The Edroom

Loving Music on the Wrong Side of History: Jethro Tull’s “A Passion Play”; A defense of my favorite album as a teenager

2012-01-02T18:59:00.000-08:00

There was a kid whose name I don’t remember who went to my High School in La Mesa CA and had the distinction of coming from a family who owned one of the local music stores. (Albert’s Music City). For casual interaction on the school Quad, this credential gave him a kind of extra rank when it came to musical discussion, and I remember him telling me with profound sincerity how much he loved Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon. I could tell by his hushed enthusiasm that he was into this album as deeply as I was into Jethro Tull’s A Passion Play, and I remember comparing notes with him.

During those 70’s years the really big rock bands were Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, and at the time Jethro Tull was considered nearly tied in popularity based on their very successful albums Aqualung and Thick as a Brick. Zeppelin’s audience was very crude then, lots of rougher kids in worn bell-bottoms and non-upper-middle-class upbringings. These same teens were the first ones to get stoned and make out openly on school property, and there would not be much discussion about the actual music.

Zeppelin at that time was a soundtrack to ditching school, drinking Annie Green Springs sparkling wine and hanging out at the pinball or pizza places, and that wasn’t strictly my personality. Privately I would feel the hair on my arm raise when I heard the guitar solos on songs such as Whole Lotta Love, Black Dog, and Stairway to Heaven, but I expressed my enthusiasm only to other guitarists and felt Led Zep’s popularity would run its course after their time was over.

Pink Floyd by contrast was largely considered a synthesizer band at the time and no one knew much about the musicians individually. We saw that the bass player did a lot of the singing, but in the mid-70’s we had the impression the keyboardist was the driving force behind their genius. So they were mysterious, and the themes were often about alienation, which except for their novelty went unnoticed in content until the audience grew older.

By very slight contrast to these bands, Jethro Tull seemed intellectual and still rocked hard, tackling the heavy themes of rebellion against religion and society (Aqualung and Thick As A Brick). The lyrics were clever and witty, and spoke to teenagers facing a potential future of decisions planned out for them by their parents. Tull seemed dangerous, but upon closer inspection they were moderate, even intriguingly critical against drug use in interviews. The fact that they had layers of intelligence to be discovered after liking the band’s sound made them a perfect band for me during my High School years.

After I wore out the two copies of Aqualung and Brick I had borrowed from the older sister of my best friend, I went to Wherehouse Records (the word “Wherehouse” is flagging me under spell-check, another reminder that my own kids are barely aware there were actual record stores then), and went looking carefully through the Tull section before picking out their latest: A Passion Play. It looked great: it seemed to be one long composition with an Intermission break in the middle, and came with a subtle lampoon of a Theatre Program featuring fake names, puns and in-jokes. This kind of humor was very popular then coming in part from Monty Python skits, so the jokes gave the album an up-front qualifier not to take it TOO seriously; after all, that was our parents’ mistake.

When I got home I was overjoyed with the difficult lyrics, the themes of life and death, and the questioning of Christian themes. It was Aqualung for College students, and I was the first in line.

I listened to this album each day the way the born-again Christian kids I went to school with read their bible. I studied each guitar part, and then began analyzing the keyboards, flute, drums, bass, etc. Everything on that record worked for me, and it seemed these guys played like one person. I loved how Ian Anderson unexpectedly picked up Soprano and Sopranino Saxes and blew the same fantastic solos he would do on flute without worrying too much about his tone, which sounded naïve in a very appealing way, another indication they were having too much fun to worry…

During this period Ian Anderson would give very charming interviews in which he would speak of various topics in a way that would charm the Queen herself, and then make a witty self-deprecating joke at his own expense. The Brits are great at this, taking the piss out of themselves, distinguishing themselves from stuffy posh types. It still works to this day.

“A Passion Play” was a huge and instant commercial success among their fans. Jethro Tull set concert attendance records that year (1973-4) and the album went Gold and Platinum in short order. But there was one very serious problem: the critics panned it unanimously. I remember pausing with concern when my Mother showed me the New York Times review with the headline “Jethro Dull”. But this didn’t bother me. I considered it a sign that older people didn’t get it, (and I had no trouble finding kids that agreed with me, because after Aqualung even the most disaffected teenager at that time would sit through anything Tull did in the hopes of another Locomotive Breath).

So the critical drubbing never got to me. But something else did: following these reviews Ian Anderson was announced to have hastily broken up the band for less than a week, then quickly reformed, the episode subsequently blamed on an “exhaustion breakdown” by his spokesman. Yet the music from APP was eliminated from future shows, even short excerpts despite frequent airplay. War Child was the follow-up, and featured many connections to A Passion Play, but talk of a film based on the album never materialized.

But I stayed loyal, even though I was moving on musically. Nothing would change my love of middle period Tull. As an audience member I would compare myself then and now to those old people that still cry when they watch Casablanca alone in a darkened cinema. For me, the mid 70’s was a time and a place that could never be repeated, but could be vividly recalled like Bogey and Bergman projected for those that lived through WWII.

But then the next betrayal came: Ian Anderson chose to disband the classic lineup of the band in the summer of 1980. I remember back-packing through Europe that summer when I saw the headline in New Musical Express: “TULL SPLITS!”. I threw down my back pack and spent half my lunch money on the newspaper, reading it to myself on a street in Italy, consumed in disappointment. Aside from the wise concession of keeping longtime guitarist Martin Barre, there was no explanation given other than “musical differences”. But this seemed like nonsense! This was as if Paul and John kicked out George and Ringo because they wanted the guys in Toto to play with The Beatles instead. This felt like some kind of control trip, and it seemed unnecessary.

Over the next decade it became apparent that between Anderson’s growing self-importance and the amputation of a great band, Tull was destined to go down as a footnote in Rock history, even sustaining humiliation when the Grammys bogusly awarded JT Best Hard Rock/Metal Performance over Metallica in 1989 and exposed a corrupt voting process. Tull then became the poster child for falsely rewarded insiders, the worst of all fates for a band that would have mocked their own success in their day.

My own hypothetical theory goes like this: perhaps if Ian had continued to integrate his interactions with the current musical world and not isolated himself critically or creatively with effectively hired musicians, he could have handily reversed his band’s destiny of irrelevance. The Stones did it. Neil Young did it. Bowie did it. The Eagles did it. Pink Floyd did it. Zeppelin did it. In six completely different ways, these bands could have all been ridiculous sounding in the present day if they were not handled correctly. In each case, these now-classic bands were carefully marketed over the years and had a special kind of personality to back up their claims. Their music is not considered a time capsule, it feels relevant because of the personalities that made it and their ability to grow along with us in interviews and current shows.

Incidentally, there is a very amusing Lester Bangs review of JT called “Jethro Tull in Vietnam” that was written at the height of the period discussed here. He made the case that Tull had no “rebop”, meaning a direct and sincere feel and emotion worthy of more genuine jazz , blues, or rock, and I respect his opinion. But of course, I disgree. Listen to the free jam that opens side two of Brick for instance and I submit this band had plenty of rebop.

It’s how they handled their career. If Ian had kept his playful dialog with the press, shown a sincere interest in current music and dispensed with the greatest hits concerts and sour grapes comments, his band could have been remembered differently. Ask Neil Young, a guy who very much does things his way but has reinvented himself over and over. If Neil had sung Southern Man too many times in the wrong situations and made irrelevant comments about himself and the best music of today’s world he could be in the same boat.

So thank you Jethro Tull, I will always love your mid-70’s period. And I will always feel your stuff was as good as the current classics, but for reasons that probably have nothing to do with the actual music, my devotion will always be on the wrong side of history.

Not for Photographers Only

2011-03-24T07:07:00.000-07:00

When I got my first (and still only) iPhone 3G in December 2008 one of the first unexpected Apps I discovered was Toy Camera, which came to me from Laurie Wagner (who is the first to tell me lots of things). I remember thinking “but why do I need a quirky little photo processor when we have iPhoto and Picasa on our computers?” Well the Toy Camera App does stuff you just can’t recreate on casual photog programs, and the pics look great.

Then late last year I glanced across a NY Times article about hot new Apps and wrote down “Hipstamatic” ($2 I think). Well I eventually got around to getting it and it blew me away and continues to. It comes with all these minuses, such as an unnecessarily small viewfinder for instance, and no zoom feature like on the regular iPhone Camera. (Smart asses. Why do that??) In a subtle way they seem to not want you to know what’s coming, and that becomes part of the fun.

This issue reminds me of Brian Eno, who has talked about limiting your creative options instead of increasing them and how that can lead to great discoveries. It’s nicer if someone else makes the limiting choices for you, and it’s really telling if you get better results when you don’t know how you did it.

After a few weeks of taking really nice pictures I logged on and bought every single extra accessory Hipstamatic sells (it came to 6 or $8), set the camera on Random and then headed on the road with Madison and a friend to the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose for a rainy first day of Spring Break.

After two very enjoyable hours of listening to absolutely rapturous East Indian guitar music on my iPod while taking hundreds of pictures, I stood randomly gazing into the gift shop rafters while the girls made a purchase and thought about qualifying photographic subjects/objects.

What makes a subject relevant? What makes it appealing? Why do we care? For example, as a photographer I have recently been appreciating objects that include rust and decay, but unless you’re strictly going for texture, a subject like that can quickly lose its relevance without the context of the past.

This year, no one cares about an 8-year-old Dell computer monitor sitting on the sidewalk, but in 50 years when Monitors may be virtually projected from our reading glasses onto a weightless virtual screen, that Dell might make an amazing snapshot. We won’t know until we get there, and until someone takes a good picture.

As I continued to gaze into the ceiling area of this particular gift shop I noticed discrete fluorescent track lighting, air conditioning fixtures and early 80’s spittoon shaped speakers for Muzak. At that moment, these things struck me as aesthetically offensive after a day of seeking what I currently consider photographic pearls on Sarah Winchester’s nearly psychotic estate.

My mind began to wander to painter Jasper Johns’ oddly placid and reconceived paintings of the American flag, and then to Igor’s Stravinsky’s initially hostile reception at the premier of The Rite of Spring. Finally I thought about some very gross vintage 70’s Chandeliers I saw selling for $1500 at a boutique shop in the Rockridge District in Oakland (that I admit are suddenly interesting to me because the guy selling them was wearing an exceptional old Rock T-shirt I hadn’t seen before).

Context is everything, the question is: whose context are we talking about? What was going through Stravinsky’s mind as he composed each movement of his classic masterpiece? As crowds of people lined up to buy tickets to hear Brahms or Romantic symphonies in 1913 Paris or New York, one imagines the outside world becoming a quiet universe in Stravinsky’s mind as motifs played out through his composer’s pen.

Somewhere this week someone with a smart phone is taking pictures of 80’s Muzak Spittoon speakers, or discarded Dell Monitors, or perhaps only 5-year-old Ikea furniture already on its way to the landfill, because they see something.

I want to see that too.

As a composing musician myself I have learned that by ignoring any creeping impulse to be original and not being afraid to comply with written and unwritten rules I have been able to unexpectedly step creatively closer to who I feel I am. My plan is to apply this same approach to my newly renewed interest in photography.

I am having too much fun to do otherwise.

For Singers Only: Ed’s Vocal Warmup Routine

2011-03-19T19:44:00.000-07:00

Recently my writer friend Laurie Wagner asked me to get together with her visual artist friend Kc Rosenberg to help her explore her new interest in singing and music. I would describe Laurie as God’s gift to creative people, (or to use another analogy, if creative people were plants she is like sunlight, water and that special dirt they sell in bags at Home Depot). Laurie has several things going that help creative people get closer to being creatively successful. One of those qualities is that she’s a natural born networking person with many interesting friends, and when she asked me to hook up with Kc, I said “done”.

I just love getting exposure to anyone working on their own art, and I especially like it when they are taking part in some creative category other than my own. Kc is the Director of the Freshman class at California College of the Arts, and she lives in an old Alameda Victorian house fabulously loaded with her visual work, which it turns out is only walking distance from my house. It’s a supercharge for my own creative energies to experience people like this in their own environment.

Kc’s new pursuit is singing rock music, and if this meeting had come only 3 years ago I would have had mainly an instrumentalist’s viewpoint to offer, but singing has become a focused passion of mine since the summer of 2008, so suddenly the topic holds many possibilities for discussion and participation.

For Kc’s benefit I have prepared my condensed thoughts about singing exercises into a short rundown, which I have shared below.

Most of these singing exercise tips came from my singing friends or Youtube videos. Between the intense competition of the singing field and my own modest talent, I can not currently claim to be an authority on vocal techniques, but I can begin by saying that I believe no advice below will ever hurt you. If you have been singing for years then I also believe anything below that you are not already doing will significantly benefit you.

Since I was a child I signed up for and sang in numerous choirs, and although I sang on pitch and in rhythm I felt consistently challenged and disappointed with my singing progress. This went on for years, even decades.

The fact that I am a modest talent as a singer is perhaps my best feature when I offer this singing advice. If you are as challenged as I am, then one of your biggest victories will be finding a way to enjoy doing these vocal workouts for pleasure, because enjoy it or not if you are in my position you will need to sing exercises every day for at least 8 minutes to make the kind of improvement I am promising. If you are just starting out you will be extraordinarily happy with your singing in 6 weeks time if you sing every day following the tips below.

(I am not selling anything though, no further promises are made, and this workout will not help you if you are threatened at the beach by a large muscular competitor to your companion).

Another source of vocal guidance came to me from my old High School friend Mark Oakley, who was the first guitarist I was ever in a band with. In addition to his own natural talent Mark had the good fortune to come from a musical family. His Mother Jackie Pack taught piano and voice lessons at their home, and she would remain available to us with such things as showing us how to chart out rock vocal harmonies, feeding us her very memorable homemade lasagna, and eventually giving in to Mark’s urgent pleadings for a Fender Twin Reverb Amplifier. She was right about earplugs too, which we gave in to begrudgingly and which basically saved us from years of true hearing regrets.

I remember Mark giving me bits of advice about vocals back in the day, and then much later in 1999 (around my 40th birthday) he sent me a cassette he made of his favorite warm-up routine. It sounds like a classic choir warm-up, but it has very carefully chosen ranges, starting in the middle and immediately going down at first, then moving up in half steps until reaching a reasonable G note above middle C, (a forgivably high note for male vocalists, but impossible for me in the beginning). Then it settles down in the middle of the range and repeats the strategy using arpeggios. The whole thing takes 8 minutes, and I’ve now sung it what feels like 10,000 times thanks to a solo driving commute and what must have been the last ever stock cassette deck in my cherished 2001 Suburu.

