Da Goddess

Today we celebrate music legend’s 95th birthday.

As most of you may recall, David Honeyboy Edwards is one of my favorite people. He pretty much kicked my blues photography project into high gear and led me down this amazing path.

Happy birthday, Honeyboy!

On June 19, there was a blues festival out at the Cannery. Four great acts and it was only $5. Can you believe it?

I have some photos edited and here they are. A bit heavy on Curtis Salgado at the moment, but I’ll add more Janiva Magness, Eddy “The Chief” Clearwater, and finally some of Ironing Board Sam slowly but surely.

Acerbic. Irascible. Belligerent. Funny. Adorable. All of that and more.

I can’t believe that old cracker has been gone for four years. I still see him around. He shows up in the most unlikely places. I hear his laugh. His voice breaks through the din of the crowd in a smoke-filled bar. He sends crickets after me! His phone number is still programmed into my cellphone, dammit. He CAN’T be gone!

But he is. And I miss him very much.

I think he’d also get why I picked this tune.

These two are entirely for Rob, though.

I love you, man. I know the music where you are is beautiful because I’m pretty sure you’re leading the band.

Pull yer red hair back into a couple long braids, grab a bandanna, a guitar, and tear up your tax forms! It’s Willie Nelson Day!

For those of you playing along at home, you’ll recall my musical choices with my parents. For those new to the game, every morning before school, the stereo would go on. Music was something we all enjoyed. However, we didn’t always agree on what would be considered “music”. Chuck Mangione. Herb Alpert. Linda Ronstadt. Or Willie Nelson. If my dad, who mostly worked nights, didn’t want to hear “that God-awful screeching from that damn Linda Ronstadt”, we’d invariably vote for Willie Nelson. I still like him.

No bonus this week. I’m saving up.

This house, meaning my head. My mental house is crowded. Not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s the sort of thing that weighs heavily on my hear for many reasons. Crowded with emotion.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Crowded House lately only partly because Intriguer is still too many days away from its US release and the tour and I’ve been a bit obsessive about listening to whatever bits and pieces I can find. Another reason I’ve been listening a lot lately is because it takes me to another place and another time and another headspace.

Thinking too much about lyrics, feeling too deeply the rhythms, losing myself in the harmonies, and suddenly I’m sitting in Georgia at Willy’s house and seeing (I think it was) either Acoustic Guitar Magazine or Vintage Guitar Magazine on the table. I’d been talking with Rob about some of my favorite guitarists and Neil Finn was on that list. Rob said if he didn’t recognize the name, the guy must not be very good. Despite me rattling off every Split Enz and Crowded House tune I could think of, Rob wasn’t convinced that this guy could have ever been known by anyone but a few aging female fans. However, sitting there, on Willy’s table, was a magazine and Finn’s name was there in print.

“Ha! See? There you go, Rob! Neil Finn.”

He shrugged and walked away. I figured it was the end of the conversation. But he surprised me. At some point over the next day or so, Rob did a little Googling and said he liked what he heard, especially a couple solo Finn tunes. It was nice to hear someone like Rob confirm what I already knew, not that it was necessary. Just nice. And it was typical of Rob. Just when you thought he would forget something, he’d surprise you.

Recently, I gave a copy of Recurring Dream to a friend. We’d been talking on the phone one evening and he mentioned someone we knew had been rather nasty to him and he was at a loss as to how to deal with the situation. And then there came the comment that more shit was coming down on him than he thought he could handle with a couple of other people. I said, “you could always say ‘I don’t pretend to know what you want, but I offer love.'” He thought that was brilliant, asked me to repeat it so he could write it down, and then I told him they weren’t my words but rather words from Neil Finn. They were also words I felt rather deeply were the sort that would stop just about anyone in their tracks. And they are. I’ve used them myself. At the very least, they cause whoever you’re talking with to ask what the hell you mean.

Sophocles once said, “One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life; that word is love.”

The more my friend and I talked, the more I realized how much he’d probably like the CD and so I bundled it up and handed it to him the next time we got together. He’s listened to it many times now. We listened to it together a couple nights ago as we sat and talked for hours.

It wasn’t until this morning though that it dawned on me how much Rob and my other friend are alike. They both bear emotional scars that run quite deep. The beauty and the tragedy of their lives simmer near the surface and create this tantalizing mixture of strength and vulnerability that draws people toward them. There is nothing simple about either man even though it might seem otherwise. Just as there is nothing simple about a Crowded House song…even though it might seem otherwise.

