Monday, September 8, 2008
What happened to the Subway?
A lot of people who enjoyed the movie Last of the Mississippi Jukes ask me, What happened to the Subway? Well, it's gone. There is a plaque at the site. And, in an even better and living tribute, owner Jimmy King is hosting Subway nights at Schimmel's restaurant in Jackson, bringing the musicians, the menu items and some of the feel of the old Subway Lounge. This nice little video by Jukes director Robert Mugge will bring you up to date and give you a few tears.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
review of Marybeth Hamilton, In Search of the Blues
Marybeth Hamilton, In Search of the Blues
review by Steve Cheseborough
Marybeth Hamilton has dug up some good stories, and makes some good insights. But then she takes it too far.
The stories are about white non-musicians obsessed with African-American music (she uses "blues" in the title and many other places in the book, but really the subjects are obsessed with plantation melodies, jazz and various other African-American musics as well as blues). Her point is that these obsessives, with their strange approaches (Dorothy Scarborough relied on elderly white ex-slave owners' recollections of black song) and personalities (James McKune ended up drunken, homeless and murdered by a man he had picked up to have sex with), have helped define black music through their writing, collecting and other nonmusical activities.
This collection of characters is interesting. They are of course not the only white nonmusicians to have made an impact on blues. Others who spring to mind, who are ignored or mentioned only in passing in this book, include Charles Peabody, the Harvard archaeologist who gave a very early documentation when he noticed his dig's workers' songs in 1902; H.C. Speir, furniture-store owner who served as the music's greatest talent scout by discovering Skip James, Charley Patton and dozens of others; the Paramount record executive (name unknown to me) who took a chance, in an era of sophisticated, orchestra-backed female blues singers, on recording the solo street performer Blind Lemon Jefferson; John Hammond Sr., who produced the Spirituals to Swing concerts in the late 1930s and reissued Robert Johnson's recordings in the 1960s; Stephen C. LaVere, who oversaw the second reissue of Johnson, on CD in the 1990s, accompanied by a photo, that led to Johnson's superstardom; Jim O'Neal, founder of Living Blues, the first magazine to focus on living musicians rather than old recordings. Hamilton tends to pick people who wrote books, and that's OK. She tells us about Howard Odum, who decided in 1907 that black song was as worth documenting as Native American song, and set out to do it; Scarborough, a Virginia-born Columbia professor who switched interest from literature to plantation song; John Lomax, who believed prisons were repositories of pure folk music; Frederick Ramsey, Charles Edward Smith and William Russell, who found heaven in early New Orleans jazz records and then in the living master Jelly Roll Morton; and McKune, high priest of the cult of collecting old 78s.
Where the book goes way out into silly and false territory, though, is when it confuses these people's activities with the creation of the music. According to Hamilton, Delta blues was born in a Brooklyn YMCA room in the 1940s, as McKune listened to a Charley Patton record. In case we think she's joking, she physically goes to the site and describes the building and the room, the holy site where the blues was born. She is not kidding.
In the book's final pages, Hamilton does a mass psychoanalysis of late-20th-Century American white men, and decides that their fascination with the outlaw bluesman is part of their general escape from commitment. There lies the origin of the blues, according to Hamilton.
Barry Lee Pearson and Elijah Wald both wrote books a few years ago that debunked the Robert Johnson myth, said he was not a big deal in his own time or in blues history. Hamilton tries to take it way further, say blues itself is not a big deal, doesn't really exist except in the twisted minds and writings of her characters. But that isn't true. There is a music known as the blues, and it would have existed whether or not Odum, Lomax, McKune and the rest of Hamilton's subjects ever noticed it. All of them did notice it, though, because they were captivated by the sound. In nearly every chapter, Hamilton describes the epiphanic moment when each of these people first heard the blues, usually on record. It was the sound, not the image of a bluesman, that captured these people. That same sound has captivated many, many people -- men and women, from all countries and eras, not just commitment-phobic late-20th-Century American men.
But it never captured Hamilton. She never listened to Robert Johnson until the 1990s, and then she "heard very little," she says in the first chapter. A punk-rock fan, she doesn't say whether she tried listening to any blues besides Johnson. Instead she set off to try to mass-psychoanalyze the people who do hear something in the blues. Maybe she should try listening again before she writes another book.
review by Steve Cheseborough
Marybeth Hamilton has dug up some good stories, and makes some good insights. But then she takes it too far.