In addition to Mark and Jackie, special thanks also to Carmen Borgia, David Bell, Alison Davy and Maria Volonte who have all participated in the profession of singing and have each given me jewels to work with during my vocal journey.

If you are planning to record your singing, double the 8 minute warm-up routine to 16 minutes (do it twice with variations). The 8 minute routine alone will provide an 80% improvement in your vocal capabilities. Doing it twice will provide a 95% improvement. If you are planning to do some serious reaching of your limits, then doing the routine three times with variations will take you 99% there. The other 1% will have to come from you, your heart, or a potentially higher source.

I once read that Michael Jackson did a 2 hour warm-up every time he recorded. It doesn’t surprise me to hear that. By comparison, the pleasure and immense payoff of exercising your vocal instrument for 24 minutes before you sing songs is a small investment when you see how far some people take it.

To hear Mark's vocal warmup routine, click or cut and paste this link and choose "Vocal Warmups":

http://www.purevolume.com/EdFordSummerfield

Here are my compiled vocal tips:

1) Start with Throat Coat tea! Or your favorite Herbal tea, honey optional. Not too hot, (and never anything cold during singing). It’s nice to use an electric cup warmer; I love mine and consider it mandatory for long singing evenings. Sip or gargle with warm tea right before singing and every 20 minutes during your session. If a given song is the wailing barnburner of your repertoire, sip or gargle immediately before and after pushing your limits. This will make a huge difference in saving your voice that night and the next day.

2) Stretch by imitating a yawn, opening and closing your mouth widely and gently, like a limber ballet dancer stretching out. Feel the back of your jaw for any tightness and stretch and loosen like an athlete preparing for a run.

3) Begin by introducing yourself to the routine by singing all 8 minutes of the warm-up using a consonant/vowel such as “Na”.

4) After you are familiar with the warm-up, begin singing the routine using the following five Consonant/Vowel sounds: Na Nay Nee No Nu. When repeated 3 times this sequence will take you up and down a scale perfectly. (8 notes up and 7 notes down=15, and 5 vowels x 3=15). You may find this will take some practice at first and require a bit of vocal coordination. (This method affords the benefit of systematically introducing all the primary vowels to every note in your range).

5) Optional second and third set: repeat the warm-up routine again using the following 4 variations in whatever amounts you choose:

A) Sing “La ga, La ga” in place of the Na Nay Nee No Nu sequence.

B) Sing “Ung-ga, Ung-ga” in place of the Na Nay Nee No Nu sequence.

C) Sing using what is called the “vocal fry” which is the quiet little buzz in the back of your throat that a baby makes. (This amazed me when I first heard it because it seemed so insignificant. Then I realized how many singers use this component and how expressive it can be).

D) Sing using lip trills. This one wins the “feels like an idiot” award, because you move from the baby realm to the seeming maturity of a seven-year-old on the playground. Gently close your lips and then press the sides of your cheeks with your fingers to allow your lips to flap into a trill while singing “doo”. The finest opera singers do this all the time, and although I have been assured of some benefit of articulate flexibility, the true reason I have included this in my routine is because I love the contrast of how ridiculously childish it sounds versus their otherwise serious music.

6) Enhancement: while doing all these exercises, keep both feet flat on the ground and occasionally gently stretch one arm straight above your head keeping the other by your side. Then relax and alternate arms with each scale, feeling your diaphragm and body loosening up.

7) Sirens. Start near your lowest note and sing gently and smoothly with Glissando (like a Fire Engine) until you nearly reach your highest note, and then return down again. If you experience a break in your range along the way, explore by carefully lowering your volume and singing over that area until you discover why you are either cracking your voice or somehow faking your way through.

Most beginning singers are understandably concerned with the highest and lowest notes of their range and don’t realize there can be issues right in the very middle. Eventually you should be able to navigate through repeated sirens at every volume level without the slightest break in your voice.

8) Volume swells. Most singers want power available to them, and many understand the importance of dynamics. For these reasons, try singing both these exercises and actual songs as softly as possible and then build them slowly into your fullest voice. There are two approaches here:

A) Start a song very softly and then slowly build each line until you reach a crescendo at either what you feel is the most appropriate part of the song or the area that most challenges you. Then back off 20% as you finish the song or set of notes.

B) Sing each individual song line or scale by beginning softly and then swelling into a full voice by the end of the line. Be willing to exaggerate your ability to be dynamic to the point of ridiculousness, but without hurting yourself. As you progress, find your weakest word/note combination and then stop and sing it soft to loud and soft again. Swell…swell…swell. Listen to your tone and ask yourself where the sweet spot is. When you find that sweet spot, burn the feeling into your mind for reference the next time you sing.

9) Extend the stomach/abdomen (diaphragm). If you slightly “push out” your abdomen to its full position you will discover an additional 10-20% of singing capacity you didn’t realize was there. You may have the very natural but musically mistaken instinct to hold your stomach in. This may happen for two reasons:

A) You’re consciously or unconsciously embarrassed to make yourself look like you have a pot belly. Pavarotti didn’t suck in his stomach and presumably didn’t care once he began singing. Follow the same approach and don’t allow self-consciousness to enter into it. In truth, your appearance will not appreciably change when you do this, and if you’re lucky enough to attract attention it will be your singing others will be paying attention to.

B) You may think that slightly or dramatically holding in your stomach is applying firm diaphragm control. It does not. Go ahead and hold in your stomach if you are posing in your swim suit, but unless you’re singing live in your briefs or bikini, don’t sweat it!

10) Be conscious of vibrato. It’s a common complaint in school choirs that some singers over-rely on or even abuse their vibrato. Begin by doing all warm-ups without vibrato, become aware of areas where you feel naked without it and then after establishing a confidence of straight tones add vibrato judiciously where you feel it makes the most musical sense.

11) Sing at half-speed or slower. Slow down a challenging song and take it one word at a time, sustaining each word and syllable into many seconds. Sing each note or word as many ways as you think sounds appropriate and then move to the next word. This is a fun exercise that can cause a song to last 10-15 minutes or more. Use it on the song selections you are preparing to perform or feel the most challenge or commitment to.

12) Sing A Capella. If you accompany yourself on guitar or piano, begin a song by playing at normal volume, and then bring down the volume of your instrument to a pianissimo, leaving your voice at the same regular volume. Then stop playing completely and finish singing the song A Cappella. Once you are fully singing by yourself you will find closing your eyes or even turning off the lights will allow you to more closely focus on your sound.

13) Sitting is great, but standing is best. Standing offers more capacity from your diaphragm than sitting. Sitting has been successfully proven countless times by singing piano players and folk singers, but standing will offer the singer more capacity and opportunity for power and range, so keep that opportunity in mind if there is no compelling reason to sit.

14) Double-check the larynx. Touch the larynx (voice box) on either side of your throat with the tips of the fingers of both hands as you sing. Feel for any unneeded rising of the larynx. The voice box should not rise excessively as if to overcompensate for lack of range or power.

15) Relax the muscle under the jaw by touching with your thumb as you sing. This jaw muscle (located under your tongue) does not need to be tense. Different vowels will play on this muscle, and when you sense or feel it tense with your fingers try relaxing it consciously and listen for a favorable improvement in your tone.

16) Find the sweet spot of your head position. Look down slightly and compare with looking up as you sing. Pointing the head down and slightly drawing in the throat will offer an unexpected openness you might not have expected. By contrast, peak moments of a song may call for pointing the head up and calling out the power of the chest, but notice that looking up too high will stretch the voice box unfavorably and restrict it.

17) Inhale all breaths through the nose. Yoga and athletic exercise both bring up this issue for various reasons but the conclusion is the same. Consistently inhaling through the nose may require repeat practice, but you will notice an elegance and relaxed control that is superior to inhaling through the mouth.

18) Explore singing until completely out of breath. Explore this sensation over and over and learn to not be afraid as your air depletes. There is a normal instinctive panic that any animal feels when running out of air. Find that place that is usually left to automatic reflex and become its master by negotiating how you will sound as you are on your last ounce of air. You can gain confidence as you explore this dark alley, and becoming familiar with it will remove another possible source of fear each time you sing.

19) No smoke of any kind. You may have heard the ugly rumor that cigarettes are harmful to all sorts of bodily organs, lungs being relevantly at the top of the list. Add the throat and you’ve got a very good reason to avoid this unbeneficial activity. (If you choose to smoke other stuff change immediately to cookies or brownies. Enough said!).

20) Try Listerine. Joseph Lister was a legend. Gargle before singing to clear food and reset your natural flora.

21) Avoid certain foods, especially scratchy and phlegmy foods. In truth I haven’t discovered a no-food list that I feel is universal. My advice for now is to avoid anything that leaves your throat feeling scratchy or with more phlegm. You will know from experience. Gargling with warm water followed by Listerine and/or Throat Coat tea will correct most food mistakes the singer may make.

22) Drink lots of water. Drink water before, during and after singing. Hydration is a big issue to singers, so take care of this consistently and you will notice a difference. Also important if you are including alcohol in your singing session.

23) Forget everything above, be yourself and trust your judgment. If you feel like I do you may choose to drill every one of these singing exercises until you absolutely drop…(without hurting yourself). Once you’re done, sing however the song feels right. After you are warmed up, practiced, and refreshed your own judgment will be the best judgment.

Best Friends and Recording Field Overdubs Guerilla-style

2011-03-15T19:28:00.000-07:00

Last year my best friend Carmen Borgia lost his dear friend, some-time mentor and High School Drama teacher Tom Humphrey to unfortunate ongoing poor physical health. (A lifestyle like Tom’s would likely claim most of us far sooner. That was perhaps one of the reasons we all loved him. He was seemingly indestructible in his ability to affect everyone in his life, both good and bad).

If it weren’t for Tom there is a strong likelihood that Carmen would not have ended up at UCSD to attend college at the time I met him (1981). For this reason and many more I have always considered Tom a lucky totem, despite his many mostly humorous liabilities as documented by Carmen and his friends.

When Tom died a series of events followed, including the inspiration for Carmen to come out to California and help me get started on my own recording one year ago. Prior to his arrival he sent me a posthumous gift from Tom: a trusty Zoom H2 digital portable sound recorder. I was able to make live demos of my album for Carmen to review, and I discovered from experimentation that the Zoom has a sound and a handy accessibility that causes things to happen that wouldn’t otherwise, like the way handheld smart phones are changing the way we see videos for example.

Carmen and I have written to each other many times since 1981, and I've been so inspired by our communications that I once wrote an instrumental entitled “Letter From Carmen”, which I plan to include on a future album of solely instrumentals.

Here is the letter I wrote Carmen today, which I also wish to share with my friends…

Carmen-

I figure you’ve already thought of this, or heard of it, or maybe this is already last year’s news:

I had an epiphany last night…

I’ve been making new recordings lately with the Tom Humphrey Memorial Zoom H2 recorder, and I noticed I really like the sound of the piano in my living room on that thing. For practical reasons I’ve been having some agita over how to record in the house for my album, so since I like the sound of the Zoom it dawned on me I should try using it to record field overdubs.

Last night I sat on the piano bench with earbuds on listening to basic tracks on my iPod, then hit record on the Zoom and simply played along to one of my songs. These particular piano parts are simple, not rhythmically critical, so I don’t expect any significant timing issues when I fly the wav files into Protools. I will let you know if I have any trouble when I do the importing.

As I lay in bed the next level of this dawned on me, (I just know someone’s already doing this): You go into a place like Lark in The Morning Music store or The Berkeley Jazz School (where they have things like Hammond Organs, Vibes, Marimbas, standup basses and Yamaha Grands in every room) or wherever else they have instruments that will take more than a lifetime to acquire. You’ve got your iPod with one earbud in and you noodle around with whatever instrument and inspiration calls you. Then you handily pull out your Zoom and touch record when the moment strikes, ambient noise and all, playing along to the basic track in your earbud. Then you fly it in at home to the master recording…

I figure there are people that are working on whole albums this way, entirely on instruments they don’t own, exploiting the ambient anomalies to their advantage. I’m seeing people getting chased out of Catholic Churches in the middle of an organ take, things like that. If I was movie-worthy I’d bust into the Carillon of a Bell Tower with my running shoes on, but I’m not made of that…

Perhaps it might be as simple as an inspired guitar solo on a trophy guitar from the vintage room right in the middle of Sam Ash or Guitar Center, with a full house of customers trying stuff out in the background.

I can hear the NPR sound bite and review already…

For me, I’m just sooo happy I finished another track last night.

I owe you all of this…once again, thank you for everything.

-Ed

Friends who changed me, #3 in a series: Dan Smolan

2010-09-30T22:30:00.000-07:00

This past summer my 16-year-old daughter Haley tried out and made the High School Cheerleading Squad in Alameda. She spent a good portion of the summer practicing hard with the other cheerleaders, and since the school year began her mother and I have unexpectedly found ourselves enjoying the American ritual of attending football games in our home town and the surrounding areas of the East Bay.

All of this comes as a huge surprise to everyone, and yet in some ways it is totally understandable. Haley has been getting great energy physically and emotionally from her participation at this school activity, and we like how it has affected her spirits and sense of connection to her school.

But going in I was deeply suspicious: my experience with school spirit at my own high school in La Mesa was quite different from Haley’s. Cheerleaders that wanted to make the team in 1970’s La Mesa had to campaign and be voted in by the students themselves. It was a ballot, and ended up being a popularity contest. I remember feeling furious when an Iraqi girl in my English class named Sindus Habib didn’t make the cut, because she was so good at her cheers and fit the part perfectly. But although she was perfectly accepted by her friends I realized that she didn’t have the necessary killer instinct to do the deliberate socializing that was required for a girl to become popular enough to be voted on the team.

I loosened up at Haley’s school when I learned that the cheerleaders are chosen by the two women adult coaches. The girls simply have to have the ability to learn the moves and do them within a reasonable amount of time. The size of the squad increases and decreases without limits and with the number of qualified girls, including when grades slip and the cheerleader at risk must attend games but sit on the bench until her tests improve. I see girls of various races, cultures and body types on Haley’s team, and it’s a big relief to me. There are even a few somewhat socially shy girls participating, and they are on a level playing field with the other girls as soon as the uniform is put on.

