Before I begin, I must address the slings and arrows: "Extremely tall person"? "Beatnik on steroids"? Well, bless my anonymous heart, but I'm only 6'1", the same height as Nate "Tiny" Archibald. (Not the "Tiny" from the Wildhorse.) And while I may be a bit broad-shouldered, it's only in comparison to the rest of you slope-foreheaded, knuckle-dragging, hairy-palmed troglodytes. Bless your hearts. And I *refute* the Reverend's characterisation of our encounter re: Carmina Burana: I demured on evaluating the proffered recording because, as I clearly stated, I hadn't heard it. I *did* opine that Michael Tilson Thomas was a respectable director and worked well in choral settings, so it would be a good gamble. But, I also noted that it was an RCA Red Label (or was it a CBS Masterworks - whaddeva, the statement holds) and thus one could suspect a pedestrian, intended for mass consumption interpretation. Looked like a tossup. I then opined if you were gambling, you might want to see if the Chicago Symphony had released CB, as you could expect some fire there. No opinion, indeed. Harumph.
And for ther record, my purchases were:
The new release of Pulp Fiction, for $12.95
Frank Zappa: Jazz From Hell, on reccomedation from Mr. McCown. I'd not term it "essential" as he does, but it is a fun listen, and certainly useful for one's conceptual continuity.
Erroll Garner: Night and Day. On the Excelsior label. "This is a historical recording which was made prior to the advent of modern recording equipment. Sound Quality may not therefore be equal to today's recording standards." sez the label. And it is accurate. If you can get past that, there are some standout performances here. Particularly the title track, where EG's arppegios wash and wave over the song beautifully. At $5.99 a good deal.
Danny Gatton: Cruisin' Deuces. His final record for Elektra. Y'all know I have a jones for DG, and CD is one hot record, but it shares a flaw with 88 Elimra Street. Sometimes the music is *so* ecclectic, and so personal, that it doesn't invite you in. And the records are both so fiercely retro that they probably won't speak to a young audience. Which translated into poor sales, and a cancelled contract. Personally, I can't stop myself from believing that this contributed to Danny's suicide. And it just rips me up. However, if you can dig a fifties based greaser-redneck-jazz-raveup with jawdropping chops to make you just put your axe away and find something else to do with your time, this is the shit.
Not a bad haul. Not to mention Tom's lovely comp tapes, and the fun I had jamming with him. I, too, like his voice. Made me think of Leo Kottke, if Leo could actually sing. :-)
Wish I'd had more time to talk to you guys. Seems like I got cornered a lot, and wasn't able to mingle as intensely as I'd have liked. We must try again.
And now, reviews: The DC Crew really had no bearing, or sense of direction, just a rent-a-car and a tank of gas. So, the first thing we did was go to Music Row. Which is about as tacky as any beachfront boardwalk. You can find many of the same tschotchkas, too. But there was a certain uniqueness to it, and some diamonds amid the dross. Love the shirt, Pat, but I think you shoulda gone for the Tumblin' Dice. So, we got the obligatory presents for the folks at home and went downtown. Wandered around Broadway and Second Street. Into some of the funkier antique shops I've seen in a while. Got hungry, went to the Nashville Hard Rock Cafe, where we gorged, and imbibed. I embarassed myself by my lack of math skills, and Pat and I gave Helen a chance to make sociological observations of male behavior. (Read: the waitresses were babes and Pat and I were all giddified.)
Bloated and all warm inside, we wondered - where's the non-country in this town? The doorman advised that there was precious little and named a few clubs worth a looksee for the evening. So we wandered to the riverside to walk off lunch. Saw some sights, and strarted to wander back, and walked nto a doorway, not knowing what we'd find. Heard noise up a flight of stairs, followed it up and arose into what might be the largest dancefloor I've seen: the Wildhorse Saloon. Talk about yer local color. Quaffing brew and Cuba Libre (Aiee) we watch the boots scoot. Watched a lesson for an hour, where the locals learned to strut their stuff, and i saw that the two-step is not that distant a cousin to the jitterbug. I even picked up a coupla moves to try next night out, "airplane, illusion, illusion, cross and *breathe*", really, it sounded like any other dance lesson you might take.
Well, lo and behold, there's a real stage, too. And a Hat Act on it. For the life of me, I don't know the name, but it was the same goddam thing as every other Hat Act: Broad-shouldered, long-haired whitebread with a Takamine guitar (and does anyone else think that there's something suspect about the music that is the most jingoistic using Japanese instruments?), drummer on riser, guitarist playing Tele, a Pedal steel, a bass. Three cowboy hats. No improvisation - all songs strictly arranged. Impeccable sound. Utterly devoid of life. And how come its de riguer for the the lead singer's guitar to be so far down in the mix? Could it be the fairy-boy light guage strings they all use nowadays that make the tone all clang and no note? Or do they all just suck?
As you could probably expect, after a coupla hours, I was agitatin' for a change of venue. A few doors down I spotted this no-name club, that was setting up for piano trio. So we go in, the first patrons of the night. Band's called: Ask Bob. Consisted of Phillips Peters - piano, Peter Gunn - drums, John Smith - bass, Mocha Java - vocals. They ran through some standard book - All the Things You Are, Autumn Leaves, Funny Valentine, Stolen Moments, All of Me. On the whole pleasant, if unchallenging performances. Mr. Peters' solos tended to blocked chordings, which is fine, except that the piano was badly out of tune. The bassist was reading the charts, and spent a lot of time just playing the roots, unremarkable soloing. The drummer was creative and interesting to me, but seemed to get lost in his own world sometimes. The ensemble was occasionally ragged, and the band needs to decide on some endings. Too often things came to abrupt halts or just petered out. But it was early, they had a long night ahead, and might not have been playing their most solid material for a crowd that had barely reached ten souls by the time the combined cigar and clove cigarette smog drove us out.
I picked up a piece of paper from a table on the way out and it advertised the Bourbon Street Blues and Boogie Bar. We figgered, it's only a coupla blocks and on the way to the joint the Hard Rock guy reccomended, what the hell?
What the hell, indeed. The Koolblooz Band rocked my whitebread ass. Every player solid, even exceptional. They were clearly digging the gig, even though, as we found out, they played four nights straight Thurs-Sun as the house band. The players were definately communicating with each other, and having a ball. Get Outta My Life Woman, remains in my mind as a standout. The entire DC Crew was wondering "Do these guys have a CD? This is *party time*". Alas, they were a mere month old, and hadn't recorded nuthin'. Boo Hoo.
It was a blessing in disguise when the conventioneers came in. And for the record, I wish I knew what business they were in so I could complain to their management (although I suspect that the bosses were there themselves) because they were the most ill-behaved, selfish group of purported grownups I've ever seen. And I *lived* in New Orleans for a while. So, they chased us out, which was a good thing, `cause there were planes to catch. (And did anybody catch the name of that young man who sat in on keyboards for "Masquerade"? What cool chordings *those* were. Very dissonant, and really pretty. Kid's got a future. And what a smile...)
Whew. My fingers are tired. Hope y'all got some of the flavor of the DC Crew's day, bless your hearts.
The Other Tim
howe@mail.loc.gov
bhent@ea.net