Layers upon layers of texture and meaning. Words that paint pictures of people and places that seem familiar. Melodies that haunt you. Harmonies that twist and tangle around your heart. Rhythms that build and then ease tension. Complicated simplicity. Simple complexity. Either and/or both. From the songs and from my friends themselves. You don’t mind the complexity because the sounds, the feelings are so intoxicating.

So I sit here attempting to work, but I lose myself in music that fills my heart and soul with happiness as well as sadness. I have great memories of Rob, but miss him terribly. I have another great friend who is a bright, shining light in my life, but whose deep pain is slowly surfacing as he deals with some very big things in his life. In my mind’s eye, I see their similarities and I pray for both…for Rob to be at peace and for my other friend to find some peace, but without having to die to find it.

All of these thoughts fly through my head like something from a fevered dream. Like “Pineapple Head”.

I need to have fewer things clutch at my heart this week, but they won’t. I don’t think it’s coincidence that one friend is going through hell right now when the next few days become increasingly Rob-centric. It’s been four years this week, you know, since Rob left us. Four years of missing him. Four years of growth and insight into things I didn’t understand for a very long time. Things that help me see another friend’s pain and my growing desire to do something to help, even if all I can do is listen and hold a hand, give a hug, or hand over a CD of music that…I don’t know…lets him get lost in something else for a bit. But even though I do this, I see how alike they are and it hurts more to feel that connection.

Maybe some things just keep coming back at you because they’re meant to remind you of…a person, a place, a time, or of life’s fragility. I’m not sure what it is or why it is…it just is.

“I don’t pretend to know what you want, but I offer love.” Indeed.

Also, KPete has a to Rob posted.

Some days are Diamond, some days are stone. Today’s a Diamond day. Neil, that is. One of the few artists in my parents’ record collection that I could listen to all day. Well, not so much always back then (I had to protest, it was my sworn duty as a difficult child!), but as I matured I appreciated Neil Diamond more and more. By the time I was a teenager, I would eagerly anticipate any of the following choices: Diamond, Willie Nelson, Linda Ronstadt, or David Soul. Anything was better than non-stop Chuck Mangione (my apologies to all of Arlen) or Herb Alpert.

Anyway, now that I’m more than a teenager, I’ve developed an almost unhealthy love for Neil Diamond and this means you get to be a part of my twisted little world.

Did you know the following song was the inspiration for the Romantics’ “What I Like About You”? It was. Indeed. Did you also know that Neil Diamond is still not in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame? True story.

Bonus video. And quick aside: I’m a die hard Monkees fan. Yes, I am. Now you know.

I’ve gone country. Look at them boots! (Alan Jackson fans are groaning. I apologize.)

I hate to go the obvious route. It’s so easily avoided if you put in just a teeny bit of effort.

This week, we’re going with two men named Tracy. Tracy Lawrence and Tracy Byrd. Both excellent. Neither a major player in today’s version of country. I kind of like it that way. You get a double dose of the Two-fer this time around. No big stories. Nothing. Just music, baby.

Okay, maybe one really quick story. The last video resembles how some of my Saturday nights used to go back when I really was country. After hours parties at Cheryl’s, or Ed and Tater’s, or over at Don and Donna’s. Or some broken down place up the road. Didn’t matter. Whatever fun we were havin’ at the bar was carried on back to wherever. Booze flowed, guitars were played, and everyone sang and danced. On more than one occasion someone’s pool or hot tub filled with near-naked or totally naked people splashing around. And someone was always caught in a back room with someone they shouldn’t have been with. Thing was, somehow or another, the party continued.

See? Not such a long story after all. And now without further ado, here’s this week’s selections.

Tracy Lawrence:

Tracy Byrd:

This week we take a look at the Great Albino Blues Invasion. No, that’s not mean or insensitve. I’m just stating the obvious.

Let’s begin with Johnny Winter, shall we?