All of Haley’s High School experiences, including the recurring sub-theme of insiders vs. outsiders bring back my own memories from time to time, including the following one:

As a young teenager I met an interesting guy named Dan Smolan on the Junior High school bus. He was a tall guy with a slightly goofy laugh who I noticed had an ability to hang with most of the varied cliques and groups at our school. His best friend was Mark Phillips, and since this early time these two were thick as thieves. They were the kind of guys that went through a phase of riding around on their ten-speeds during adolescence pulling down a few neighborhood mailboxes for laughs and maybe doing something mean to the school property on the weekend when no one was around. No fires or pipe bombs (which did happen occasionally), but more minor stuff they eventually grew out of within the year. But this made them different than me, and I thought of Dan as someone who would take certain chances to increase the laugh factor.

I remember one time hanging casually with Dan at the Homecoming school dance, and being surprised when he excused himself to go over to congratulate the Homecoming King. Dan was well recognized at that brief moment, but he didn’t hang around for the serious soc scene that ensued. The next year the same thing unexpectedly happened to me; a good friend of mine, Mike Ewing, was named the Homecoming King. Years later I realized the compelling reason I knew these guys was our tentative connection as creative types…

One afternoon Dan got a wild hair and drove me to La Jolla shores just to check things out. When we got there he pulled out a Canon camera and started shooting a roll of B&W film, possibly for school. But the engaged way he was doing it told me it wasn’t for an assignment, he was doing it for fun. As he stared at some pilings under a pier, he talked me into wading into the water and striking a pose that he demonstrated for me.

Later when he developed the film in the school darkroom I had a chance to see the shots he had taken. Every picture was remarkable. I had taken the same photography class and had learned the same darkroom techniques, and it was this familiarity that gave me the edge to see a striking difference between his work and mine: every one of his shots was an interesting and composed keeper. When I shot a roll I would hope for 2 or 3 good ones, and I’m often still that way, yet here was Dan with a full roll of noteworthy pictures.

Dan participated with the Annual Yearbook student staff during that Senior year and then something embarrassing happened: the shot of me under the pier had been chosen for the Yearbook. I protested weakly, but Dan’s goofy smile disarmed me. I felt queer about the picture because I hadn’t done the concept, but after seeing it again many months after school ended I realized the picture did have some connection to my personality. I was in a cross-like pose in a natural setting, suggesting a vague non-religious spirituality that would build privately over time.

Another very memorable event was the time Dan rounded up Mark Phillips and I, told us to dress up a little, and then drove us to downtown Horton Plaza on a weekend night. In those days, Horton Plaza was notoriously seedy and trashy, catering to sailors and society’s rejects. People from the suburbs would lock their car doors as they drove by, even in the day. One of my favorite details about this period of Horton Plaza was that drag queens would consistently appear around the fountain area at night, congregating for action and to socialize. More than once a street person blew me away with poetry or a song as we walked by.

On this particular night, the three of us went to the fountain area where there were large public underground rest rooms you would never go into alone. The walls were white tile, and like any bathroom the sound was just crying to be sung to. Dan seemed to know what was coming, and immediately we found four African-American guys standing in a circle sharing a single cigarette and singing in a lively Motown/R&B style. They were friendly, and Dan immediately produced a pack of filter-less cigarettes guaranteeing us the required admission to hang more than 5 minutes. These guys were making up a song on the spot; it was called “The Girl Next Door” and I still remember the tune very well. The hook stuck with me so effectively I still sing it from time to time 30 years later. The gentlemen’s voices were so authentic and soulful, and we encouraged them to record their song and send it in to the very popular local annual KGB Homegrown album contest. They had never heard of this of course, but that was the best we could do. It was a concert of one night only, and we parted ways with the singers forever when we left, but I never forgot the music. As we drove home in Dan’s truck, it was silently but laughably obvious that I would never have had this experience if it hadn’t been for him.

After about age 20 I never saw Dan again, but I heard an unconfirmed rumor in my mid -20’s that Dan had been found wrapped in a blanket on a cold morning on the SF State campus tripping hopelessly on acid, talking to himself incoherently as he was taken away. I was angry that I heard the rumor in an unsympathetic way and hoped he had recovered and had a chance to begin his journey to a happier place, the one most creative people take when they are in their 20’s (when they are lucky enough to get there).

Last year I received several Facebook links to my High School reunion and I clicked on a name page of no-shows, which included me. They had a special page that included photos of those who have passed on early, and I was deeply saddened to see Dan’s picture with a passing date of 1991. There was no further information, and I will be clicking on a few more friends’ pages hoping to eventually learn more to bring closure to the loss of a cool guy that I once knew.

But regardless of that loss, nothing can take away the treasured handful of unique and valued things that happened to me for merely knowing Dan Smolan.

No Prepared Stories Allowed

2010-05-11T19:46:00.000-07:00

When I was a young boy, my parents often held dinner parties for their friends and professional acquaintances. These occurred in New York City and San Diego during the 60’s and early 70’s, and between the occasional neck scarves, cocktails, pipes and cigarettes they sometimes resembled Playboy After Dark or Mad Men episodes.

One classic feature of these get-togethers was hearing my parents tell the same stories we kids had heard so many times before. I would wince as soon as the first word came, knowing the punch-line in advance. I swore as a child that when I grew up I would not recycle the same joke at every party I went to, knowing from experience the wooden effect this sometimes had.

The following is my version of a story I would have told at parties all these years if I had been my parents; I will share it here just this once, (and you have my word I will not bring it up unless asked at any future party we might attend).

When I was 20 I got a job as a busboy and waiter at a busy coffee shop/dinner house (CoCo’s/Reuben’s) in La Mesa, California. There were 30 waitresses and 7 Waiters, and most were in their early 20’s and attending college. The work was fast-paced and the shifts and schedules were constantly changing each week, so it took a young person's stamina to generate the kind of frantic energy required for this otherwise simple job. The staff appeared to be mostly wholesome Co-ed types, and we all wore the same uniform which had a socially equalizing effect that I used to appreciate. But despite the seemingly homogenous group there was a range of personalities, including devout Christians, closet druggies, conservatives, radicals etc.

My Mom was recently divorced from my Dad then and I was still living at home, so I was very happy to discover that the restaurant offered partial Dental benefits. This meant I could spare my Mother the expense of having my impacted wisdom teeth removed, which made me very proud. One of the other Waitresses had also recently had her wisdoms out, so she enthusiastically evangelized to me about the healing properties of pineapple and assured me that my recovery would go much better if I tanked up on fresh pineapple before and after the procedure.

The next month, as I lay on the operating table counting to ten backwards, it seemed like only one minute had passed before my sister Jenna and our friend David Jurist had arrived to pick me up from the Oral Surgeon’s office. During the ride home I was delirious from the medication and was told I said funny things, but as the weekend played out the promise seemed to come true: I experienced very little pain and healed several days sooner than the Surgeon had predicted.

During my two recovery days I watched Franco Zeffirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth on TV, a very good quality made for TV miniseries that held my full attention. The Jesus actor had unlikely green eyes and seemed British in that vague rock star kind of way, so I was really pulled in to the story despite my vehemently agnostic attitudes.

When I returned to work there were two co-worker friends I couldn’t wait to talk to: the pineapple/natural foods disciple, and one devout Christian who I knew would love to hear my sincere enthusiasm about the Jesus movie.

As always, things were busy, so I quickly touched base with my pineapple friend and told her how right she was: I had gorged faithfully and the surgery had gone so well. She was thrilled to hear the news.

I waited until my first break so the Christian woman and I could relax and talk about Zeffirelli’s great movie. We got very involved discussing the whole story, and I enjoyed finding common ground with a believer and noted her implied respect for me as a card-carrying agnostic. We went through each chapter together, and she suddenly became very impassioned when we got to the scene depicting Christ’s suffering on the cross. “Oh, he suffered so much, he died for us; he felt so much pain…”

Just then, my other friend passed by in a hurry and caught the last part of our conversation.

With a surge of excitement, she asked “Has he tried pineapple??”

The Attraction List

2010-04-28T21:20:00.000-07:00

Below is a list I recently made of some of the many reasons why I have been attracted to music over my lifetime…or realized someone else was. There are undoubtedly an infinite number of additional possibilities….

You have been soothed with a lullaby

You have awoken and now have the need to be excited

You are very young and a song calls up an odd emotion you can not name, much like a vegetable that you dislike

An exceptional television theme is worth humming

Your parents’ favorite music produces an ennui you can’t describe; you feel cold and austere like a cloudy day

Someone older than you plays a record at a key moment and you will never forget it

You feel rebellion

You discover a certain music and feel possessive of it

You heard a song when that cute girl/boy agreed to dance with you. You are correct that it was an amazing song to begin with

You have the need to define your identity…and what others are not

New trends and fashions emerge among your friends and disturb you

New trends and fashions emerge among your friends and excite you

You are willing to lead or follow but you will never get out of the way

The singers and/or guitarists of your favorite bands also possess interesting personalities; you like hearing them talk almost as much as you like their music

You have experienced the potential embarrassment of liking the “wrong” socially accepted music

Deep inside you is a message that already exists. An exceptional musician, possibly you, has been preparing to open that message and you are destined to experience it

You don’t know how some musicians do that thing they do. The duration of mystery increases with value over time

You listen to music with an appealing power to offend older people, as well as those your age that don’t get it, (and you don’t want them to)

Appealing to a darker side, you experience a private period of comforting seclusion

You have worked hard at work or school and the need to be entertained is now a quantifiable requirement

Driving a car, feeling the pace and experience of traveling, you find a music that traces the romance of a new place

You guess what will be corny and what will be classic years from now. You compare notes to yourself in 30-40 years

You like hearing music while you work. You choose the station but begin to feel the music on the radio was chosen for you

You play an album or group of songs every single day and then slowly grow out of that ritual

You noticed some time ago that you like music better and more deeply if it takes a little while to discover

You are disheartened to learn that music is so tangible that its dissemination can be directed by simple honesty, commerce or mafia-like violence

A recent sound is more refined than the last thing you enjoyed. You are basically powerless for the next 5 minutes. You then return to your tuna sandwich

A sudden change in context imparts a new listening experience for music with which you are already familiar

Someone plays a song you love rather poorly, and yet for that reason you notice some intrinsic element of excellence that you hadn’t previously appreciated

You like hearing music while you work. There are disputes over what kind of music to work to, so you consider leading the process and then decide to stay out of it

Your mind wanders to slaves in the fields and then Egyptian laborers whose music you will never hear. Why did they choose that rhythm, that melody? It makes perfect sense

Musicians that were oppressed and made to remain silent exist far away from your free world. Perhaps they composed silent songs. Someday someone will imagine and record that music

As an adult you are startled by a young child’s ability to make up a song to a live musician’s spontaneous playing

You feel a sheepishly functional swell of emotion during anthems, both political and non-political

In neighborhoods you do not live in, culture and tradition clash with a new generation. As the fight rages, you are duplicitously grateful for both armies

You enjoy some guilty pleasures, and are pleased nothing is stopping you

You hum a song that everyone loves at that moment, indulging in a simultaneous national or world experience

Curious…where did this new music come from? Tomorrow I might remember it as if it was always familiar

You no longer like hearing music while you work unless you are alone and can enjoy what you really like

You listen to Spiritual and holy music, relishing the need for music in a church you don’t attend

You realize that music can be a conduit to a higher level, perhaps in leaps or very gradual steps

Your long-held opinions are both confirmed and wholly revised by a change in the primary actors of your life

You are comforted by an implied musical message that someone is like you, these are your people, and there are millions like you out there

You are comforted by an implied musical message that you are fairly rare and yet not alone, for this is being heard by at least a few more

You experience a faint but consistent Déjà vu when you hear some type of music that has nothing to do with your race, culture, or time period

You discover that self-described tone-deaf people with no apparent rhythmic abilities and little education can reveal something critically valued about music you didn’t know

As you fall asleep to what is effectively your favorite lullaby, you glimpse what you can never explain

My Light in a Milky Way of Stars

2010-03-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

(Photo by Carmen Borgia, 2/2010)

Like most of the rest of the universe of aspiring musicians, I have had dreams as big as you can have them. Dreams are one of the critical ingredients of any success story, and as a youth I never held back my wishes for musical success. Decades down the road now, I know I am in a large club of players who went for something big and ended up taking home the music I made, the treasured memories of having made it, and not much more. After the breakup of my San Francisco-based band The Secret Sons of The Pope in June 1985, I made a carefully considered decision to let go of pursuing a career based on popularity as my primary goal. Following this decision, (which I admit I made by necessity) I immediately felt a burden lifted from my shoulders, which I felt narrowed my goal to the music itself.

But then soon returned my ongoing issue of aspiring to a musically high standard. I have wrestled with this off and on since my first band, and sometimes I get over it and other times I’m just not satisfied.

Did you see the Lovely Bones movie? If you read the book, you might have been as excited as I was that Peter Jackson had chosen to make a movie out of this very good story. Jackson can be called an experienced Director, and they even secured one of my very favorite participants in music, Brian Eno, to contribute to the soundtrack. But art is fickle enough that even experienced experts can put their foot in it and come up with less than they expected despite their best efforts. IMO the movie landed wrong, and in this case, I think it had something to do with the 100 year-old mystery of translating the art forms of book to movie. We go to movies for different reasons than we read a book, and The Lovely Bones film seemed to end up betraying its benefit to the audience. Another older example of this might be the dreadful Fountainhead movie remake of the book, with Gary Cooper. A horrible outcome, and author Ayn Rand herself wrote the misguided screenplay.

Recently I’ve been recording songs that I’ve been playing to myself acoustically for years, and the process is alternately rewarding and vexing. On one hand I am wrestling with my skills of execution, but I am also reckoning with the unexpected result that can appear once committed to tape. (They still say “tape” these days to mean recorded, I heard an NPR commentator use it this week. As a musician I gotta love that). Shall I play it dramatically or understated? Joyful or downbeat? Pull out the stops or reign it in? One wrong decision and the whole song can start to mean a different thing.

I remember one time in 7th grade my late childhood friend Scott was goofing around in our Social Studies class. He was the film Monitor, and it was his job to run the projector when we watched a short movie about a given subject. Scott was the class clown, and in a casual moment he picked up the flat brown metal circular lid for the 16mm film canister and pressed it slightly sideways on his head, like a hat. It looked Chinese that way, and he made a silly accent to go with it. I remember instantly realizing that Scott hadn’t done that before, and yet he knew how he looked without looking in the mirror. It made a big impression on me, because I knew if I had tried the same thing I would have never realized the effect until I saw myself.

For me, making music has been a process of not knowing the final result until I try something and then put myself in the audience’s position (listen back without playing). Sometimes I need to come back later and pretend I haven’t heard this music before, with the goal of removing as much personal bias as possible. Occasionally I have the good luck of total amnesia when I return to something and completely fail to remember ever having played it. Then I am in the best position to make a judgment on what I consider to be good, bad, or sending a message of any kind.