The stories are about white non-musicians obsessed with African-American music (she uses "blues" in the title and many other places in the book, but really the subjects are obsessed with plantation melodies, jazz and various other African-American musics as well as blues). Her point is that these obsessives, with their strange approaches (Dorothy Scarborough relied on elderly white ex-slave owners' recollections of black song) and personalities (James McKune ended up drunken, homeless and murdered by a man he had picked up to have sex with), have helped define black music through their writing, collecting and other nonmusical activities.
This collection of characters is interesting. They are of course not the only white nonmusicians to have made an impact on blues. Others who spring to mind, who are ignored or mentioned only in passing in this book, include Charles Peabody, the Harvard archaeologist who gave a very early documentation when he noticed his dig's workers' songs in 1902; H.C. Speir, furniture-store owner who served as the music's greatest talent scout by discovering Skip James, Charley Patton and dozens of others; the Paramount record executive (name unknown to me) who took a chance, in an era of sophisticated, orchestra-backed female blues singers, on recording the solo street performer Blind Lemon Jefferson; John Hammond Sr., who produced the Spirituals to Swing concerts in the late 1930s and reissued Robert Johnson's recordings in the 1960s; Stephen C. LaVere, who oversaw the second reissue of Johnson, on CD in the 1990s, accompanied by a photo, that led to Johnson's superstardom; Jim O'Neal, founder of Living Blues, the first magazine to focus on living musicians rather than old recordings. Hamilton tends to pick people who wrote books, and that's OK. She tells us about Howard Odum, who decided in 1907 that black song was as worth documenting as Native American song, and set out to do it; Scarborough, a Virginia-born Columbia professor who switched interest from literature to plantation song; John Lomax, who believed prisons were repositories of pure folk music; Frederick Ramsey, Charles Edward Smith and William Russell, who found heaven in early New Orleans jazz records and then in the living master Jelly Roll Morton; and McKune, high priest of the cult of collecting old 78s.
Where the book goes way out into silly and false territory, though, is when it confuses these people's activities with the creation of the music. According to Hamilton, Delta blues was born in a Brooklyn YMCA room in the 1940s, as McKune listened to a Charley Patton record. In case we think she's joking, she physically goes to the site and describes the building and the room, the holy site where the blues was born. She is not kidding.
In the book's final pages, Hamilton does a mass psychoanalysis of late-20th-Century American white men, and decides that their fascination with the outlaw bluesman is part of their general escape from commitment. There lies the origin of the blues, according to Hamilton.
Barry Lee Pearson and Elijah Wald both wrote books a few years ago that debunked the Robert Johnson myth, said he was not a big deal in his own time or in blues history. Hamilton tries to take it way further, say blues itself is not a big deal, doesn't really exist except in the twisted minds and writings of her characters. But that isn't true. There is a music known as the blues, and it would have existed whether or not Odum, Lomax, McKune and the rest of Hamilton's subjects ever noticed it. All of them did notice it, though, because they were captivated by the sound. In nearly every chapter, Hamilton describes the epiphanic moment when each of these people first heard the blues, usually on record. It was the sound, not the image of a bluesman, that captured these people. That same sound has captivated many, many people -- men and women, from all countries and eras, not just commitment-phobic late-20th-Century American men.
But it never captured Hamilton. She never listened to Robert Johnson until the 1990s, and then she "heard very little," she says in the first chapter. A punk-rock fan, she doesn't say whether she tried listening to any blues besides Johnson. Instead she set off to try to mass-psychoanalyze the people who do hear something in the blues. Maybe she should try listening again before she writes another book.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Bo Diddley's daughter
Never mind what they call Elvis Presley -- the real Kings of Rock 'n' Roll are Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Little Richard. And all three of them were still alive, until today, when Bo Diddley passed away at age 79.