Johnny’s first album for Columbia Records drew the largest advance in the history of the recording industry — a reported $600,000. For many blues artists, this didn’t sit well. Some white guy (some REALLY white white guy) was drawing this incredible amount of money for playing the music they’d created through their blood and sweat equity. It didn’t matter that blues legends Willie Dixon and Big Walter Horton recorded a track for the album. People were unhappy. One of the more vocal critics was Muddy Waters, a man Johnny considered a hero. However, in 1977, Winter finally got a chance to work with the one man he always lauded in concert. Johnny produced the very successful Hard Again for Muddy, followed by I’m Ready and King Bee. Muddy himself acknowledged Winter “…had done remarkable work in reproducing the sound and atmosphere of Waters’ vintage Chess Records recordings of the 1950s. The albums gave Waters the highest profile and greatest financial successes of his life.” Winter had done right by the man who influenced him. He’s been playing professionally for over 50 years and I can tell you from personal experience, the man still brings it.

Next up is Malford Milligan.

Milligan, probably best known for his stint with Storyville, which formed in 1994, his range is rather astounding. Not content to be categorized as a bluesman, he brings his talents to gospel, soul, rock, country, and whatever else you got for him. Malford’s voice is perfect. I’d listen to him read the phone book if given the chance.

Bonus video:

“…baby don’t mistake me for someone who doesn’t ache
I’m the same as you
With a different reaction” ~ Jackie Greene, “Animal”

In the words of Skip James, I’m so glad(!)…just to be home and back in my own bed.

Doheny was a lot of fun.

Friday, we check into the hotel and within a couple minutes there came a knock upon our door. Birthday treats! Yummy chocolate and ice cream and a brownie. The three of us (my friend M and my new friend J and I) got changed and headed out to the Renaissance in Dana Point. There, we got our drink on (I had two Beam & Cokes and a couple sips of wine, which was probably the best red wine I’ve ever tasted), had some dinner, and we even managed to find a way to dance (if you want to call it that) on the very crowded dance floor. Steve Copeland & Raging Sun are a band you gotta see if you’re in SoCal. Just sayin’. There was more birthday dessert goodness at some point, but one of the true highlights for me was meeting the owners of the place. Y’see, I walked over to their table, which was right in front of ours, and had to comment on the Blue Star Flag laminate the one gentleman had in his shirt pocket. One man has a son in Iraq, the other (who is also a vet…they both may be, but I distinctly recall the one in particular) has a son in Afghanistan. They were quite glad that I noticed the Blue Star and were happy to talk about their amazing kids. That really was a “moment” for me. Yes, everything else was fun and delicious and delightful, but that…it was special, y’know? My evening ended on a high note.

The next day — the first day of the festival — was spent running from one stage to the next. It was too much. I didn’t get to see a single artist perform their entire show. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing. I got to see all but one act and I got photos of all but two (I think). I missed James Intveld completely as I stood mesmerized by Taj Mahal. I only caught a minute or so of Big Sam’s Funky Nation, but man oh man, they were good! They had people stacking and moving chairs so they could all dance! Let’s see, what else? I had a very nice lunch of some good Cajun catfish and fries, chased with an ice cold lemonade. I got to see a lot of San Diego friends, catching up with them, and mostly just enjoying the music together. It was a long day, but the best kind of long day you can have.

The bands were all fantastic, but the headliner? The Black Crowes…hmmm…the crowd…I had a select group of five people around me who were cool. Otherwise the crowd sucked. Aggressive, rude, pushy, and generally not feeling the whole “peace, love” vibe the Crowes are supposed to be about. Chris Robinson is still rockin’ his Jesus look. I got a few good photos and then walked away without regret by the third song. The beer shower was NOT appreciated. Never heard a single song I recognized anyway. Instead of the Crowes, I got 2000 LBS of Blues on the Backporch Stage and loved it.

One of my roommates for the weekend and I walked back to the hotel, threw on our suits, and hit the hot tub. Later, we caught up with another friend or two, grabbed some Jack in the Box (hey, we were totally burned out at that point), and headed back to the room. Along the way, we ran into one of the gals who was running sound on the Backporch and invited her to the room for a drink and maybe some JITB tacos. She was a delight and we all had a good time sharing stories.

Day two of the festival was a lot more relaxed. I’d decided to hang out at the Backporch Stage as much as possible. Taj Mahal, Jackie Greene, and Duke Robillard were all back there and I could always go wander about between acts, which is exactly what I did. Mostly. I missed the first couple songs Jackie did because I really wanted to see a little Bettye Lavette. Ha! A little is right. She’s a tiny thang. Anyway, I caught three songs, enjoyed it, and then went over to see Jackie. I had to pry my way through the crowd to get to the stage. It’s not usually that crowded over there, but Jackie Greene has a very devoted following and it was packed tight. Got to the front of the stage and sat on the ground, crawled back and forth when necessary, and managed to (mostly) avoid the overzealous security guy (he took his job way too seriously and was strung tighter than a tennis racquet). I think he was still pissed because earlier, when Taj was on stage, Taj had encouraged everyone to stand up and join in the fun. Mr. Security couldn’t fight The Man, could he? No way.