Some artists like my friend Scott, (who was an actor) have the gift of knowing what they’re doing the moment they are doing it. In my case, I have had to make my temporary blindness an asset, by playing, forgetting, and returning over and over, note by note, until I dictate something/anything of meaning. It’s soooo much slower, but maybe this has given me some kind of advantage I didn’t know I had.

Regardless, the two bottom lines will always be, is this any good and did I mean to say it?

As I work at home each night on my latest recording, I am reckoning with both.

For Guitar lovers only

2010-03-17T21:30:00.000-07:00

Last year, another one of the highlights of my Facebook life came when I re-connected with two guitar-playing luminaries from my Grossmont High School days, Don Morelli and Phil DeGracia. Don was the first good guitarist I was aware of at school when I began as a Freshman; he was older, looked Rock and Roll with his classic long hair and could play licks at school assemblies that made us all envious. Phil was my age, just beginning his guitar-playing journey like I was, and was hungry to discover any shred of information he could find by calling or hanging out with anyone who had anything to know about the subjects of guitar and music. Like me and my other friends, Phil was playing all the time and slowly honing his craft from his bedroom. Memorably, in our Junior year he quite handily blew us away with his Bluesy Guitar and Harmonica licks at the school Talent show (Dramathon).

After years of family responsibilities, Don recently transplanted himself to Las Vegas to return to his professional playing life, something that I find exciting and deeply encouraging as I head into my 50’s.

Phil became an extraordinarily talented player, specializing in Hendrix tributes and becoming a personal friend of Jimi Hendrix’s family, friends and associates through his accurate and skillful recreations of what history has shown to be the King of Electric Guitar. We’re all so proud of Phil we could just spit.

Both these guys share my passion for guitars themselves, and recently Phil asked me for more details on my own collection. I have never done a proper documented rundown of my instruments, so for those who care I have prepared a list detailing each one. Since this Blog software is a little unwieldy with mutiple photos, I will post the entire collection in an album on my Facebook page. Amps will be mentioned along the way.

My collection of 17 guitars includes basses, acoustics, an electric mandolin, a pedal steel guitar, and left-field choices like an electric sitar and an 8-string bass. In roughly chronological order, the list goes like this:

Black 1973 Stratocaster; maple neck, only the vibrato bar bridge and neck plate are original. This is the one I sold to both Bob Willey (who put the nicer Schaller tuners on) and Nathan West, who had the neck crown flattened to a 12” radius and jumbo frets installed by Steve at The Blue Guitar, San Diego. I bought it back from both Bob and Nathan, so I’ve owned it 3 separate times, all in the late 70’s. The pickup assembly is long gone, replaced many times (about 5 times now, going on 6 when I soon order Lindy Fralins, who I think deserves the hype. I love his Fender style pickups). Still have the original case.

1980 Ibanez SA-400, ES-345 Stereo style reissue, Cherry red, gold hardware. Ibanez’s version of BB King’s Lucille guitar, probably the most opulent and luxurious guitar in my collection. You feel like a millionaire when you play it, like sitting in a Rolls Royce. I replaced the pickups in the late 80’s with Duncans: a ’58 in the neck and JB in bridge. It gets a sweet sound, and nice for Jazzier things. Sometimes I use heavy flatwounds (Thomastik Infelds on there now), and sometimes I string it up octave Nashville style for special parts, (also Thomastiks for that, which makes amazing unwound thin strings). In my whole life of guitar ownership this is the only electric guitar I ever bought brand new, $600 with case, at the American Dream shop in San Diego (was that University Ave?) in 1980 at age 21. I never saw this model again after that year. I remember they had a brown one at Albert’s Music City in La Mesa when Curt Waltrip was managing, that was the only other one I ever saw.

These previous two guitars were the only electrics that came up with me to the Bay Area in January 1983. The other 15 have been acquired slowly (sometimes with excruciating patience) in the 27+ years I have been here.

As soon as I arrived to the Bay Area I scored a job at Alta Bates Medical Center in Berkeley as a blood Courier, and immediately began saving for my 30/60 watt Jim Kelley Amplifier, (pictured at top) one of the first ever boutique brands that came out in 1980. I discovered these from San Diegan Tony Shannon, guitarist in Westwind at the time. He let me play through his amp at his house after he totally turned my head while warming up during rehearsal one time, and I was an absolute Kelley fan and disciple from that day on. They were $1000 new without speaker, you added your own, and they came with a special separate power attenuator, which I regret I do not have. I bought mine used with factory reverb, original cover and JBL (which I soon replaced with an 85 watt Celestion, Aspen Pittman’s test speaker I later learned) for $650 in May 1983 from Christy Coobatis in Orange County. He was an amp fanatic, explained he was a friend of Jim Kelley’s and asserted it was the 3^rd one made, despite the #199 serial number. I still have this amp and use it all the time, including all the parts on my recent “The Bhonging Angel” recording.

In 1986 I bought a 1964 Epiphone Olympic Double (Batwing headstock) solidbody from Fatdog at Subway Guitars in Berkeley for $200. Figuratively it weighs about 2 pounds and is such a great rocker guitar. The original single coils were very brittle-sounding yet interesting if you worked with them, but I finally replaced those with more sensible Brent Mason model Duncans which are half Alnico II and half Alnico V. I had the stop-style bridge replaced with a Schaller Baby Grand model by Berkeley denizen “The Bitter Curmudgeon” Steve White, and had the frets carefully planed by a retired acoustic guru in Marin County named Chris Berkov. This indispensable guitar is also on The Bhonging Angel, the lower octave parts. This is the sort of instrument I will miss in heaven, because its specialness could only exist on this Earth. Very deep.

Maybe my greatest treasure after the Black Strat is my 1969 ES-335-12, (pictured at top, below JK amp) a tobacco sunburst electric 12-string I bought from this couple in Oakland in the mid-80’s who had just bought an old fixer-upper bungalow style house. I answered the ad posted for $500, and by the time we closed the deal the guy had come down to $300 just because he was so excited about their house and, I sensed, could feel me reduced to a palpable humbleness as I gently strummed in their Living room. The hair on my arm stood up in the afternoon sun when he lowered the price without prompting, and as a poor college music student at the time I had to conceal my tears of gratitude as I left. I have written many of my best songs on this angelic guitar. Completely original except the tuners, and the ridiculous Bigsby whammy bar that someone before me had long removed.

In August 1997 I ordered a TopHat Club Royale amplifier, an 18W circuit based on the Vox AC30 Topboost, to go with my 335-12. I was introduced to the owner/designer Brian Gerhard and his wife Joan at NAMM in Jan 1997 by my friend and guitar mentor Jack, and it was there I flipped over his Club Deluxe (his 6V6 model), but this EL84 based version wasn’t scheduled to be in production for a few more months. Mine ended up being serial #41, and I had it carefully voiced for my Gibson 12 by visiting the shop and critically replacing components all day until I was satisfied. I now use either NOS Amperex EL84’s or Telefunkens, and for the 12AX7 preamp position I go between a Bugle Boy Amperex or an old black plate RCA. It’s a “Chime Bomb”.

Let me fast forward to my acoustics, which are lately my current passions since I began singing in earnest only two summers ago.

In March 2003, I traded my late 60’s Gibson F25 folk acoustic for a very worn 1970 Martin D-18 dreadnaught. It was a perfect move for me; I have always been a fan of dreadnaughts from a distance, (I remember Nathan West had one, and other friends, not to mention most of my heroes), but up to 2003 I had always had an agenda of discovering my own model. I love it when my heroes arrive with their own choice of guitar, and up to then I wanted to stay true to my quest for my own thing. Also, back in the day I sort of thought dreadnaughts were cliché in the 70’s, but with age I gave in and accepted that Martins are my total favorite.

This D-18 is very warm and soulful, not pale sounding like the later 70’s models. I used it on 8 of the 10 tracks I am currently recording, and I’ve written a lot of music on it. (Once something good comes out creatively I usually won’t part with a guitar, ever).

1957 Martin O-18, found by my friend, visual artist and music supporter Dan Fontes in a dumpster next to his houseboat when an old neighbor died. (He found an actual working Harpsichord the same day!) The Martin had water damage, rusted tuners and a hole in it, which Luthier Chris Berkov dubbed “The Harpoon Hole” after he heard the houseboat story. I sold tons of gear on Craig’s List to finance the restoration, which was the most work I ever had done on a guitar. It’s a gem, I play it all the damn time, and it’s going on at least two of my songs.

1978 Guild F212 XL N.T. acoustic 12-string. I bought this guitar from a co-worker at the Hospital I still work at (Alta Bates). She was a folk singer turned Respiratory Therapist and loaned me this guitar to clean it up for her and have it appraised since she wasn’t playing music anymore. After I played it I knew I would have to leave my family high-and-dry and head for Mexico if I didn’t figure out a way to buy this fine instrument, so she generously agreed to a reasonable price and let me pay her in small increments at my own pace. It’s the nicest acoustic 12 I ever played, and it’s going all over my new recording.

1963 Gibson Melody Maker, tobacco sunburst, double cutaway, with very non-stock middle position P90, bridge humbucking pickup and old non-stock Grovers, all done by the previous owner. Found in a garage sale for $20 by my old British friend Chris Hollis, just horribly dirty and unloved (the guitar, not Chris!). I had tons of work done to it, including new frets by Chris Berkov, and a killer bridge, pickup/wiring work and setup by Steve White. It’s got a lot in common with 50’s Les Paul Juniors, and is one of my absolute favorites…an “I wish I had this in High School” guitar.

60’s Vox Solidbody electric sitar, crazy lavender color makeover and custom Sitar bridge installed by Ron Sargent, a Bay Area underground visionary and alumnus of Subway Guitars. Another 2 pound guitar. I played and bought it “blindfolded” at the regrettably now-closed Univibe used guitar shop in Berkeley, having been on a quest for an electric sitar sound since the beginning of musical time (for me: mid-60’s). I have played many others, but this is the perfect one; I just love the sound.

Late 80’s Robin Ranger guitar, slab-Precision Bass body style, surfy Seafoam green, with Tele bridge pickup and Strat middle pickup, no neck pickup. (Weird connection there to the Melody Maker). Got Fralins in there now, really a great setup. My old buddy Jack turned me onto these in the late 80’s and I wasn’t able to find one until eBay came out in the 90’s. Impossible to find otherwise, it has been my only guitar purchase on eBay. I really owe the Internet for this one. Sounds great with heavy GHS Rene Martinez Big Core strings.

Baxter 8-String Bass, black Hamer style, with PJ pickups. I have this strung up piccolo-style with all octave strings now, so it’s not a Bass anymore. The 30 inch scale gives it bell-like guitar tones you would never get otherwise, and I have a special song picked out for it on my current recording.

D&L electric Mandolin, (Alembic style, made by former employees of Alembic). The Grateful Dead have an identical one I am told. Came with anvil case, made in the early 80’s. I bought this privately in Berkeley from an authentic Hare Krishna that played surf music, (I’m not kidding).

Rus-Ler Pedal Steel, 10-string with 3 pedals and 3 knee levers. Weighs a ton in the case, 60 lbs! I fell in love with 10-string Steels after hearing King Sunny Ade’s Juju Music album and seeing them live in the 80’s. I still haven’t settled on a tuning, many times I make up my own. I go to it for inspiration and the strangeness of it all. I used it to play a long solo on Carmen Borgia’s song “Buzzkill”, on his North album.

1992 Red Les Paul Standard, with custom ordered appointments: Ebony neck and Gold Hardware. I always missed my late 70’s Blonde Standard from my La Mesa days, so I was thrilled to get this one through a friend who spotted it in a Pawn Shop in Georgia. I closed the deal over the phone and had it delivered un-played, with a 24 hour return agreement. It was a great move, I love this guitar more than the old Blonde one. Original everything, including case. (Nicknamed “Savannah Red” from the Georgia connection).

My Basses are as follows:

Warmoth Precision (PJ) style with familiar Precision and Jazz pickups. Put together by Subway in 1987, (delivered in Jan 1988), it consists of a Black Walnut body and solid Rosewood neck, EMG active pickups, and Schaller hardware. You tune it up and play an outdoor gig in Alaska and then fly to Hawaii for a houseboat gig and it stays in tune, including case time. It’s never let me down; I just love the sound and always will. The problem is that I rarely play any other Bass because this one always wins.

Warmoth, fretless Jazz, same woods as above, Walnut and Rosewood. I had this one made in late 1990 with the passionate agenda of wanting to get into fretless and wondering how a Jazz version of my PJ would sound. EMG active Jazz pickups with active tone knobs (on this one only) and Hipshot drop Tuner on the Low E string, for B string effects when desired. A monster sound, but never made it on a final recording. I was always a rabid Jaco fan, but I don’t know if that’s me. Still discovering…

Last but not least: a 60’s Framus solidbody short scale Bass. Single neck pickup, but factory routed under the original pickguard for a bridge pickup as well. Propeller wood laminated neck. I saw this in the back of a used shop (Thin Man in Alameda) in the mid 80’s and kept an eye on it for years. Then they stuck it on the Clearance rack, any guitar for $75, OR MAKE OFFER. How do you make an offer on a $75 guitar? That’s just wrong. Even so, in a goofy moment I teased my good friend and then head Sales guy Mike Mendoza about taking $30 and he surprised me by enthusiastically accepting. I had just bought the expensive fretless there, so I said “awesome, I just love this old Bass”. I had it set up several times to get it right, and put GHS flatwounds on it. It gets a great vintage sound; I used it with a Joe Meek Preamp on Carmen Borgia’s R&B flavored ballad “Jesus Was A Baby”, a great secular Xmas song with animation on You Tube.

I have several more amps of note:

Trace Velocette: with one Celestion 10” speaker and two EL 84 power tubes. It’s light and loud and gets a perfect tone. I fell in love with these in 1996 (the year they came out) the very second I plugged in. In June 1998 Steve Gibson and I visited the Trace Elliott booth at a trade show in London (Trace is English made) and had a chance to bond with the originators. Then Trace sold the line to Gibson and re-branded as GoldTone. I wish this was the sort of amp they had around in stores back when I was in High School, it’s my trip all the way.

Masco 50’s MA-17 tube amp. I got this for $80 at Subway in 1986 (you can see how much fun I’ve had hanging there), and they told me it was an old Slide Projector amp. It had coke-bottle 6L6’s and a 6SL7 preamp tube. The thing just gently singes off your body hair with its creamy butter toast sound. I have since learned that electric blues harp players love these for harmonica. This amp caused me to seek out very old film projectors with tube PA’s and convert them to guitar amps. It was a fun direction, but I never topped the blazing sound of righteous glory this Masco gets for me.

Magnatone Varsity amp, gray Bowling Ball finish, 6 inch speaker, meant for Lap Steel. Gets a very sweet clean sound; sounds great with Fender-style pickups. Another find by my loyal Antiques dealing buddy Chris Hollis at a garage sale one early morning. He’s a non-musician, so it’s a perfect friendship: he cell phones me all the time with on-the-spot discoveries when he’s out in the field.

Moviola amp, “The Squawk Box”, from my best friend Carmen Borgia. This was the dubbing amp used to match film with sound on the editing benches in Hollywood and NY in the 50’s. It’s lunch pail sized, with a 4 inch speaker and a blow-torch sound when you plug in a guitar and turn it past 3. Carmen discovered a closet full of these in a storeroom at the NY Film Production house he works at. They gladly gave them to him, absolutely useless to film people in today’s age of ProTools and digital editing. Carmen started a whole trip with these amps; he handed them out to friends and we all have one handy now in our music rooms. Steve Gibson also received one and he gave me the tip of having ours “gone-through” by Chris Emery of SuperBaby Amps. Chris says the design is very similar to his own MicroBaby model.

That’s the guitar side of my collection. Later I plan to put together a list of my other musical side: horns and side pleasures. Thank you for letting me share this list with you.

An addendum to Collectors who are primarily creative musicians:

As can be expected, I have strong personal philosophies about collecting guitars and instruments in general. Some of these do not align with other typical collectors. Some of the basic tenets are as follows:

1) Never taint the acquisition of an instrument with a compromise such as spending the rent money, rudely grinding down the seller on the price, or otherwise taking advantage of the opportunity in some aggressive way. Later when the actual playing starts, you don’t want these unwelcome memories clouding the process of making music. An instrument with a positive memory at the time acquired will not necessarily bring musical magic or some religious reward, but it will begin the process of creative enjoyment.

2) Decide on a number of guitars that you can handle and stick to it. Don’t allow guitars to pile up un-played, like an old lady with too many cats. This happens all the time, and especially for musicians this will lead to an unspoken gnawing guilt and cause the desirous need to purge. Like the afflicted bulimic, this is wasted energy.

3) The highest validation of a guitar is the inspiration for song-writing, followed by recording a given tone, and then stage value. Unrecorded or un-filmed gigs are remembered and enjoyed at the time, but recordings are forever, hence that priority. If you don’t song-write or record, then it becomes all about playing gigs, and that’s fine too. But if you’re a songwriter that collects and you don’t write a keeper song on one of your guitars in 10 years time, it might be a sign that it’s time to let it go.

4) Avoid bringing home a cheap thrill, a one night stand, or a deal for the sake of it. The exception is if you find selling guitars easy and fun, then you can rationalize goofing around, but generally you will be clogging up your crib with yesterday’s excitement. If you feel your destiny is to own a fairly large collection, then screw impulses. Take your time to make forward-looking decisions and it will pay off.

5) Everyone has a threshold for how much they spend on a guitar that will cause them to feel it is more about the price they paid than about the musical value of the instrument. Worrying about whether your guitar made or lost money or whether you got in too deep will only take you away from your music. We are all corruptible at some point, so avoid over-spending, however you define that amount.

6) If you feel you have been the recipient of great deals and lucky breaks, then pay it forward in various ways and whenever possible. The cure for the potential hazard of becoming a hoarder is: 1) Use your stuff. 2) Share your stuff. 3) Sell your no-longer-needed stuff for a good price, preferably an amount lower than expected, (hopefully to a deserving party). It’s a win-win: share the wealth and keep the instruments moving by keeping the price on the relatively low side.

7) Avoid making an actual business out of your own collection. Consider any monetary appreciation of your gear to be a correction of losses and (except defensively) try to keep to a minimum engaging in speculation strictly for money’s sake, or eventually there will be a creative price psychologically. If you want to deal in guitars, then you can try keeping your own collection antiseptically separate, but I admit I’ve never seen it done without sacrificing the other side. It is only my opinion that objectifying your vintage or valuable instrument as a dollar sign is eventually in conflict with the process of making music, so I recommend avoiding the profit motive due to the potential distraction. When it comes to instruments, at the end of the day a musician knows and feels that money will never be more fun than the music itself.

Friends Who Changed Me, (#1 in an Ongoing Series): "Ken"

2009-10-21T19:49:00.000-07:00

I was born in Massachusetts in 1959, and before I turned one my father was offered a CBS fellowship in Communications at Columbia University, so he and my Mom moved to New York City with their infant child just as the 60’s were beginning. Within a year my Dad was tapped to head up the new PBS/NPR radio station WRVR, which was located at Riverside Church on Riverside Drive. Soon my sister Jenna was born, and we lived our early childhood in Manhattan.

During this first decade of my youth, my father held many staff parties at our NY apartment and country house in Connecticut, and I regularly visited the radio station as a boy just one block from where we lived.

The people I met on my Dad’s staff were always unique personalities and frequently had creative talents, interesting viewpoints, and engaging stories to tell.

When we moved to San Diego in 1970, my Dad used to tell this joke which he credited to Neil Simon:

When it’s 102 degrees in New York, it’s 78 in LA.

When it’s 2 degrees below zero in New York, it’s 78 in LA.

There are 6 million interesting people in New York, and 78 in LA.

This joke seemed to speak to both the relief we felt when we escaped the stress and pressures of inner-city life in the 60’s, and the culture shock we felt as we settled into a totally new world.

As I look back on my process of finishing growing up in California, I see how my attraction to interesting and creative people was ingrained from my earliest youth.

And I met many…

During my Freshman year in High School I qualified for Honors English, which I realize now was my weakest subject at the time. Thank goodness I got in that class though, because I immediately realized that the students would be the best part. There seemed to be one of every type in there, a Christian, a stoner, one bespectacled nerdy type, the studious Architect, kids so gifted and funny that they wrote long story scripts just to satisfy their creative urges. Everyone in that class (over a 3-4 year period) was so distinct and non-average in their way, even the social types had something going.

We had a fairly large High School, so I might not see these students in my other classes, but one exception was Ken who was also in my PE class. Our PE was in the morning, and we would “dress out” and then wait for 20 minutes until the distracted PE teacher would show up and put us through whatever sport we were supposed to learn.

During this time I would find Ken sitting in the bleachers talking casually about music or a movie, and there was always something intriguing about his comments. I almost immediately became Ken’s friend, and it was a big relief having someone smart to talk to during any class.

I was already a musician then, and I remember disrespecting Alice Cooper and David Bowie when they first came out (people my age might remember they were almost coordinated together in the media that first year). I was a Beatle and Neil Young fan in 1973, and I considered these new guys an empty novelty, capitalizing on androgyny as a gimmick. Even Cheech and Chong did a parody of them during a late-night TV skit, and I didn’t pay any attention to the music.

Then Ken showed up at my house with an armload of Bowie records; this was late 1973 or 1974, when Bowie was already finishing his Ziggy period as the rest of the world caught up, including radio. Ken generously left those records at my house for months, and I went wild as I listened to them. The kicker came when my guitar teacher Jack came over to give me my lesson and flipped out with me as we played each album. Pretty soon Jack had the cassettes playing in his car, and I felt I was on the inside of something amazing.

I might have thought that Ken would continue to lead me to the next big thing in Pop, but instead he moved on to large Wagner opera box sets and Van Der Graaf Generator albums, which led to more and different discoveries. Then came the Fellini and Bunuel movies and other foreign art films, which he would take me to at the smaller art cinemas. I discovered the composer Nino Rota from this, and that music became one of my escape hatches from the dead-end I was feeling from corporate rock in my later teens. Then in 1977 Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, The Ramones, and The Sex Pistols saved us with a new and exciting direction, and we were off and running. Most of my musician friends were not quick to pick up on the new music; they were still wondering how to compete with Boston and Kansas records, and this only hardened my rebellion.

Knowing Ken led to a social nucleus that included Wiley and my sister Jenna, and several other friends who changed me forever. (Matt and David).

Ken had an instant recognition of genuinely creative things, (and he was deeply funny when suffering the aesthetically mundane). New music would normally take me weeks to digest and sort through, but Ken would immediately understand when the rules had changed. For years having him for a friend was a constant flashlight as I discovered my next source of interest…

In our late teens Ken started to slowly turn his attention from films to 20^th century art, and this opened up a new source of both exciting creative influences and some controversy. Challenging the audience was a common ground with the new music I was participating in, and the art world often had the same goal. Clearing the room sometimes became a source of pride…

There were times when Ken would transmit his personality on simple occasions like giving Xmas gifts or DJ’ing an informal party that gave a special feeling I can’t quite describe, but that I never saw anyone else ever do again. It was like receiving a private message…

Another example of his indescribable impact was one time when he held a piece of paper up to the color TV as we watched a show in the middle of the afternoon after school. He would cover only a certain part of the screen, then change it. We saw things we never expected; I remember Jenna and I were floored, the effect was devastating. He often did a similar thing with the radio, choosing the stations seemingly at random and playing with the volume in unexpected ways.

One time as I was getting off work late at night from my job as a dinner house waiter, I exited through the back door with another artist friend, and we heard a sound coming from my car. Ken had set up a windup record player and rigged some kind of broken recording with several visual props chosen for the moment and set them in and around my car, with the door wide open. He and Wiley laid in wait and flashed his car headlights on us at the precise moment, like a film noir movie.

Art didn’t just imitate life, it became it, and there were powerful moments I will never forget, such as the time one of our closest friends over-ingested several drugs and caused a scandal as he acted out loudly with a frightening expressiveness. He roamed through the backyards and the foothills where we lived ranting wildly and uncontrollably until we finally had to call his family to come get him. The quality and content of his rant was so compelling that it caused different reactions among us, including the mixed feelings of acute admiration and total fear.

This same close friend would do things like not wear clothing as he went to gas his car at the big box store (Fed-Mart), playing it straight as he paid the attendant, and not for candid camera type laughs either. The years of popular streaking were long over and forgotten by then, and our friend’s well-deserved credentials as an art guerrilla were apparent only to the fewest insiders.

After College almost every one of my friends moved from San Diego to another city. Ken moved to New York, a city we had discussed many times, and continues to live there today. I have no doubt that the people who know Ken now appreciate he’s there, and my guess is they are discovering their own insights from his unique ability to see art and the world itself in the flow of its time and context.

If I hadn’t begun my life in New York I’m sure I would have still gravitated to Ken, but I feel having an opening introduction to one of the greatest creative centers of the world instilled in me an attraction to one of the world's best and brightest minds.

Looking at Trees

2009-10-07T18:27:00.000-07:00

Ever since my Dad died in ’07 I’ve had a completely different outlook on life. It comes when I glance up at the trees in my backyard, which has always been fairly often, but feels different now.

I just had the 50-year physical checkup done, and most but not all results are in. It’s feeling good so far, but one never looks a healthy horse straight in the mouth, because one never knows. My Colonoscopist takes pride that he finds at least one polyp in 42% of his patients, and last week he was able to add me to his “find” list. There was a single one, (that’s the point of checking, right?), and we will see what the results show before the final Harvest Ale is opened in celebration. (BTW, this year’s Sierra Nevada batch is as good as ever, I’ve already cracked one following my Glaucoma check, which was “negative”. Another reason to be thankful).

So what happens if that little polyp is the evil gremlin, destined to give me grief in the form of active cancer, and forcing me to fight an open battle for my privilege to live this complete lifetime? My childhood friend Scott discovered he had melanoma when he was 36 years old, and lived 10 more years, an amazing record given his prognosis. He had just had his 2nd baby boy when he first learned of his illness, and this son was able to know his Dad until he was 10, giving him the gift of memories he will have and keep for his own lifetime.

Scott fought like hell, putting up with all sorts of humiliations to prolong his life. Painful biopsies and surgeries, scheduled flu-like symptoms at a time of career changes, pre-existing condition denials from his new employer’s HMO, bankruptcy, the whole list. He kicked ass to keep it together, weathering every knock that was required to keep his family moving in a healthy direction together.

Despite the universal fears of dying, on some level I already feel resigned to leave this life at a time that feels right. Emphasis on “feels right”. I know the perception of unfinished business would be a real issue, as I expect it would be for most people. If you have kids and they are not grown, for example, there will always be a feeling of loss if you anticipate being separated prematurely. It’s biological.

I made this excellent corned beef dinner a few weeks ago, and from the first bite it was a great tasting piece of meat. I saw that there were many fatty parts, so I gave my wife and daughters the best pieces and settled for the chewy ones. At other meals I might have split it up equally, but this time it felt right in a way that I think a parent understands. If a mother or father was cold themselves and their kid needed a jacket, they would take it off and give it to their kid, it’s just built-in. You might have some bickering about bringing your jacket next time, but in the moment you would do what was necessary.

So I see what Scott did as coming from a very deep place.

In addition to these universal motivations, I have an agenda of leaving some music behind, something listenable more than once. That’s my minimum standard: you’ve heard it once and wouldn’t mind hearing it a second time. In a world of nearly infinite access to the greatest music of the world, it’s asking a lot.

I don’t know Steve Earle’s music that well, but I heard him say after he finished his first album, “I can die now”. I know just what he means. My first album isn’t done, so I don’t feel ready to die yet, but speaking of that if you would like to hear the first song, click on:

http://www.imeem.com/people/tfx-Ytc/music/-wmar6LN/ed-ford-summerfield-the-bhonging-angel-final-mix-8/

That’s me playing my best on all instruments as well as I can (save for the drums, which were very nicely played by John Hall). It was fun to practice that hard, I went further into myself than I have in the past.

There’s a funny story about the bass player for Fleetwood Mac, John McVie working on his bass part for a song on the first attempt of the Rumors album (they did it twice). After months of work the band knew it was time to call it a day when they found John in the studio staring at an East Indian deity’s picture while he played his bass line over and over, trying to nail his part. For John it didn’t work, but if that gets you the musical take you want I'm with you all the way.

Lately I’ve been singing and practicing myself into a near-rapturous state every night, almost exalted. Other musicians are born with most of their talent from the start. I was not short-changed with my basic gifts, but I now find it necessary and feel quite willing to fight for every note to get even a little better. Fight as hard as Scott did.

So after the kids are grown and some music has been expressed I think I will look up at the trees and feel differently than I do now. I’m not there yet, but my eye is on the ball every day.

And meanwhile, thank you for today.

Some things change, and some things never change.

2009-08-25T20:46:00.000-07:00

I’m still reeling from the fun I had at my sister Jenna’s Class of ‘79 30-year High School Reunion in San Diego last week. I myself was class of ‘77, and I’ve never been to my own reunions; don’t expect to. My friends know who they are, although Facebook has rediscovered some fun people for me. But Jenna’s class was full of amazing personalities, and it was intensely enjoyable joining in the fun.

Since this was my first ever reunion, I have to say I was blown away by some of the changes. Of course, there were people who aged a lot, put on a lot of weight and hair changes. And then there was the couple who went for serious weight-training and looked like the cover of a Fitness magazine, bursting out of their clothes, veins rippling everywhere. I couldn’t help but think of a circus atmosphere from the contrasts.

The band kicked ass; they were so inhumanly good I didn’t go over and do my musician bonding thing, I just watched them knocking out home run after home run and wondered how you get that talented. Someone said they were the backup band for American Idol. I haven’t confirmed that, but these people made the David Letterman band seem low-key and tepid, so I can believe it. They did Earth, Wind and Fire, a long inspired Purple Haze, and Violent Femmes perfectly. Singing well is an amazing thing, I dream of being in that category someday.

My sister and her girlfriends have all aged amazingly well. Frankly they seem more beautiful with each decade. But the fun factor was the best part. Most of them left their husbands at home and did some seriously fun dancing and partying.

One quite unexpected part of the night came when I was approached by a nice guy I knew casually through my other friends. He was the younger brother of a girl my own age that I fell in love with during the first month of 9th grade, and held a burning torch for the whole 4 years. I asked her out many times, but something always got in the way. I eventually accepted that the chemistry wasn’t right for her. But here comes her brother at this party to tell me his sister had a thing for me all along and was sorry we couldn’t be together. I kept wondering if he had had too much to drink, ‘cause this didn’t add up. But it was awfully nice to hear that a family member of this girl thought that was possible. In my eyes, this girl made Lady Di seem vaguely unremarkable. After I woke up the next day I thought, well, if this is true then cool, but hey, I didn’t keep my feelings secret; with great planning I asked her out 9 times in 11th grade alone. I wasn’t loud or forward, but shyness was never an issue…

During the after-party my good friend Wiley stripped down to his thong-speedo and swam in the San Diego bay water outside our room. He came in dripping wet to the adulation of our co-Revelers, and we continued in that spirit until 5am.

The real party mistress behind the curtain was Lynn, who made phone calls no one else would ever succeed at and made this thing happen. Lynn is a vibrant personality with a distinctly irreverent sense of humor that comes like a surprise left hook, into contrast to her genuinely classy vibe. We dated in High School and College and sometimes felt like conspirators together, in the best way. She had that effect on her friends. Back in the day she spontaneously started all the best skinny-dipping parties, and we owe her big-time for past memories. A guy could never do half of what Lynn was capable of…

Another nice moment of the night came when Wiley gave me his porkpie hat after I tried it on and liked it. I asked Lynn, who is a great photographer, to take a picture (at about 2:30am). The cool thing about this pic is how it includes the three of us.

If you go to a party this good every 10 years, you’re on a roll if you ask me. Thanks to invitations from my sister Jenna, I’ve been averaging very well.

The Perception of Destiny

2009-06-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago my family sat down and watched a movie together: Slumdog Millionaire. There are some intense scenes not suitable for my 10-year-old, but we were great about pausing and having Madison willingly snuggle her eyes into Daddy’s shoulder or run for snacks during the rough parts. But outside of that, the movie was a very good choice for us as a family as it touches on themes of family members, loyalty, betrayal, as well as luck, intelligence and destiny.

The next day as I drifted into my Monday morning at work in Berkeley, I thought about the feeling of destiny and the times I felt that perceived guiding hand was at work in my life. An example occurred in the early 70’s when I was 14, (as my older daughter Haley is now), attending 9^th grade in San Diego.

I signed up for last chair alto sax in the High School Marching Band, and with that came fund-raising and occasional trips. Our first campaign was selling concert tickets door-to-door in suburban neighborhoods, and one Saturday the whole band was bused around through different districts, unloaded with maps and directions and given 2 hours to sell as many tickets as possible. Final tallies would be noted for each student, and those that qualified would go on a trip to the San Francisco Bay Area.

My lucky break came from an older band musician who had ridden by on his bike and was in the mood to show what he knew about this particular fund-raising game. He stood behind me as I made my pitch, and through his coaching and the magic of the moment I started selling ticket after ticket. By the time I got back to the bus, I realized I had exceeded some of the experienced older students, and won the admiring attention of a few cute girl clarinetists, (far better than money).

When the trip to SF came, we piled into several charter buses and made the 10 hour bus drive from SD to the Bay Area. (As an ex-New Yorker I thought: “Aren’t there other Bays in the world? How did they get that generic term to mean one thing to Californians?”).

The next unexpected epiphany came when I was seated next to what was clearly the biggest nerd in most of the band (he had competition). His name was Billy Ivey and he played Ortophone, the eunich marching version of the French Horn, and although perhaps effective in the right hands, an instrument sonically useless on the field and basically something shiny to hold. Billy had gleefully brought maps to plot the road trip, showing me with pleasure as he spittled colored zots candy between his braces. I sank into my chair and gazed out the window at the dreary CA freeway steeling myself for boredom when my totally unexplained deliverance came. A Junior girl named Vicki Shillacci, also a Clarinetist (was there something up with Sax players and Clarinetists?) was sitting in the Back Of The Bus Gang, the exclusive group of older musicians that had claimed the back seats that could turn backward, pop out a table and then create a moving nightclub of coolness. They had music and cards going with the banter of older guys and girls, and somehow there was one seat open.

Without making any flirtation with me, but with remarkably generous empathy, Vicki came to the front of the bus and said “you look miserable, why don’t you come back and sit with us?”. What ensued was one of the most memorable weekends of my life, driving through the hippy holy land of San Francisco, North Beach, The Haight-Ashbury, and Golden Gate Park.

That weekend, as the climactic purpose of the trip, we marched our carefully rehearsed routine during Football half-time in the Oakland Coliseum. I remember smelling something forbidden in the air, and as I looked around I wondered if I would ever be back. There was a moment when an older African-American teenager who was selling drinks in the stands passed me in the upper halls after we played. He gave me an “all right, that’s cool” kind of smile, and I couldn’t believe he gave that to me, a younger white punk in a goofy marching uniform. I didn’t know until years later that (speaking for myself) compared to 1960’s New York City or the mostly white areas of San Diego I was from, Oakland could be a very cool town inter-racially, and that was a big plus for me.

On the last leg of the night-time bus ride home I sat with a girl my age, and under low romantic lights I made a pass at a kiss with her, (I hardly knew this girl, what was I doing?), and instead of getting upset with me, she gently rebuffed me and then lay her head on my shoulder and we fell asleep. There must have been some kind of angel giving me free passes that weekend, even my mistakes were forgiven.

Ten years later I had an old High School friend ask me to drive her family car from SD to her Berkeley Apt, and that trip became the weekend I decided to accept my best friend and roommate Carmen Borgia's suggestion to move to the Bay Area. I soon scored a job at Alta Bates Medical Center the very next week and never looked back; that is, until one day when I drove my medical courier car past the doughnut-shaped hotel near the Oakland Airport where the entire Marching Band had stayed that fateful weekend. I couldn’t believe it was still there, and at that moment, and yet all along, I felt some quiet reassurance there had been some destiny at work.

The perception of destiny is only one of the possible influences of a person's lifetime, but if the direction feels right (the way it did for me and the Slumdog Millionaire) I hope my own girls feel some guiding hand over whatever paths their lives take them...

Nowhere else in this Universe could this happen quite this way.

2009-06-06T23:02:00.000-07:00

I took this picture during my family reunion trip to New Mexico in April 2008. It is looking down an alley in the Old Town section of Albuquerque near the Bed and Breakfast where my cousin Linda Hall generously hosted my daughters and I.

I treasure this shot for one simple reason: I don't believe this convergence of objects could come together unselfconsciously anywhere else in the world.

There is a green plastic watering can upended on the left, an example of 70's cabinetry that could only exist in NM, two plain Tiffany-style lamp shades and a wheel barrow, all framed by an old adobe-brick border wall with a built-in cross. And don't leave out the dusty ground. This dust accounts for the whole state basically eschewing carpet and going for tile floors anywhere there is a doorway to the outside.

I'll be honest and admit that I thought I hated Albuquerque until this trip. It just takes a tour around any town with people that know to turn you on to a place. This picture is my photo ID that proves I was there, like an FBI fingerprint.

My friend Tom Rettig is helping me record a song

2009-05-29T22:43:00.000-07:00

My old friend Tom Rettig has offered to help me record one of my songs, and after we complete this recording he and I expect to have a slow-moving but ongoing relationship for the long term.

Tom and I played together in the avant-funk ensemble Some Philharmonic in the early 80’s, and we had a lot of fun playing bandleader Brian Woodbury's crafty and original music in a large ensemble. During that time Tom suggested I write a Surf-flavored instrumental for a short film by Barnaby Levy, (“This Town Will Tear You Apart”), and as I had been a long-time fan of Surf music I was very excited to give it a try.

I wrote the melody for what became “The Bhonging Angel” on my roommate Katie Hicks’ baby grand piano in the living room of our North Oakland/Berkeley Apt, and it became maybe my best instrumental at the time.

We did the original recording on 12-track at Mills College in 1984, in what was a charming but rickety studio barely holding together at the seams. My fellow band mates Carmen Borgia, Mike Brown and Linel “Dede” Williams (from my own band The Secret Sons of The Pope) joined me for inspired performances, and the demo we made became my favorite accomplishment for years.

Barnaby Levy used that recording for his film, and Tom did a good job squeezing sonic quality out of very limited resources. He was great with a splicing knife and did some nice edits I wasn’t used to, and he really finessed the mix details on a primitive board.

But despite this, Tom and I always wished we had done the recording under better circumstances, and when we found each other on the Internet last year the subject came up again.

I learned that Tom had done some time in the 90’s as a Producer at Fantasy Studios in Berkeley. Economic considerations since forced him to pursue his talents in the computer software industry, and because of this he looks for opportunities to do creative projects when he has the time.

Tom enjoys paying close attention to vintage microphones, a passion I understand very well but do not have the resources to pursue. Another recording issue is access to nice recording rooms. I have a wonderful music studio built into the detached garage of my house, but this pales compared to the special rooms they have at Fantasy Studios, where many famous recordings were created. Tom keeps an office in the Fantasy building and maintains his relationships with the staff, so he is ready to record in this professional setting when the occasion arises.

Last year I hired Drummer John Hall to play the drum parts on the new recording, referred through my musician friend Steve Gibson who has great taste and knows tons of players. John wrote charts for the song before I even met him to play, and on recording day he delivered three perfect takes allowing us to choose our favorite.

The title “Bhonging Angel” comes from the affectionate nickname of my perpetually stoned next door neighbor in High School, given to him by his love-struck but exasperated girlfriend. I would describe him at the time as a bright version of the Spicoli character in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. (My own High School was Grossmont High, not far from the actual Clairemont High that the movie was based on. Cameron Crowe’s other great HS flick “Say Anything” was not just similar but could be called my actual experience at Grossmont).

Because Tom and I are thankfully employed and dedicated to our family lives, we have had less than one day a month to get together since we began this project last summer, but because I am playing all the instruments myself (except the drums) I have been enjoying the pace as I prepare each part. The instruments include Baritone and Tenor Saxes, electric guitars, keyboards, and electric bass. I was initially embarrassed to show up with so many instruments, but then I felt better when the Fantasy Engineers told me that Counting Crows had just finished their recent recording aided by a large semi-truck filled with 67 guitars. Any band with 67 creatively relevant guitars has my full support! For this song I used five total and needed every one.

One reason I am comfortable with my slow pace with Tom is that I am always able to go out to my own studio and make very nice demos any night I am free, so it's not like anyone is holding me back if I need to express myself. I took up singing last summer, and I have had so much fun applying myself I feel every month is my next opportunity to get a little better. Singing puts everything else into perspective, and since The Bhonging Angel is an instrumental I will be looking forward to getting into a vocal on the next recording I do with Tom.

Another resource I will always have is my best friend Carmen Borgia, who is always available as long distance sounding board and engineer/psychiatrist. He set me up with a great recording rig in my studio and gives me these amazingly well-prepared lessons over the phone, among many other things.

I played a rough mix of the new recording for my family a couple of months ago, and a week later from the next room I overheard one of my daughters casually humming the song out loud to herself. What a sweet thing that was, she was humming it for pleasure. (For a musician, does it get any better than that?)

I expect we will finish this song some time this summer, and then I will be excited to share it with everyone. I have another dozen or so finished songs I can't wait to get to, and if it takes a year to record each one I will not even slightly complain, (as long as I live to hear them). The main thing is I am thankful I have my family and friends there for me as I play each day of my musical life.

One Time In Georgia

2009-05-24T16:45:00.000-07:00

Recently a friend sent me a Facebook challenge to count the number of states I have visited, and it was fun to come up with a number. (I wish it was higher, I think it was 18). From this process I decided I don't solely count airports or road trip gas stations as having been somewhere, but then the following exception came to mind:

A few years ago I was driving cross-country with my sister Jenna and we had to stop routinely for gas in a rural area of Georgia, (a state I have never visited). The road signs were wrong this time; there was no gas station as it claimed on the freeway because hard times had fallen on this area, and the only gas station was closed. We were forced to drive around the local roads in both directions for about 30 minutes causing me to see things I feel I may never see again.

There was a small ghost town of storefronts all closed but not boarded up, and an old country one-story house on the corner that Boo Radley MUST have lived in. The vines in the yard were growing wildly and aggressively around the house and into the partly opened windows, like the house itself would be devoured by nature within another year. We passed an African-American couple working the corn rows in the front yard of their home, white t-shirt rags on their heads and extremely dark glistening skin against white tank top shirts. (We have corn fields, yard gardens, and people of every type and race in California, but there is nothing like that in any part of the whole Pacific Coast, I assure you).

We found a little gas market (without the gas) and went in for a Snapple and maybe a bite. There was a large white lady with a missing tooth or two, dirty apron, flipping burgers, with a distant look in her eye like she wasn't expecting company. A couple of ne'er-do-wells were smoking cigarettes indoors and shooting the bull. I peered back into the kitchen and saw it was large, dirty, empty and scary back there. We skipped the burgers and got back on the freeway for the next gas stop, and within 30 minutes we were back in mini-market land again.

It was the implied moments of the past that made the biggest impression. I would love to see that again. People write whole novels after 3 days in a place like that...

Newspapers: a history of loving them, and watching them struggle.

2009-05-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid in 1960’s New York City we got the New York Times, and at that time it was way over my head. I thought “All The News That’s Fit to Print” meant everything they could cram on that many pages. And there were no funnies at all. So I accepted the wisdom that it was a high-brow newspaper from the capital city of the world, and I was proud of that status.

Then we moved to San Diego when I entered the 6^th grade, and we went through family culture shock that first year. The newspaper was the San Diego Union-Evening Tribune, a Copley newspaper, and to be honest, it was a conservative rag. You resorted to looking at the headlines and local columns such as a zero-spin piece on the Lost and Found Dept at the Del Mar fair, and watched the news to make up for it.

In high school I discovered the Los Angeles Times when my Dad began working there. He would bring me the “Calendar” insert magazine on the Wednesday before the Sunday paper came out, and I would pore over the music articles with rapturous gratitude. I soon realized the LA Times was my favorite paper. It kicked a-- over the SD paper, and it was way friendlier to read than the NY Times, which still seemed too advanced for easy consumption.

After college years came my move to the San Francisco Bay Area, and here we had the SF Chronicle. But on first glance, it seemed like a comic book next to the LA Times. The columns were jokey, and it seemed that was the tone in some of the hard news. So for the most part I stuck with reading the Pink Section to keep up on music.

During my first year in Berkeley I remember this friend of Laura Miller’s discovering I had never heard of Herb Caen at a party and saying, “welcome to the Bay Area” and then explaining who Herb Caen was. I realized the Chron was a real unifier if the college kids were reading it. But I generally avoided all media in my 20’s, partially because my Mom and Dad were Broadcasters and I needed to find my own way once I left home.

My submission to the newspaper came when I moved in with my future wife Adrienne in 1990. She insisted we subscribe to the SF Chron for (what was then) $150/year! Whoa, what for? Is it that good? Wouldn’t Time or Newsweek be cheaper and better? Isn’t that paper kind of lightweight? (I was still a loyal LA Times person, although I rarely saw it anymore).

Well, I agreed and it took about a month, but the bug really bit me. I read a VERY funny bit from Mick LaSalle interviewing Paul Anka that brought me to my knees. And then I began to see that the news was good, I trusted these guys, and I started taking my political cues from the editorial page which seemed to cut a balance between the extreme views I would hear in Berkeley and a more middle view. They helped me get over my fear that if I veered slightly away from the far left I wouldn’t end up in Santa’s lap and realize it was Rush Limbaugh I was talking to.

The talent at the SF Chron always remained high. Art critic Kenneth Baker is as good a critic as I’ll ever need. He’s a virtuoso writer, and yet he never gives me the cynical creeps I got from some SoCal art critics.

Then my friend Laura Miller started to appear with a few articles, and I felt that bonded connection that comes with coming of age.

After I got acclimated to reading the Chron, my brother-in-law Kevin sent us a long subscription to the Sunday New York Times, and I had my homecoming with my childhood newspaper, finally old enough to enjoy it.

When Herb Caen died in early 1997 I thought it might be the first funeral bells for the SF Chronicle, but they kept bringing in great people, and we stayed loyal. Now they are suffering financially like all newspapers (and the music industry). Recently they made a serious miscalculation and changed the font and format of the whole paper. It’s like New Coke, I don’t know what they did but it feels wrong, and lots of people think so, because we read the letters.

Adrienne and I have been going to our iPhones and the Apple Laptop for more news, not all of it, but the scales are tipping away from the morning kitchen table where the paper sits until dinner time. If newspapers go under, it will be like losing vinyl record albums. We’ll still get content, but that special feeling will be lost, and our kids will never understand what they missed, (and we’ll all feel old trying to explain it to them).

I’m not going to campaign about this too much. The way I see it, this tide is way too big for me to change a thing.

But it will be sad if we lose newspapers forever.

Race jokes on TV: I never thought I'd see the day.

2009-05-14T18:06:00.000-07:00

Some time before Obama took office I began watching prime-time TV for the first time in years. It’s been quite a while, and one of the first things we noticed was that race issues have become common fair game on most, if not all of the popular comedy TV shows. (Has this been discussed in the media? I expect I missed some magazine article about it because the change has been profound. Please click me with anything interesting you might have read).

Precisely when did this begin? Did it begin to surface with those clever Simpsons episodes, such as with the East Indian convenience store character? Were they the first to test the race waters with their pop-culture wit, slowly thawing us out in the 90’s and the early 2000’s? (South Park has been over the top for some time now, maybe it was the shock-and-awe approach?)

Examples of the current appearance of wide-open race jokes include The Office, 30 Rock, My Name Is Earl, and of course Comedy Central, but then that’s not Primetime. Maybe Comedy Central started the whole thing when I wasn’t looking.

When I’m in the mood (and you have to be) I have a taste for Sarah Silverman, who is by design the most offensive you can get and still be funny. Then again, if you are like some of my family and friends, you don’t find her funny and then the only thing left is the offended part. You have my support either way. I didn’t say Sarah Silverman was Lenny Bruce, but to me it feels good to laugh at subjects we have avoided (openly, anyway) for decades.

Before this new development occurred I would cringe and wince if someone attempted a race-related topic of any kind. In the past, particularly for whites, just bringing up the subject of race could be like painting an “I’m a Racist” target on your back.

I think Bill Clinton started to change things when he began talking about race during his two terms as president. He could speak respectfully and eloquently about minorities without pissing off the whole nation, and it was a big relief. Like letting a little pressure out of a very tight balloon, Americans began allowing more discussion and finally, humor about the subject.

I probably missed some key moment somewhere, but to get to the point it is now at 9pm Primetime it must have included key African-American leaders changing their views and opinions over time. Was it Oprah, or Jesse Jackson? Was there an announcement?

Of course, this is a collective thing, not just leaders. In the end, we’re all making this decision together or it just wouldn’t happen.

I appreciate the change. As a 50-year-old, I find it as amazing as I do funny to hear the kind of jokes they do now on The Office. A few seasons back, Rashida Jones, (the actress daughter of Quincy Jones and Peggy Lipton), arrives as a new employee and her boss Michael wants to know if her father was military. The joke is that Michael’s an idiot of course, but we get it, and it’s funny and offensive.

But the main thing is we’re laughing now. As long as my black friends think it’s funny, if the joke is good I’m laughing too, and it feels great.

The icing on the cake is our new president. Obama himself reminds us he is bi-racial. But I think we see a black man for the most part, and I think it’s because he navigated the path a black man takes. I love thinking I might have something in common with him; we both have white mothers and we’re about the same height. Obama is so cool I’ll take any comparison I can get.

Did you catch that Wanda Sykes joke at the White House Correspondents Dinner? The way she sees it, “You’re a black man until you screw up, and then it’s “who’s the half-white guy?” I don't know if she meant it this way, but I think she makes another point; it seems (particularly these days) that whites have made the biggest screw-ups in history. I hope Obama breaks that cycle using whatever source he can find in himself.

But either way, I hope we can keep laughing.

The Love Of A Bargain

2009-05-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

Last night was my 18th wedding anniversary with Adrienne, and as all anniversaries do it brought back memories...

When Adrienne and I were married in 1991 we chose Cancun for our Honeymoon, and I hadn’t been to Mexico in some years.

One of the first things anyone thinks when they visit Mexico is that you can score great deals haggling in the marketplace, and I do love a bargain, although I hate to haggle (big difference there). The true issue is whether you really want what’s being sold, and not getting caught up in something just because it’s a great price. So I planned ahead for what I wanted: a pair of shorts made of that colorful material from Guatemala, popular at the time.

When we got there, I asked about Guatemalan clothes at the hotel front desk, and with no surprise they directed me to the hotel gift shop. I knew there would be no bargain there, but I priced them anyway: $24 ea. I was just doing my homework, so we went to the mall across the street, and they had the shorts for $22. Well, not much better; I would wait for the market.

Well, what a drag that was. Like jackals in The Lion King, the locals jokingly touched Adrienne’s purse as we passed through the aisles, sneering disrespectfully mostly out of boredom. Through this jungle of intimidation I found my shorts, $18 at first, and then $15, maybe $14 ea for 2 or 3 if I felt like the awful bartering. "Screw it", I thought, "I’ll wait and pick a vendor I like".

Then we went over to Isla Mujeres, an island people talk about all the time for it's more relaxed people and atmosphere. We took a leisurely walk, and I found a lady with tons of those shorts, and she wanted $12 ea, or $11 ea for two. By that point I finally gave in to the bartering thing and told her it had to be $11 for one or no deal. She resisted at first and then relented, and I succeeded my mission in scoring a great deal.

When we got home I wore the shorts often, including to the trusty Berkeley Ashby Flea Market where I was excited to find a table full of the same shorts I had on.

“How much?” I asked with some self-satisfaction, and the reply came:

“Eleven bucks a pair.”

So, stick to the beach when you get to Cancun, (and you might try the Berkeley Ashby Flea Market if you’re in town).

Question to musicians: How does the groupie thing happen exactly?

2009-05-11T17:17:00.000-07:00

There was a time during my musically busy days in my early 20’s when I was hoping to meet girls by being in Rock bands. Everyone knows the myth that Rock musicians are supposed to attract groupies, yet this never seemed to happen easily to me or my friends.

I spoke at some length about this one time to Larry Carr of The Snails during a break at a Fraternity party at San Diego State (this was 1982, and we played Punk and British Invasion). He told me that before he was in a band he used to stand in the audience and think, “Man, when I get in a band, I can’t wait to meet some girls”. Then he explained, “Now that I’m in a band, I often think ‘Man, some night when I’m not up here playing, I’m going to go down there and meet some girls…”

This story really got me going that night. It sounded like me. “We’ve just been making excuses, we’re really suburban white guys who were raised too properly to have any fun”, I thought to myself. “I’m going to get over it and work up the guts to just meet some girls.”

And there they were: two beautiful blondes who were watching us play every song at this party. They were watching us pretty closely, and I knew this was it, I better make my move. So I put my Sax down after the set and went right over and introduced myself.

They were nervous and so was I. I had to get over it, and I felt it was my job to make them comfortable if I could. I didn’t let the silences last long, I tried to be cool but not give up. We had another gig at the beach later that evening, would they like to come? You don’t have a car? No problem, I can drive you of course. I can have you home by such-and-such a time, it’s going to be great.

They were very shy about it, but I knew I was a safe bet and wanted them to get over it. I kept at it, (my friends will remember enthusiasm was my entire personality that year), and finally they couldn’t say no. So we piled into my van, but they couldn’t relax, they were way too nervous. Too young (possibly Freshmen in College) and probably as inexperienced as I, they had never done this sort of thing before.

We dropped by my house in Hillcrest to grab my friend Jim Bradley, which rounded out the four of us, and then one of the girls, the one who would be with Jim got sick. They disappeared into the bathroom and the girl was in there flushing a lot. They came out and said they were sorry but they had to go home, she was really sick, and we knew she wasn’t faking. But Jim and I couldn’t help but blame ourselves. Jim was sure the girl had gotten ill when she saw he was her date. He went into a comedic tailspin over it, but nothing I could say would convince him otherwise.

But I also felt I must have been pushing too hard once I saw where it was going. We were super nice and really quick to help them get home properly, but no phone numbers were exchanged; the situation was over.

Carmen’s sister Mary Borgia was visiting that month and she joined Jim and I at the last second. I went wild on a very large stage playing sax like there was no tomorrow, and I remember Jim having a good time also, probably because we were both relieved the pressure was off.

Two funny things happened after this. The first really mortified me: the girl I had made such a play for had been at the Frat gig to see and be with the drummer in our band, and they were so new and she was so shy that she didn’t say a word when I chatted her up. The drummer himself told me this later and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t come right over and make this clear as it was happening. Weird.

Then the other girl, the one who got sick turned out to be the sister of my sister Laurie’s first husband. I only realized this at her wedding, and I thought “Holy s***! This ghost from my past is now my sister-in-law!” Lucky for me (and for Laurie as well, she would agree), this marriage didn’t work out; there was a quick annulment in the first 6 months. I kind of figured it was a sign that this was not in the stars somehow, for anyone.

So I soon learned not to push it when it came to girls, the experiment had been another self-defining experience, (and things went much better after that).

Letter to my Dad in heaven

2009-05-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

Today is the 2^nd anniversary of my father Jack Summerfield’s passing on 5/7/07. Late last year we received a check from the settling of the last details of his estate, and we were able to get the family iPhones for Xmas (it wouldn’t have happened otherwise, so thank you Dad).

As many of you know, there are some amazing iPhone applications, (and some really dumb ones too). One app that I jokingly thought up allows typical Email to be sent to heaven using a Celestial Protocol. Last month I sent a long Email to my Dad using this fictitious app, and I have prepared an edited version to share below.

Dad-

I've been meaning to write you since you passed away on 5/7/07, and we have lots to catch up on. I hope all is well for you on the other side and that you know we are thinking about you every day.

I assume you have heard they elected Barack Obama as President. (I know you don't get newspapers in heaven, but I have heard they have a marquee for the bigger headlines).

Everyone is both scared of the economy problems and elated we have a future legend in the White House. Since you were a Professor of Communications we think about you all the time when we see these historical things happening on TV. Lately we've been into Jon Stewart on The Daily Show, you wouldn't believe how great he is...

So what's it like on the other side? Does everyone get together any time they want, or are there realities to contend with? People here think in all-or-nothing terms about "heaven", (I'm sure you remember). I trust there are lessons to be learned and pleasures to be had we don't know the likes of, so tell me all about it some time.

Your house was a mess to clean up, what a crack-up! No wonder you wouldn't let me come over those last couple of years, I didn't know for sure what was up until we opened the door. My only regret was your not getting to see the clean-up job we did when we first thought you might come home. We made it nice for you, and we loved the thought of you being at home in your last days. It was clean, warm and full of love when we finished. I will have to learn to stay lean and practical so I don't repeat your example, although I love collecting junk also, so it will be a challenge if music is involved.

One of the great unexpected and ironic bonuses of your passing was the discovery of my long-lost first cousin Laurel Summerfield, the estranged daughter of your brother Hayden. Her name turned up in one of those family tree books that we found in your cottage, and when I Googled her I got a hit! We talked for four straight hours the first night I called. She's a great person, really fun to talk to. Although I thought we had never met before, she has a childhood memory of playing with a little boy named Ford and his sister Jenna during one of our family Texas trips. She has 4 teenagers now, and is happily married in the Virginia area near DC. We ended up having a big family reunion in New Mexico last year with the whole Hall family, your closest cousins, where we had a very nice week to meet and catch up.

Say, speaking of heaven, what are the rules up there about talking to other souls about their own growth? Since you have the resources of the Great Eternity, I would like to get a little heavy here and bring up an important issue. No one has a good explanation for why Hayden was a deadbeat father and husband, and for what seemed to be his sudden change from a bright young person into an adult with mental and emotional problems. It’s a family mystery, but guess what? Laurel got screwed in the deal, and I would like to meet Hayden on the Elysian Edition of Oprah or Dr Phil and maybe incite a studio riot by throwing a figurative chair at him, (or maybe listen with a more open mind to how he was injured in the Korean War and how there was some life lesson in losing his ability to keep responsibilities that I may not understand in this mortal lifetime).

I know Our Maker will see the point of my question, (He/She gave me the will and intelligence to bring it up, and I think He will be proud I said something if no one else up there already has).

Mainly I want Laurel to know that I am advocating for her, and that I think it is awesome that she created a stunningly beautiful and healthy family with her husband that seems to be even-ing the deal on some level.

Since Jenna and I are in the Health Care business it came in handy knowing a little about the system and how things are run. We were able to keep track of your Meds and status by calling every day from California and Arizona. Since Jacki lives in NY she became the de facto advocate and local caregiver, and it was our regret that so much fell on her simply because she, and later her mother Marita were the only ones physically there. Jacki solved a million problems we never heard about despite our constant communication, due to the frequent problems that arose each day, both preventable and unpreventable. I'm sure you remember the priceless comfort she gave you every night, decorating your room for holidays, bringing you comfort food and attending to your many business needs during your six months in the Hospital and Nursing facility.

It was a terrible feeling that nature and the system started to turn on us. We felt that along with the biological infections you acquired there were infections in the health care system that became toxic. During the two trips I made to see you we must have discovered something wrong with the care every single day, and there were things that should never happen that we could not prevent. Bedsores and surgical site infections became the slippery slope that claimed you, and it infuriated us to know that the opportunity of more vigilant nursing care could have saved you. I wish and pray for the reality of more ideal and effective health care for all present and future patients that may need it, and I deeply regret that didn’t happen for you.

So forgive us Dad, and know we never took our eyes off of you.

When we meet again we look forward to laughing with you about that Reverend that showed up at the Hospice during your last hours and mentioned his connection to Riverside Church, our family holy ground. I vetted him very carefully, because everyone knows I bristle around Fundamentalists or anyone with a sanctimonious attitude. Well, he seemed fine, and then in order to awaken you he started yelling loudly in your face as you lay quietly, and he startled the fool s--- out of everybody! Your face lit up all wild-eyed, and I could have killed the guy, it was like a Monty Python skit, it really was. That idiot! You can't trust anybody, even a man of the cloth (well, especially).

I want you to know we were very proud of you during your last hours and minutes. Good job Dad, good job.

Did you see how we scattered your ashes? We drove up to Montauk, Long Island as you requested and it was a really special place, just as you described. The Ocean seemed to be calling you home, hope you could feel it, I certainly could.

I picked out a similar place for myself when the time comes, (Bolinas beach on the west coast, Haley knows the area). You have to walk quite a ways once you park the car, but that's no problem for you. I hope to see you waiting when I get there; I'm looking forward to it.

Say, this goes without saying, but if you have any special powers on the other side, please watch over your granddaughters Haley and Madison, (and any future Grandkids). I knew you would anyway, but I felt like asking for the record. I like feeling they have all the angels they need, and you are the perfect addition to that special group.

I'll be seeing you in a few decades, thank you for being there for me, and for a lifetime of being my father...

Love, your son,

Ed Ford

Kleptomania

2009-05-06T21:50:00.000-07:00

Last Friday my 9^th grade daughter had her iPhone lifted out of her purse during PE class at school, and we spent the weekend doing things like filing a Police report, which was aided by the fact that the thief made a few calls to friends (including his Stepmother), all the phone #’s of which are readily listed on our online cell account. The Police have already identified the perpetrator and are now in touch with the school Administration, so we are hopeful for a retrieval and swift retribution.

We have learned the student in question has a sketchy background, and I am naively wishful that his encounter with the Police and his family will have a deterring effect on his behavior of stealing. With the other influences in his life I can’t be fully optimistic about a life turnaround, but when I look back at my own life, quite untroubled in contrast to this teenager, I do recall going through my own experiments with shoplifting.

Like most of us I have managed to push aside wherever that stealing impulse comes from and get on with an honest life. But to get to that place of maturity I went through a period in the summer before 8^th grade when my neighbor buddy and I experimented with shoplifting for about 2 weeks. I actually remember following it on the calendar because it started on a Saturday and continued for the next two weekends, coming to an end when we ended up at his parent’s beach house during summer vacation.

I know this behavior came from puberty, and in our case it was not so much disrespect or destructiveness as experimenting and thrill-seeking. I have a goofy memory of my buddy picking up an erect broomstick and holding a bag of shoplifted items underneath his crotch like huge testicles, laughing ourselves silly as cars whizzed by along the mall entrance road. Puberty was making its grand announcement, and we were barely aware of it.

We spent that entire Saturday coolly entering different stores each with a shopping bag and competing with each other to see if we could lift something without the other knowing. We relied on our previously sincere demeanor of innocence as we cruised breezily into each store, scoping out the awareness of the employees and making our call as we went.

We never got collared that day, never got busted, and it was fairly amazing how well our luck ran. All the stuff we took was small in size: there was candy, a fridge magnet, a small bottle of cinnamon oil (very popular at our Jr High School), and other things, maybe 20 items between the both of us.

The following week we went with my friend’s family to Mission Beach in San Diego for several days, and soon we were exploring the local beach shops and stores. This was 1972, I was discovering counter-culture at that time, and we happened to stop into this hippy-owned natural food store, hoping to see things I would never find at the mall. I chatted with the near 30-looking woman and learned that she owned the place with her husband. She was vintage Woodstock in culture and appearance, the real thing, and she and her husband had created a modest but sincere business based on their ideals. There was natural yogurt made from organic dairy, macramé vests and wall-hangings, and handmade leather items popular at the time.

Then I spotted a cabinet located at the register containing little vials of extracts of different kinds, similar to the cinnamon oil, but interesting types you wouldn’t see anywhere else. As soon as I had gained the woman’s confidence, I made a move when she turned her back and slipped one vial into my pocket. She never knew it was me, and we said goodbye and were out of there.

As we hurried back to the beach house the weather turned from sunny and idyllic to clammy and cloudy, and with that sudden cue of darkness I began to feel a tinge of guilt over my theft, a feeling I didn’t have from the mall spree. These shop owners were the most honest people I could name, they were living in the Age of Aquarius and I took it very seriously. People over 30 were to be distrusted; they had ruined this world with misplaced materialism and support for a bogus war, but these people were reinventing an honest business from the ground up, considering every resource and ideal in how they proceeded in an effort to eradicate their parents’ mistakes, and I had taken right from their pocket.

I didn’t freak out over this, didn’t lose any sleep, I just pondered it with sad regret as the summer wore on and we returned home. In my bedroom I had made a shrine of all my stolen items on the dresser by my bed. I treasured each one and marveled how we had not been caught. But I decided this was to be a limited collection, not to be added to any longer. I made an informal pact to myself that the vial of Pine oil was the last thing I would ever take, and I would come to use that totem to draw the line between what I had done (mostly forgiven) and what I might do again (taking things no longer being OK).

All the little stolen items were discarded as the years went by, but the Pine oil went into my Memory Box, my treasure box of totems and power objects from my childhood and teenage years that I still have today. My kids go through this box all the time, and through their curiosity and amusement the Pine Oil vial has re-emerged into the light of day, sitting incidentally on my dresser. It’s a friend, casually hanging around like a supposedly indifferent cat when you pull into the driveway.

I have a hunch my daughter’s iPhone has no relationship whatsoever to the Pine oil vial, but if her cell phone does come back to us through the pursuit of the local Police, I hope this teenager will find some truth somehow after the full weight of the law (and his Stepmother) has been delivered.

About using the name “Ed Ford Summerfield”

2009-05-06T21:41:00.000-07:00

I have always had a problem with actors that use three names. I won’t bother naming actual examples, but I think it usually sounds pompous. I can understand the necessity of distinction, like if your name is David Jones and you don’t want to be confused with the Monkees guy (or David Bowie to his knowledgeable fans). And then there is the connotation that you are an assassin; I think they do that on purpose to make the infamous figure unique and not intrude on the people that share the same first and last name.

When I was born I was called by my middle name Ford, (a name I love), until I entered 4th grade. At that time through some natural impulse I asked my parents if I could go by “Ed”. I’ve always loved both my names, and they each identify something different about my personality. Ed is about my relationship to the outside world; it is common and durable and can be jokingly compared to TV shows. Ford is about my closest family and my private world. At several times in my life I strongly considered returning to the name Ford in my everyday life, but in practice I never felt right about it, partly because I felt protective of the name.

When the World Wide Web came out in ‘93 or ‘94 I discovered there were other Ed Summerfields out there, including my uncle the Reverend Edward Summerfield. (I always got a kick out of that). So recently I decided to compromise and go by Ed Ford Summerfield for public things, despite my previous concerns. (I plan to use this as my name when I complete my recording project of my music). Maybe it’s something to do with turning 50. Or just that I want everyone to see all parts of me before I finish this lifetime.

About the foto: "Birth of The Edroom"

2009-05-06T21:01:00.000-07:00

When my maternal Grandmother Marie Chauncey died in 2000 at age 89, she left my sister Jenna and I an amazing collection of color slides taken in the 60’s that we had never seen before. This one shows me at around Kindergarten age in my room on Riverside Drive NY holding my first album, “Burl Ives Sings For Fun”.

I still have the album; it has occupied the first position of my LP record collection since its earliest inception, (and is followed closely by the worn copy of “Meet The Beatles” that my Dad brought me from his NY public radio station WRVR the following year). The chair peeking out behind me is a vintage wood/iron school chair that later became the perfect guitar-playing chair due to its height and position, and remains in my music studio to this day.

(When I get my geek act together I will straighten the foto into portrait mode using this blog software).

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

2009-05-05T16:39:00.000-07:00

One time I was eating at a restaurant in New Mexico with my Mom and we had this very good tortilla soup. I remarked that it was better than anything store-bought and wished I could get it at home. Mom sipped the soup with her eyes closed and jotted down the recipe below off the top of her head. I soon made it and it came out perfect; people who have had it ask me for it all the time, (even my boss who was raised in Hong Kong. He seems to prefer Chinese food over everything, so I get a kick out of his unexpected enthusiasm). If you're really into it you can substitute fresh ingredients for each canned item listed, (and if you do, let me know how it turns out).

Ed Ford Summerfield’s family’s

Tortilla Soup recipe

Start by cooking 6 or more chicken thighs in salted boiling water. Include the skin for the best broth, then remove the skin when boning for soup.

Combine in separate large pot:

Texas Style Ranch beans (1 can)

Caribbean black beans (1 can)

Diced green chilies (1 little can)

Tomato sauce (1 large can)

4-5 Fresh diced tomatoes

Salsa, your favorite kind,

(We like mild Southwestern chunky style)

Red chili oil (less than 10 drops for mild, but don’t skip this)

Cook soup on low heat while chicken is cooking in separate pot, then when chicken is done, bone and combine with soup. Add some of the broth until desired thickness is achieved.

1)Crunch Tortilla chips in empty bowl

2)Add Tortilla Soup

3)Top with grated cheese

Enjoy!

My best friend has written a musical!

2009-05-04T22:43:00.000-07:00

My best friend Carmen Borgia called me Saturday morning from New York where he lives with his wife Alison. He was checking in like we always do, but this time it was a finite call, meaning he was expecting people to show up at their Apt to work on his new musical “South”, which he has been steadily creating for five years now, an awesome endeavor. They have a special music room where lessons can be given and group rehearsals can be held, in that New York kind of way. (If whatever you need is not waiting for you, bringing it is dictated by the constraints of the Taxi and the ability to schlep).

I would be joining in to play the Mexican Guitarron acoustic bass, but since I’m in CA it’s not going to happen this time. I did get to play during the open reading they had a couple of years ago, the year before my Dad died. He and my sister Jacki got to come see us at Dixon Place, and it felt great playing in New York, my younger childhood town.

“South” is a blend of traditional and non-traditional elements, held together by that most important part of the Musical form: the songs. In musicals, the plot holds our attention during the show, but it isn’t the part people go home with, isn’t that true? When we look back on the experience, we sing the songs. Carmen has written a raft of memorable songs, a few of which I sing every day as part of my vocal routine. When I say routine, I mean the songs that keep me in the game of practicing, like doing Beatle songs when you’re bored with scales. Lately it’s been “Lost To Me”, a hauntingly beautiful paean to the stars that almost makes me cry so much I can’t sing it.

Carmen’s wife Alison is an Opera singer, I think Soprano Coloratura. I don’t know what that means, but I like the interesting names they give all the different types of Sopranos, like wine types. Alison has killer pipes as the Metal guys say, and it’s a bit of a thrill to hear her joining in to a chorus of her peers and wailing out some of these parts.

Of my many musical friends, Carmen is in the small minority of those who react as sincerely emotionally as he does intellectually in the ever-searching way we both scan the world for new musical experiences. He listens ironically, artfully, curiously, humorously, sensitively, and sincerely, and these qualities don’t crowd each other out as he unifies otherwise disparate sources into his listening universe. I have other friends that cover as much ground, but only a small few (including Lawrence Lazare and Wiley) that reach out to that level of the unknown and express their personalities by simply putting something on in a way that attracts followers of their taste.

Carmen was raised in a community theatre town, and he’s got that going in his blood, whether he chooses it or not. It’s a problem, because I’m guessing he can only count on one hand the musicals he loves in that unreserved lifetime kind of way, like I feel about every Beatle album for instance, or the way people listen to Coltrane. Because of this, Carmen brings something new to the game. He’s always been funny, that’s a given. He’s sometimes dark, which I dig. And there’s always heart in what he does, and some amount of innocence, which you don’t see every day.

I feel it’s always good to bring together elements that haven’t been tried, I live for that.

And the cast of characters: there are interesting people right and left, that’s the way it is hanging with Carmen. This is a potent combination of qualities he's bringing together, and I am excited he has the setting of New York and his talented wife and friends' participation to bring this project out.

You can click on "South, A Nautical Musical" on Facebook if you feel like following its genesis. I’ll be proud to follow it during my weekly phone calls.