My Diddley story: About five years ago, I was playing at a little ice-cream/coffee shop in Newport News, Va. A a woman was singing/humming along with some of the songs, and she sounded good. I asked her if she wanted to sing a song and I'd try to accompany her. Her songs were too jazzy for me to quite follow but it was fun, she was good. I asked her if she played guitar (I was going to let her accompany herself). She said no, but her dad did, professionally, but he was rarely home so she didn't get to learn from him. I asked her dad's name and she said Bo Diddley!
My Diddley story: About five years ago, I was playing at a little ice-cream/coffee shop in Newport News, Va. A a woman was singing/humming along with some of the songs, and she sounded good. I asked her if she wanted to sing a song and I'd try to accompany her. Her songs were too jazzy for me to quite follow but it was fun, she was good. I asked her if she played guitar (I was going to let her accompany herself). She said no, but her dad did, professionally, but he was rarely home so she didn't get to learn from him. I asked her dad's name and she said Bo Diddley!
Monday, April 28, 2008
yodel lady who? 2008
yodel lady who?
Originally published 3/26/2008
Oh boy, I get to yodel! Often I slip a yodeling number or two into my regular sets but this is the first time I've been asked to do an all-yodel show. Don't worry, it's only a 15-minute set. 9 to 9:15 p.m. April 10 at the World Famous Kenton Club, 2025 N Kilpatrick (north of Lombard and just off of N. Denver). It's part of Honky Tonk Night, a new regular feature there. I'm opening for Johnny Cash tribute group called Counterfeit Cash.
Now, if you know me and my blues purism, you might wonder, Why is Cheseborough yodeling? Isn't that like, a hillbilly thing, not a blues thing?
Good question! But actually the yodel's place in American music was established by Jimmie Rodgers, the Singing Brakeman. Also known as the Blue Yodeler, Rodgers was a white man from Mississippi who became a huge national star in the 1930s with his songs, which were basically blues with yodeling added. He's considered the Father of Country Music, but he also could just as easily be called the first white blues star. And if you listen to the bluesmen he would have listened to, both on records and in person as he worked on the railroads before becoming a music star, you hear some yodel-like sounds coming from them. Especially from Tommy Johnson, who grew up not far from Rodgers and in the same years. Johnson's falsetto breaks surely must have inspired Rodgers, who made them somewhat more Alpine-sounding. And once Rodgers became a star, he in turn influenced late bluesmen -- in particular Howlin' Wolf (who also grew up in that same region of the state). Wolf was a big Rodgers fan, and said that his howls were based on Rodgers' yodels.
So when I yodel I respect all this tradition. I'll include songs by Rodgers and Johnson at the Kenton Club. Come check that out or ask me for a yodeling number at any of my other shows. Cheers, SC
Originally published 3/26/2008
Oh boy, I get to yodel! Often I slip a yodeling number or two into my regular sets but this is the first time I've been asked to do an all-yodel show. Don't worry, it's only a 15-minute set. 9 to 9:15 p.m. April 10 at the World Famous Kenton Club, 2025 N Kilpatrick (north of Lombard and just off of N. Denver). It's part of Honky Tonk Night, a new regular feature there. I'm opening for Johnny Cash tribute group called Counterfeit Cash.
Now, if you know me and my blues purism, you might wonder, Why is Cheseborough yodeling? Isn't that like, a hillbilly thing, not a blues thing?
Good question! But actually the yodel's place in American music was established by Jimmie Rodgers, the Singing Brakeman. Also known as the Blue Yodeler, Rodgers was a white man from Mississippi who became a huge national star in the 1930s with his songs, which were basically blues with yodeling added. He's considered the Father of Country Music, but he also could just as easily be called the first white blues star. And if you listen to the bluesmen he would have listened to, both on records and in person as he worked on the railroads before becoming a music star, you hear some yodel-like sounds coming from them. Especially from Tommy Johnson, who grew up not far from Rodgers and in the same years. Johnson's falsetto breaks surely must have inspired Rodgers, who made them somewhat more Alpine-sounding. And once Rodgers became a star, he in turn influenced late bluesmen -- in particular Howlin' Wolf (who also grew up in that same region of the state). Wolf was a big Rodgers fan, and said that his howls were based on Rodgers' yodels.