Finally got some BBQ in me. Lunch was a calm affair. I got my food, sat down and relaxed. My pace was definitely slower and more deliberate. I never got to the front of the stage for Booker T or John Nemeth or even for Otis Taylor and I really didn’t care. If I managed to get a photo from back further, I was glad, but I didn’t feel like trying to push through any more crowds. Instead, I ambled about. I went back to the kids’ stage and talked with a couple guys from 2000 LBS of Blues (they were hosting the stage), visited with people along the way, took in all the sights and sounds, and generally found myself to be much happier. I caught up with my weekend roomies, enjoyed a beer with them, and it was off to camp out in front of the main stage for Crosby, Stills and Nash.

Backstage, David Crosby took a tumble and the paramedics were brought over to tend to him. He wasn’t terribly injured so the show went on as scheduled. I got about two and a half songs in when Security came over and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no professional photography allowed.” I tried to give the lame, “oh, but my camera isn’t ‘professional’, it’s only an XTi,” but that didn’t work. So I took no more photos and decided to exit the crowd, allowing the kind people around me to squish together and get closer to the action. It took me a full song to extract myself from the throng of fans. It took another few minutes to get to the front gate and start off toward the hotel. I stopped to call and try to get her a quick listen of CSN. Of course, she can’t really hear anything, but at least I tried.

As soon as we hung up, I started my walk to the hotel again and I hear the strains of “Ruby Tuesday” coming from CSN. WTF? Turns out it wasn’t the only odd choice of the evening. They included a Who tune, too. I didn’t hear it, but I heard about it, if that makes sense. All I knew is that I was on a mission to get back to the hotel and get into the hot tub. And I made it!

By Monday morning, I was suitably worn out and ready to head home. A trip down to San Diego with a stop at the Fish Market in Del Mar for lunch made me happy, as did the birthday strawberries dipped in three kinds of chocolate and dusted with cinnamon. Then there was an impromptu photo session with some lovely flowers. We stopped at my friend M’s house since we had time before my flight. She showed me a few of her prized souvenirs from her travels and we talked websites and charities and about how much fun the weekend was.

I managed to secure a ride home from the airport from one of my photography buddies (thanks, B!) and got home just after 9pm. Yesterday was spent recuperating from the comfort of my bed. And there was good news from my attorney — we’re filing a motion to force the insurance company into approving my doctor (as they were ordered to do two months ago), so I should be in to see a doctor sometime before Halloween.

Now it’s back to the editing booth as it were. I have photos and stories and all sorts of things to get done. Hopefully I’ll still be singing the songs I heard this weekend while I edit.

Goin’ back, baby. Way back.

No portents of doom today. Just a kick ass song. (Sorry, Dan*)

And just to prove that it’s all good**:

P.S. The best version of ” Coming” is unavailable for embedding. Go check it out.

* Dan Rydell from Sports Night. Season 1, episode 13.

** Unless you watch Lost, in which case even the best moments and songs turn to shit because something ominous always lies in wait. I don’t believe that for a second though, mostly because I’m not a survivor on some spooky, crazy island. (And mainly because I stopped watching last year when ABC decided to put the show on against a bunch of other shows I was watching. Seriously, what’s up with that? I figure I’ll catch last season and this final season in the future. Or is it the past?) Instead, I tend to think of Shambala in terms of Tippi Hedren. And yes, working there would be amongst my fondest dreams.

I’m recovering from all the fun and getting on a plane this evening. Thankfully, WordPress has this nifty feature which has allowed me to create entries long in advance so that you don’t have to sit here looking at an old post, waiting desperately for my return. That’s what you were doing, weren’t you? Yeah, thought so.

May you enjoy. (And if you care, you’ll have Abba Zabbas waiting for me at home. The small ones, please.)

In case you don’t recognize James Intveld — he was the voice for Johnny Depp in the movie Cry Baby.

Booker T. Jones is on the agenda today. Sadly, I doubt Steve Cropper will be there. I know, I know, the tears will do me no good.

And more fun on deck: