he does have a point. Have we not gotten a little crazy with the consumer culture we’ve created? And it does lead to even larger questions such as: Does capitalism work? Is it good for everyone, everywhere? How long can the earth support our madness? Where does lunch come from? <br><br>Egads, I've certainly digressed! I had no intention to tilt at these social windmills. I actually set out to write about the influence a new-fangled guitar has had upon me. OK, so. . . <br> <br>It was the recent purchase of that 21st century non-wooden, carbon-fiber acoustic guitar - digitally designed by physicists, engineers and acousticians using the tool-of-the-devil (ie: <em>computers</em>) - that threw Dr. Easy into an apoplectic meltdown that nearly warranted a (long overdue) psychiatric intervention. When first he laid eyes upon the new Composite Acoustics “Cargo” guitar in one of my music magazines, the doctor was nonplussed. <br> <br>“Umph,” he grunted, averting his glance from the petite, black instrument with the oddly-placed sound-hole. “It look like a midget canoe paddle.” <br> <br>Then one day I happened to say, “I just bought one of those new 'Cargos'.” As this brief declarative pierced his awareness, the doctor’s jaw dropped and the little vein that appears on his brow when he’s excited began to throb ominously. <br> <br>“Whatchu sayin’ to me, boy?” Dr. Easy hissed, craning his head towards me until I could hear his neck vertebrae snap and plainly see the hairs in his flaring nostrils. <br> <br>“I never thought I’d do it either, Doc, but when Miss Mary bought one of these little gems for her world-wide journey and I heard it sing, frankly, I was floored,” I replied, backing away slightly. <br> <br>“You better stand ‘way back from me! All de way back! You has flipped over on me, boy! I raised you as a natural analog, not some damn, finger-flappin’, computerized gameboy! You always ‘sposed to play a real wood guitar made by a real man’s hands, not like dis dinky plastic imposter dream' up by some egg-head wit’ a slide-rule an' stamped out in some far’way fact'ry by soulless machines…like, like some sorta monsta’ freak! Tell me true...yer crazy Uncle Bubbel put you up ta dis?” Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth and he threw off his cap onto the floor. ‘Now this could get interesting’, I thought, positioning myself next to the door should a retreat be in order. <br> <br>“Where dat l’il freak come from…China, right? Why you need such a t’ing? You got one o’ de fines’ soundin’ hand-made ‘coustic guitars in the worl’, made jus’ for you outta real wood, right here in Berkshire County by your frien’ Steve Sauve. At leas’ he use to be your frien’…he prob’ly won’t be speakin’ witchu now you got dis ugly t’ing messin’ up your senses. Ain’t nuttin’ good ‘nuff for you. Bubbel put you up ta it, right? I am sorely disappointed.” Dr. Easy turned his back on me. <br> <br>I waited a moment until his breathing slowed and I was reasonably certain the doctor was finished berating me. I got it - this was new, different and perhaps it seemed to him that the pupil might be trying to teach the teacher. It would mean that he’d have to rethink a few things, consider another paradigm. Could he? Would he? What the hell… </p>
<center>* * * * *</center>
<p><br> <br>“Uncle B. knows nothing about this, and I understand how surprising this is to you,” I said quietly, trying not to rile him up further. “And regardless what you may be thinking of me right now, it was also quite surprising to me, too. I really never thought that I’d ever do such a thing, but I’d like to explain to you how it came to be.” When the doctor fixed himself a rather large Dark ‘n Stormy (with an extra wee dram of Pusser’s black rum) and pulled out the kitchen chair and sat down, I figured it was probably safe to go on. <br> <br>I told him about Miss Mary’s upcoming musical and soul-searching journey to Scandinavia, England, Greece, Switzerland, Italy, Morocco, culminating in Bali. She would need a guitar that could travel well. It would have to be small, very light, simple to carry and fit easily in the stowage bins of multiple aircraft. Ideally, it would be tough as a tank and would withstand extremes of temperature and humidity without complaining and requiring tweaking and adjusting. It would be a pleasure to hold and play and would not resist one's touch in any way. And, of course, it must sound <em>musical</em> while it holds its own amongst other instruments. This was a pretty tall order, indeed. <br> <br>Then one day last Fall as we were poking around the 48th St. music district of New York City, we happened upon a small, though rather distinct looking guitar hanging on the wall of Sam Ash Music (which used to Manny’s, but that’s another story). I had read about Composite Acoustics, how they had created a polygamy of science, physics, acoustics and lutherie and they seemed to be converting stalwart, old-line wooden guitar afficianados - and 21st Century technophobes such as myself - at an alarming rate. <br> <br>“Hey, check this one out,” I said to Miss Mary, pointing to Composite Acoustic’s “Cargo” travel model, thinking that like me, she would actually have no part of it. <br> <br>“Wow, that’s cool! What is it?” she said making a bee-line right for it. I should have known. Miss Mary is no technophobe, and anything shiny, new, unusual, odd or otherwise interesting is totally fair game for her curious mind. (I suppose I fit into the ‘unusual’ and ‘odd’ categories.) <br> <br>“Let’s try it,” says she, unhooking the guitar from its wall rack. She strummed a few chords. Holy Mother of Polycarbonate! What a sound! Though diminutive, this little instrument had a stentorian voice capable of summoning Zeus from Mt. Olympus! Others in the shop turned their heads to see from where the glorious sound emanated. <br> <br>“Yup”, I said to myself, trying to curb my astonishment, “but what’s with that dorky sound-hole up on its shoulder? And everyone knows short-scale necks tend to be finicky to keep in tune. And they don’t like capos or alternate tunings whatsoever.” I certainly wasn’t going to let my allegiance to finely crafted wooden guitars be swayed by this perky little composite upstart. <br> <br>“Their placement of the sound-hole in the upper bout is such a great idea…the sound is much closer to your ear this way,” said Miss M, finger-picking a complicated tune in 7/8 time. “I kinda like it. I can really hear myself.” So much for my initial review. <br> <br>“OK, but what does it sound like powered up through a PA system?” replied I-the-Skeptic, trying to find just something a little tiny bit wrong with it. “It probably sounds thin, kinda plinky-planky plastic sounding like one of those old Ovations.” Spying a Fishman SoloAmp standing nearby - exactly the kind of sound reinforcement we both favor - I dared, “Let’s plug it in. That’ll be the ultimate test.” <br> <br>We plugged in, powered up and that little “Cargo” took off. Holy Lord of the Sonic Boom! That tiny black guitar was scary awesome! After a few moments of fine-tuning the SoloAmp’s controls, we dialed in a huge, balanced sound that was chock full of spunky-but-warm bass response, sparkling highs and a smooth mid-range. The little guitar played, as they say, “like butter” and put up no resistance, offering up tons of sustain on every string throughout all registers. The “Cargo’s” voice evenly filled up every corner of the room without earsplitting, distorted volume. <br> <br>Miss Mary and I spent nearly an hour putting the “Cargo” through its paces. We strummed, we finger-picked, we capoed, we drop-tuned, we open-tuned, we played loudly, we played softly, we tried a slide. Neither of us was able to find anything it could not do. I was even beginning to admire the carbon fiber weave clearly visible through the shiny polycarbonate finish. What the hell was happening to me! In a last-ditch effort to preserve my loyalty to all my wooden guitars, I offered up the cynic’s last Piece d’Resistance. “It probably costs a fortune. At least two or three thou. At least. And then remember you’ll need a case for it.” <br> <br>We asked the clerk what the bottom-line damages would be. “$799.00 with a case.” Again, I was astonished. The clerk went on, “These CA’s are getting really popular and we can hardly keep ‘em in the store.” For another ten minutes he sang the praises of the Composite Acoustics company, how their instruments are extremely rugged: “You could use this little bugger for a canoe paddle if you wanted!” (So, Dr. Easy called <em>something</em> right.) He told us that the strength of the carbon fiber weave allows the instrument to be constructed without the usual internal struts and braces used in traditional guitar construction, thus creating a strong, totally resonant top. They were impervious to temperature and humidity shifts, two mortal enemies of the wooden guitar, and because carbon fiber is so stable, the instrument’s neck has no truss rod and never needs adjusting. And as its “Cargo” name implied, it was a highly portable, rugged traveling companion that easily fell within the carry-on size criteria of the airlines. Most importantly, whether played acoustically or plugged-in, this baby <em>got tone!</em> </p>
<center>* * * * *</center>
<p><br> <br>“So, doctor, maybe now you can understand why I did it? The “Cargo” will be perfect for my Caribbean tours with all the heat and humidity. And flying to Europe this spring with it will eliminate the huge anxiety I always have when I take my Sauve on a plane. Remember how it was lost for three days between London and Sofia back in ‘05? It really is peace of mind knowing I can carry it with me. And the sound! Loud as a cannon with tone-to-the-bone…I can’t find anything wrong with it except that it’s not made of wood. This little carbon guitar can sure stand up on its own!” I suppose the doctor will now have to rethink the meaning “carbon footprint”. <br> <br>Dr. Easy tipped back his tumbler and finished off the Dark ‘n Stormy. He let out a long sigh, placed his cap back on his head, then leaned forward again in his chair. He squinted his eyes behind his dark shades, staring at me for a too-long moment. And then rasped, “Mistah, no matta’ what, don’ you evah t’ink you gwan be able to turn <em>me</em> ovah like one o' yer ol’ git-tar boxes!” <br> <br> <br><em>The above photo of the “Cargo” was taken outside when the temperature was 21 degrees F. with a windchill approaching zero. The guitar was taken from the warm studio (approx. 74 degrees F.) and exposed to the elements for around 15 minutes while the photos were shot. When I brought the guitar back indoors, it was still in tune and ready to be played, while I was frozen and not ready to be played.</em> <br> <br> <br> <br> <br> </p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356612009-03-31T12:00:00-12:002021-07-06T01:24:59-12:00The Adventure of The Samurai Bean Man
<p> </p>
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/c4cb5613b80dc43151055b1b75416364ee7ed88d/original/samurai-rat-killer-beanie-man.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDQ1MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="451" width="400" /></center>
<p><br> <br>Every island music tour has its adventures and misadventures and this year was no exception. Over the past dozen years of playing in the Virgin Islands I’ve gotten to know many of the islands’ colorful characters and their quirky, often quixotic ways. <br> <br>We simply love 92-year-old Miss Ina with her nearly forgotten, back-time island ways. The first time I met Miss Ina, she was in her late 70s and had climbed high into a tree “pickin’ de cotton, mon”, gathering stuffing for a pillow she was making. She owns more goats than I can count. I've got lots of Miss Ina stories. <br> <br>And there’s Miss Ina’s two 60-something “chirrun”, the brother/sister duo of Hendry & Genny who, when they’re not bickering unmercifully with each other, are two of the gentlest, kindest people you’ll ever meet and who’ll give selflessly of themselves until you have to beg them to stop. Gen makes the best fried chicken and plantains! Hendry's enthusiasm for music and life is contagious. <br> <br>And up on Bordeaux Mtn. there are our been-everywhere, world-traveler friends TuTu & Kiko who create the most beautiful Larimar jewelry on-island and know everyone and “everyt’ing ‘bout dem, mi-son”. We love to hang with them at their shop TuTu Much. (It's just a coincidence that I named our duo TuTu Much. But it's a fun coincidence!). <br> <br>80-something Pirate Bill (who’s the real deal and looks every bit the part) holds forth daily at Skinny Legs and once was part of a salvage crew that discovered sunken Spanish treasure in the late 70s – he even wears a necklace made of gold doubloons he “salvaged” from the wreck. Buy Bill a drink and he might regale you with the full story. <br> <br>Then there’s puckish sailor Capt. Larry <em>-“We’re not here for a long time, so we might as well have a good time!”-</em> and his artist wife Annie who paints, takes photos, and creates mystical, magical 'spirit dolls' and jewelry from found objects. This year they hosted us in their comfortable mountain-top aerie for several nights – Thank you guys! <br> <br>Cute-as-a-button singer Lauren had us grinning one night at Island Blues with her naïvely sincere misinterpretations of Bob Marley lyrics – instead of the verse in Marley’s <em>Is This Love</em>, “And Jah will provide the bread”, Lauren sang “And jump-rope by the bed”. Whenever she got to that verse in the song she’d pantomime jump-roping on the bed, the rum-fueled crowd erupting with guffaws and whistles. Kinda had to be there I suppose. <br> <br>This was also the year of “Jamal, the Night Visitor”. An obviously psychotic young man who bore a striking likeness to a young Malcolm X, he’d become a trifle obsessed with me (Jamal warrants his own story!) and seemed to be wherever I was for several days until, like an apparition, he disappeared as suddenly as he appeared. <br> <br>And then there was The Samurai Bean Man. It turns out we were real glad he showed up. </p>
<center>* * * * *</center>
<p><br> <br>Miss Mary and I have in recent years stayed in many types of places on the island of St. John, from camping on Cinnamon Bay beach, bunking with friends in their homes to house-sitting in luxurious villas. But for the past three years, we have called home a tiny, unused cabin hidden in plain sight out in Coral Bay that friends arranged for us to stay in for a rather cheap rate. <br> <br>Our rickety little wooden ‘villa’ is painted key-lime green - a great island color! It has a corrugated tin roof that pleasingly amplifies the tropical rain – a soothing accompaniment to an evening’s repose. By no means commodious – it’s only about 10' x 12' - there are only two ancient, tired bunk beds inside. We’ve discovered that the secret to sleeping well in them is to be more tired than they are. There’s no other furniture, but who needs it? Less really can be more. Besides, one doesn’t spend that much time indoors on de island anyway. There is electricity (most of the time) so we have a light at night and a fan to keep the air and 'skeeters stirred up. But there appears to be no rhyme or reason to the wiring and I never have gotten it straight which of the four switches works what! <br><br>The bathroom is (somewhat) attached and there’s a real toilet and shower, such as they are. The water flows from the rain-fed cistern - everyone is real careful with water use on the islands - and it is gravity fed so there’s not tons of pressure. At least the temperature is always consistent – <em>COOL!</em> Just cool enough to initially snatch your breath away! Hey, if you expect hot, pressurized water, better go spend $750+ <em>per night</em> and stay at Caneel Bay. Or rent a villa for several thousand <em>per week</em>. <br><br> There is a bathroom window with no screen. There used to be one, but it blew out in a hurricane years ago. This feature allows the geckos and aforementioned ‘skeeters to venture in and out, a pretty good arrangement for both. It also lets other things in and out. <br> <br>A breezy porch overlooks the tidal salt pond teeming with aquatic and avian life just below. The Caribe-blue waters of the bay just beyond open into Drake's Passage and the mountains of Tortola stand like sentinels guarding the not-too-distant horizon. It’s a treat to sit out there at any time, munching a genip with perhaps a cold Carib beer or a wee dram o' black rum in hand, the rustling of palm fronds and flamboyant trees providing the overture to the sound track that includes the clucking and fretting about of the resident ‘House Chicken’ who scratches around the dooryard all day, the myriad goats who tramp by, commenting (not always discretely!) while glancing nosily through the windows as they pass by, usually in the late afternoon. Coki frogs can be heard at night when it rains. In the nearby settlement of Hard Labor there reside coop-fuls of roosters with names like First Blood and Ghost Face Killah crudely spray-painted on their cages in an amateur's graffiti. These birds "got game" and don’t seem to give a damn what time of day or night it is – <em>it’s always time to CROW about somet'ing!</em> You can bet these fellas ain't destined for any cooking pot, either. <br> <br>We like staying here. Despite the rather austere furnishings, we’ve grown to appreciate the somewhat monastic simplicity and down-island serenity. Even an insomniac like me gets used to the roosters. <br> <br>This year we had guests staying with us. They were insensitive, inconsiderate and unwelcome. We rarely ever saw them, but they were always there. Wherever they went, they left a mess without picking up after themselves. They greedily took food but didn’t eat it all, leaving crumbs and bits strewn about. They stole personal items such as ear plugs and nail clippers without asking and hid them. They’d destroy things like headphone jacks and tear up magazines, never owning up to it. They’d keep us awake at night sneaking around and chitter-chattering away, stopping only when I hollered at them, pounding on the wall with my fist. I discovered that they were even eating our soap and peeing in the sink. One evening I arrived home to find that someone of them had left a fresh, black turd on my bed – <em>Ha, ha very funny! Now you must DIE!</em> I know, sounds pretty drastic, but... <br> <br><em>We had tree rats.</em> These guys are not your typical filthy, disgusting Norway or river rat, nor your cute little pet shop-variety white lab rat. Nope, nothing of the sort. These sneaky devils live high in the coconut palms and, like ghosts and Bela Lugosi, only come out at night. They were the bane of the colonial sugarcane plantations because, while they are primarily omnivores, they quickly developed a perpetual sweet-tooth which led them to decimate most of the sugarcane crop year after year. <br><br> Sometime during the 19th century a brilliant bunch of Danish planters had the idea to control the rats ‘naturally’ by introducing a predator species - like, how 'bout mongooses!? (I really don't know why the plural isn't mon<em>geese</em>, but it's not). Could they have had Rudyard Kipling’s Riki Tiki Tavi in mind as mongooses are supposedly the curse of India’s sizable rat population? <br><br> And so the carnivorous, weasel-like mammals were introduced to St. John. They did rather well for themselves, eating the eggs of iguanas, birds and turtles. Even the iguanas, birds and baby turtles themselves were fair game for a mongoose menu. The only problem was. . .the mongooses didn’t eat the rats! They probably would have if they could, but there were two significant oversights made by the well-meaning planters: 1) Tree rats live in trees (imagine!) and rarely travel on the ground. Mongooses <em>don’t</em> climb trees. 2) Tree rats are nocturnal. Mongooses are diurnal. They never meet. Ooopsie! <br> <br>So here we are. Plenty of happy mongooses and tree rats, but a severely threatened, miserable population of iguanas, birds and turtles. And now these damn rats were eating my soap, pissing in my sink (and who knows where else?) and boldly pooping on my bed. <em>This was war!</em> </p>
<center><strong><em>Who you gonna call??</em></strong></center>
<p><br> <br>Samurai Bean Man, that’s who! We needed somebody who could quickly assess the problem, devise a plan and see it through to the bitter end. Samurai Bean Man! We needed somebody who would not back down in the face of adversity or crumble under to the forces of the evil Ratmandu. Samurai Bean Man! YES!!! <br> <br>So, one night the quickly-summoned Samurai Bean Man strapped on his well-worn 'PowerAde' loincloth, grabbed two of his finest lethal weapons - 20” long, 3” broad, flamboyant tree beans (or as the West Indians call them, shek-sheks after the sound their rattling seeds make) - and plotted to stay awake into the deep of night, stealthily listening, watching and waiting for the evil Ratmandu and his henchmen to enter the key lime-green cabin from who-knows-where and begin their verminly antics. He sat quietly on the bed, hoping not to disturb the slumbering Miss Mary with any yawning, sighing or errant bean rattling . . . waiting . . . . . <br><br>He sat, trance-like, until his muscles ached and eyelids drooped, but he remembered his solemn pledge to see this mission through to the end. He got up, stretched and fumbled through the dark on his way into the bathroom where, he was shocked to discover, that he was <em>already too late!</em> <br><br> Fresh toothmarks alerted him that the mischievous Ratmandu had purloined another portion of the Irish Spring soap, peed in the sink and vanished surreptitiously into the night. Visions of a TV commercial with a well-scrubbed, handsome Irish lad singing the praises of Irish Spring soap played through the Samurai Bean Man’s mind. Only instead of the pretty (and clean!) Irish lass who usually enters at the end of the commercial to inform us “And I like it, too!” there appears a sneering, giant tree rat who snidely tells us “And I eat it, too!” <br><br> "Drat! Foiled again by that vile vermin! But," reasoned the consternated Samurai Bean Man, "there's always tomorrow night!" <br> <br> Samurai Bean Man made a plan to station himself quietly on the 'throne' in the bathroom. <em>"He came in through the bathroom window!"</em> he sang the lyrics to the old Beatles song to himself, pretty pleased with his new plan. <br><br>The next evening, under a waxing moon, he arrived back at the cabin after a delicious dinner of avocado snapper, rice 'n peas and plantain and went straightaway into the bathroom. Expecting this would be another long night, he fumbled one of the four switches and flicked on the light - <strong><em>Whoa!</em></strong> - there he was, Ratmandu himself! Standing on the sink gleefully rubbing his paws, a fresh mouthful of Irish Spring caught between his razor-sharp yellow teeth, the rat continued to chew defiantly. For a split moment the two surprised adversaries glared at each other, trying to surmise which of them was going to make the first move. Neither had really expected to discover the other where he actually was quite so, well, suddenly. The anxious silence was broken when... <br> <br>Ratmandu acted first. He dropped the bar of Irish Spring, spit out a waxy mouthful of soap and bolted for the shower curtain, scurrying to the top. Samurai Bean Man instantly slashed at the damp plastic curtain with his loosed weapons. Ratmandu deftly dodged the beans' blow, raced across the shower curtain rod and leaped to a narrow, empty shelf. He had his eyes peeled on the open window, but the distance from the shelf to his freedom seemed interminable. Samurai Bean Man wheeled and thrust his rattling weapons at Ratmandu, this time lodging a direct hit to the rat's sinewy flank, momentarily stunning the stealthy rodent. Gathering his wits, the trapped rat calculated a risky leap for the electric wire that was loosely strung just inches below the ceiling rafters. If he could make it to the wire, perhaps he could remain out of the wildly jabbing beans' reach long enough to tight-rope his way over to the window and out to safety. <br><br>Ratmandu, heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, focused intently upon the wire nearly three feet above his head – and leaped! He made it! Below him, the high-wire balancing rodent could see the Samurai Bean Man staring up at him, heart pounding and adrenaline pumping as he pirouetted, took a step towards the shelf, and menacingly raised his twin deadly beans. <br> <br>Despite his years of practicing offensive bean moves before a mirror, the Samurai Bean Man understood that now, at this moment, focus and agility were of the essence. If he missed this attack, Ratmandu would be out the open window and gone - at least for this night - and the Samurai Bean Man feared he would have rightfully earned the dreaded title of "Has-bean". <br><br>He calculated Ratmandu’s panicked route towards the window. With a lightning, fluid motion, he raised his left arm and whacked a single, deadly bean against the wire just inches in front of the racing rat. The blow shook the wire like a whip crack, the electric light in the bathroom momentarily flickered - on/off/on/off/on. In the chaos, Ratmandu lost his balance and fell as if in slow-motion to the concrete floor. The Samurai Bean Man knew it was now or never! He raised both quivering beans and crashed them down onto the fallen rat. <br><br>"Once! Twice! Thrice times a rodent!" he shrieked, shattering the tropical night. <br><br> Everything was suddenly eerily still. No rustling palms, no night birds, no frogs . . . no nothing. <br><br>Ratmandu lay lifeless upon the shower stall floor, beady eyes lifelessly staring heavenward into the great white lightbulb. Flecks of Irish Spring still clinging to his grizzled whiskers. <br> <br>The Samurai Bean Man, exhausted from his brief, though intense, altercation (and a large Dark ‘n Stormy), wiped the sweat from his brow, scooped up the stiffening corpse of his unworthy adversary and flung it over the porch railing. “May the mongooses have mercy on your soul!” cried the Samurai Bean Man as Ratmandu arced like a dark spectre into the night sky, only to crash into the underbrush below. The victorious Bean Man returned to the bathroom to wash his hands. With liquid soap. <br> <br>Things remained quiet for the rest of that night. Miss Mary awoke ever so briefly from her slumber in time to see Ratmandu go airborne over the porch railing. “My hero!” she sighed at the Samurai Bean Man. “Now go to bed.” <br> <br>The next evening we returned home after our gig to find teethmarks chiseled into a fresh bar of Irish Spring. And piss in the sink. It had to be the work of none other than the cursed Ratatouille! <br><br>The very next day I went to the hardware store and bought rat poison. <br> <br> <br> <br> <br><br> <small></small></p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356692007-01-16T12:00:00-12:002022-01-28T05:48:42-12:00Asleep At the Keel<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/afce0e4dc0e9ee781c295bbe90c27fcec9417dd4/original/asleepkeelcdcover060.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_thin" alt="" /></p>
<center style="text-align: left;"><img src="http://tambouraproductions.com/images/SailorDaveSmall.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" />Another glorious morning in paradise! I was sitting by the dock in the shade of a brilliant flamboyant tree watching ferry boats with names like The General, Caribe Tide and Bomba Runner swallow and disgorge their colorful cast of characters. The ticket window not yet open, I waited for my $3 fare that would ferry me across Pillsbury Sound to St. Thomas where my guitar and I had some business to conduct with my old pal, Steel-Pan Morgan. Silhouetted behind the window was Miss Ophelia, a stolid West Indian woman who left the impression she’d been selling tickets since Noah's Flood. She absolutely refused to sell tickets to anyone who arrived early hoping to get “a jump on de line”. Old-timers, taking a pause from clacking games of dominos, would languorously lean back on their bench and watch in obvious delight as sunburned, sweating ‘continentals’ tried in vain to buy tickets “befo’ dere time” from the taciturn Ophelia.<br><br>“Boot' close’. Pay ‘tention dere,” she would state with authority, though barely audible through the thick glass. Sitting at the worn ticket counter, she rarely raised her gaze from her soap opera magazine - or alternately, her Bible - using her overworked fan to turn the pages. What sort of fool dared argue as she tapped the glass, bejeweled finger pointing to the dogeared, handwritten sign taped to the window upon which ferry schedules were cryptically scrawled in magic marker. This morning there were more than a few fools struggling with yet another lesson in ‘island time’.<br><br>As I contemplated ducking into Mooie’s Bar for something cold before my boat arrived, there by my side appeared the peripatetic Dr. Easy. 'De good daktah' has a way of showing up when least expected and rearranging one’s plans. No one is exactly sure from where he got the “Dr.” title, though it is rumored Easy possesses a graduate degree in “mindin’ ever’body’s bidness”.<br><br>My mind flashed to a long-ago Stateside summer day as I was walking to the market to purchase groceries for dinner and then…there he was. “An' feh why you gwan do dat when can get we dinnah feh nuttin’?” Dr. Easy asked, emerging from the ether and walking in time to my stride. He claimed to have found “de bes’ fishin’ hole where de fishes dey eats whatever yah gib dem”. He was in the mood for “a good ol’ fashion island-style fish fry”.<br>Four hours, a hefty fine and a confiscated stringer of panfish later, I was starving, sitting in the metropolitan district jail trying to convince my incredulous girlfriend why she should bail me out of my idiocy.<br><br>“Good mahnin’, Mr. Day-vit!” Dr. Easy sunbeams his broad smile at me. “Wat you gwan do dis fine mahnin’?”<br><br>I hastily described my mission for the day, speculating how he’d conjure a way to make <em>my</em> plan devolve into <em>his</em> plan.<br><br>“Buy me a beer, mi-son, and les go feh liddle walk.” Glancing at my watch and then back to the ferry dock, my concern plainly evident. “Come, come, mon! Miss Ophelia, she hol’ de boat feh you.” And just when was it that I had become so influential? “On'y one beer, mon, an’ den ya help me fin’ Ras Pluto. Mus' be los’. I nah can fin' he.”<br><br>“I’ll give you one beer and ten minutes, Doctor”, I said warily, grabbing my guitar case as we turned away from the dock and walked the few steps to Mooie’s.<br><br>“We tek two greenies wid legs,” hooted Dr. Easy, winking to Missus Mooie and gesturing towards me with his stubbled chin as he grabbed two icy Heinekens, “an’ put dem on he tab”.<br><br>Shaking my head, I put five bucks on the bar and followed him into the Caribbean sunshine. Fragrant frangiapani and hibiscus wafted in on warm sea breezes as we slowly strolled to an adjacent sugar-sand beach, beers in hand.<br><br>“I a’ready go sek Pluto in town…nah dere. We try down here,” said Easy, squinting beneath very dark sunglasses and pointing to a strand of beach where sun-faded boats were hauled up beneath coconut palms, brown pelicans dive-bombing the placid water for breakfast. A few stray goat and island kids gamboled like baby satyrs about the shoreline.<br><br>“Better not miss my ferry, Doctor,” I fretted as I tried to calculate the distance we could walk to, and return from, in ten minutes.<br><br>“Nah problem! Yah know, Mr. Day-vit, yah too easy vex,” he snorted, taking a long swig of beer.<br><br>“Why do you need to see Pluto so bad this morning?” I asked, my suspicions leaking.<br><br>“Mi-son, yah ax too, too much question! Yah begin ta vex <em>me!</em>” Dr. Easy said, abruptly dodging my inquiry, his raspy voice melodically rising as he gently turned over a retreating soldier crab with his toe. Yeah, sure, just follow the doctor’s orders. Now closer to the overturned boats, I felt curiosity upstage worry.<br><br>Since I was a wee sprat I have loved boats and before me now, baking in the tropical heat, stretched a most motley medley of watercraft! Sleek pleasure cruisers cheek-by-jowl with stout workboats - sail-powered, engine-driven, poled and rowed. Wood, fiberglass, aluminum, combinations of materials, painted, unpainted, ship-shape and derelict. Floating, half-sunk, careened.<br><br>As I was quietly marveling this curious fleet I heard Dr. Easy exclaim under his breath, “Awright, we be good now!” Gesturing to a distant cluster of overturned dingys tied under a canopy of seagrapes, Easy smiled and removed his straw hat, wiping his brow. I was conjecturing just how this tiny bunch of barnacled barges now made us “good” when what I’d thought was a large piece of discarded timber laying across the hull of a tiny overturned dingy slowly began to move. As we approached, it became evident that this particular timber was quite alive…and it had dreadlocks.<br><br>“Cheesengrimbles! Ras Pluto?” I shouted as my ferry, diesels roaring, pulled away from the slip, St. Thomas bound. “Is he OK? What’s he doing lying across that old boat? He'll roast there in this sun!”<br><br>“Ah, Day-vit, mi-son, feh why you keep axin’ silly question?” clucked Dr. Easy, pausing as he looked at me over the rim of his shades. “Enny fool can see he jus’ asleep at de keel!”<br><br>Another day in paradise, indeed.<br> </center>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356712006-02-08T12:00:00-12:002014-01-29T07:29:52-12:00"Acoustic Guitar" Magazine Portrays David Reed
<p><br> <br>In a moment of ebullient enthusiasm (or maybe lapsed judgement?) the editors of the internationally acclaimed guitar-centric magazine Acoustic Guitar have agreed that they will publish an insightful portrait into the music and instruments of itinerent musician and practitioner of 6-string ju-ju, David Reed (aka to readers of this column as "Daktah Easy"). <br> <br>Acoustic Guitar's features editor Shawn Hammond recently announced to his stunned editorial board that he has decided to feature Reed and his myriad guitaristic associates in the "Reader's Rig" column of the April 2006 issue of the well respected magazine. After a slightly heated ruckus abated and the food was cleaned off the walls, Hammond assured his superiors that the musical world was indeed ready for the good Daktah and that he was reasonably certain that subscription and advertising revenue would not be adversely effected by Reed's "very small" article that he promised would be "buried way in the back of the issue". At least not significantly effected. <br> <br>Hammond further assuaged the editorial board that readers would be "extremely curious" to read about Reed's master luthier, Steve Sauve of No. Adams, Massachusetts, who in 1987 custom-built Reed's lovely rosewood/spruce acoustic guitar and later in 2001 his funky 6-string "reggae banjo". He also figured that reader's would love to know about when Reed got a gaggle of Bulgarian gypsies to dance to calypso and how he gets that gargantuan sound from his instruments, just in case they cared to avoid replicating it. <br> <br>The full scoop will appear in the April 2006 issue of Acoustic Guitar magazine and will hit the streets in March. Pick up a copy. Let us here at Tamboura Productions know what you think. And please don't hold whatever it is against Acoustic Guitar. Nobody's perfcet! <br><br></p>
<center><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/396343/25f2a07a3944649cfdeb67b790effaaf8e7b35b3/original/agstandingsmile.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDM4NyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="387" width="400" /></center>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br><em> "Dr. Easy & Associates with Lo-Frequency Thunder Horn" </em></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356752005-06-23T12:00:00-12:002014-01-12T23:08:39-12:00Shakers Discovered in South Berkshire County
<center></center>
<p> </p>
<center><img src="http://tambouraproductions.com/images/shakers.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></center>
<p><br> <br>Once thought to be long extinct, Shakers have been recently found in the town of Sheffield, MA. Probably best known for failing to procreate, thus explaining their diminishing demise, the Shakers were also known to have inspired innovative thinking that led to such marvelous inventions as the clothespin, packaged seeds and sugar cookies. They would also gather together to chant in mumbo-jumbo and shake 'n quake with ecstatic dancing to ward off the evil jumbies. <br> <br>Last week while bumping around the town of Sheffield, Sir Harry Chestwig, grandfather of local land-pirate Seymour Chestwig, came across a shop the likes of which he'd never before seen in the village center. The sign above the wide, grand picture window said "Neighborgoods"; the sign in the door said "Come in, we're open". <br> <br>Through the window, Chestwig could see three incredibly serendipidous mobiles constructed of tropical shells, foreign silver coins and fragile wishbones. And little wee birdhouses and handwoven brooms. Lovely photographs and colorful paintings adorned the walls behind shelves of fanciful books, CDs and glittering jewelry. A clutch of lacquered boxes sat tucked together on the floor next to a handmade wooden bench and wide table. And then he saw THEM. <br> <br>Right there on the wooden table in the middle of the floor sticking gaudily out of a handthrown pot were. . . three Shakers! And in another clay jar by the recordings of local musicians were four more Shakers! Sir Harry entered the shop, anxious with anticipation. Sweat beaded upon his beatled brow, trickling in moist rivulets down his scrawny back. <br> <br>The charming, bespectacled shopkeeper greeted Sir Harry Chestwig cheerfully and welcomed him to Neighborgoods. She explained that her shop was conceived to offer to the public locally designed and created crafts and works of art and music. All work was for sale at very reasonable prices and this was her way of supporting a local culture. <br> <br>"But the Shakers!" exclaimed a nearly apoplectic Sir Harry, "They've been gone for nearly a hundred years. Where did you find them?" <br> <br>"Nae," she said, "they found me." <br> <br>"But how. . ." Chestwig continued astoundedly, heart pounding and eyes bulging. <br> <br>"It's true," the shopkeeper insisted, cutting off any further interrogation and hoping he'd mop his face and not drop dead in her shop. "One day the good Daktah Easy came into Neighborgoods bearing a scruffy cardboard box and inquired whether I might be interested in seeing what was inside. Curiosity stood right next to me and I quickly found myself agreeing to look. Well, imagine my surprise when he lifted the lid and there inside, nested perfectly still were seven beautifully plain Shakers, no two of them alike whatsoever. I had never seen anything like them! And then the Daktah gently picked two of them up and began to shake 'em and rattle 'em and roll 'em. I was spellbound by the sound, which was sort of like when Spanish flamenco castanets collide with tambourines held by dreadlocked tapdancers. I began to dance like a dervish and knew then and there that I had to have them. 'Mercy! What are they?' I inquired of Daktah Easy and he just grinned like a Cheshire cat as he continued to shake them. <br> <br>'I call 'em Rattle-Caps,' he said, never missing a beat. <br> <br>'May I have them for Neighborgoods? Everyone will love them,' I asked of the Daktah. <br> <br>'But of course, you may', he grinned, eyes twinkling mischieviously, 'and I know where there are more to be found! Would you like to see what else I have in the box?' <br> <br>"Well you can imagine my interest was feverishly piqued by now, and once again I agreed ro look. He then reached into the old box and brought out what at first appeared to be a tangled pile of sticks, all a-jumble with ocean shells and coral with blue eggs and wishbones and exotic silver coins all held together with copper wire and nearly invisible string. As he continued to pull this seemingly unruly knot slowly out of the box, it became evident that these strange objects and amulets were tied together in a perfectly balanced mobile. The Daktah hung one up from my ceiling. . .you can see it still right there. . .and I gazed in awe as it delicately revolved around and around itself, buffetted gently by currents of air coming in from my door. So graceful. So mesmerizing. The Daktah had four more mobiles in the box and he offered them to me, explaining that he made them from bits and pieces that he collected in his travels and picked up and put in his pockets. He started to ramble on something about his mobiles being a metaphor for 'having a life in balance', or some such nonsense. I wasn't listening anymore as the Daktah tends to become rather pedantic at times, sounding, you know, like white noise gushing from a faucet. I instead returned my attention to those glorious mobiles. <br> <br>"But, nevermind. As you can plainly see, he has delivered to the world these lovely and lively works of art and he has returned the Shakers to continue to keep their groove-thang going, thus ensuring their rightful place in history." <br> <br>Sir Harry Chestwig had to sit down. This discovery had unnerved him and made him very tired. His feet hurt. How would he explain all this to the Acadamy of Absolute Anachronism? What does this imply for Shaker history? Where does this Dr. Easy get those blue eggs? What's for lunch? <br><br> Sir Harry Chestwig thanked the kindly shopkeeper and stood up slowly and began to walk out of the shop. His trembling hand on the doorlatch, Chestwig pulled the creaking door open while turning to the shopkeeper, who seemed lost in a reverie of her own, and he said quietly, with deep intention , "Daktah Easy's Shakers have changed my life forever!" <br> <br>And now you, too, can change your humdrum world and live a life of delicate balance and preserve the future of the Shakers at the same time. Daktah Easy's Shaker Rattle-Caps and Mobiles are available for perusing or purchasing for your very own, right on this website! Change your life. . .take home a Shaker! <br> </p>
<center><img src="http://tambouraproductions.com/images/2Shakers.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /> </center>
<p><br><br> <em>Two of Sir Harry Chestwig's Discoveries. Now available from the TamPro General Store & Merchandise...right on this website.</em> <br><br> <small></small></p>
<form action="http://tambouraproductions.com/cgi-bin/openComment.pl" enctype="text" method="post" name="comment"></form>
<p><small></small></p>
David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"tag:tambouraproductions.com,2005:Post/60356772005-05-26T12:00:00-12:002022-01-06T05:20:55-12:00Picker's Pluck Pays Off<p><br>On a very damp Thursday night, Dr. Easy and his guitar and banjo buddies risked life and limb when they took a gig at the area's most notorious sports bar - The Lockeroom in Lee, MA.</p>
<p>And it couldn't have been better!<br><br>After locating a spot between a <strong>GIANT</strong> TV and one of five ceiling-mounted Keno screen, neutralizing the juke box, pushing aside a few tables (the seated patrons didn't seem to care. . . perhaps didn't even notice?!), the good Dr. dragged in his roadcase, the erstwhile Mighty Green, and set up just beneath the glowing, humming neon Nascar sign.<br><br>Once set up, it was a challenge to get the bartender to lower the stereo volume, but it soon became apparent to him that he would be NO match for Reed's powerful JBL Eon PA and Reed's piercing yowling so he lowered the stereo volume. . . somewhat. To his credit, though he didn't turn off the GIANT TV, he turned the volume off.<br><br>And from there, Reed took over the room. The crowd, and there was one, soon were riveted (assumingly by the music) and some were even motivated enough to stop playing pool. The private birthday party who was packing it up to leave when Reed arrived suddenly got a 2nd wind and decided to hang in for the rest of the evening and made for some pleasantly heckling banter.<br><br>Two sets later, it was over. And most, including Reed, survived to tell the tale with nary a drop of blood shed nor too much spilled beer. The crowd applauded generously after most songs. They clapped along and even contributed some spirited table percussion from time to time. No one told DR to "Turn it down!" even once and they got a hoot out of his home-made stomp-board kick drum which made its debut that night.<br><br>By the end of the night, DR had sold 2 CDs, got 3 more bookings and a business card from some guy who wants to remodel his kitchen. Reed also found a great new source for bottle caps for making his Rattle-Caps shakers! So all 'n all, not a bad night with the good sports at The Lockeroom in Lee, MA!</p>David Reed ~ "Americana Groove Music from the Caribbean to the Delta"