So when I yodel I respect all this tradition. I'll include songs by Rodgers and Johnson at the Kenton Club. Come check that out or ask me for a yodeling number at any of my other shows. Cheers, SC
keep music at McCormick & Schmick 2008
keep music at McCormick & Schmick
Originally published 2/20/2008
The Original McCormick & Schmick, 235 SW 1st Ave, Portland, is a wonderful old Portland business. Lots of wood and history. And a loft, where a pianist always played. Until the company discontinued the music. McCormick & Schmick has grown into a big national chain. Doing fine without live music, I guess. But Beverly Edwards, the current manager at the original restaurant, brought back the live music a year or so ago. Three nights a week at first. But the company told her to cut it to two, and then to one. It's only on Fridays now. And she's afraid they might tell her to cut it again, down to 0 nights.
You can help keep the music going. First, you can email Bev (she asked me to ask you to email her, so that she can pass on to her bosses the messages of support for live music). Her email address is ms03@msmg.com . Just tell her, in your own words, that you like the music there and would like it to continue.
And second, you can help by coming to hear me there! And you can go hear other musicians there, too, if you want. There is music, for now, every Friday from 6-9 p.m. I play Feb. 29 and March 14, so come on one or both of those dates if you can! Another reason to come: They have great happy-hour food, including the best deal on the best burger in town. Cheers and hope to see you there, SC
Originally published 2/20/2008
The Original McCormick & Schmick, 235 SW 1st Ave, Portland, is a wonderful old Portland business. Lots of wood and history. And a loft, where a pianist always played. Until the company discontinued the music. McCormick & Schmick has grown into a big national chain. Doing fine without live music, I guess. But Beverly Edwards, the current manager at the original restaurant, brought back the live music a year or so ago. Three nights a week at first. But the company told her to cut it to two, and then to one. It's only on Fridays now. And she's afraid they might tell her to cut it again, down to 0 nights.
You can help keep the music going. First, you can email Bev (she asked me to ask you to email her, so that she can pass on to her bosses the messages of support for live music). Her email address is ms03@msmg.com . Just tell her, in your own words, that you like the music there and would like it to continue.
And second, you can help by coming to hear me there! And you can go hear other musicians there, too, if you want. There is music, for now, every Friday from 6-9 p.m. I play Feb. 29 and March 14, so come on one or both of those dates if you can! Another reason to come: They have great happy-hour food, including the best deal on the best burger in town. Cheers and hope to see you there, SC
keep music at McCormick & Schmick 2008
keep music at McCormick & Schmick
Originally published 2/20/2008
The Original McCormick & Schmick, 235 SW 1st Ave, Portland, is a wonderful old Portland business. Lots of wood and history. And a loft, where a pianist always played. Until the company discontinued the music. McCormick & Schmick has grown into a big national chain. Doing fine without live music, I guess. But Beverly Edwards, the current manager at the original restaurant, brought back the live music a year or so ago. Three nights a week at first. But the company told her to cut it to two, and then to one. It's only on Fridays now. And she's afraid they might tell her to cut it again, down to 0 nights.
You can help keep the music going. First, you can email Bev (she asked me to ask you to email her, so that she can pass on to her bosses the messages of support for live music). Her email address is ms03@msmg.com . Just tell her, in your own words, that you like the music there and would like it to continue.
And second, you can help by coming to hear me there! And you can go hear other musicians there, too, if you want. There is music, for now, every Friday from 6-9 p.m. I play Feb. 29 and March 14, so come on one or both of those dates if you can! Another reason to come: They have great happy-hour food, including the best deal on the best burger in town. Cheers and hope to see you there, SC
Originally published 2/20/2008
The Original McCormick & Schmick, 235 SW 1st Ave, Portland, is a wonderful old Portland business. Lots of wood and history. And a loft, where a pianist always played. Until the company discontinued the music. McCormick & Schmick has grown into a big national chain. Doing fine without live music, I guess. But Beverly Edwards, the current manager at the original restaurant, brought back the live music a year or so ago. Three nights a week at first. But the company told her to cut it to two, and then to one. It's only on Fridays now. And she's afraid they might tell her to cut it again, down to 0 nights.
You can help keep the music going. First, you can email Bev (she asked me to ask you to email her, so that she can pass on to her bosses the messages of support for live music). Her email address is ms03@msmg.com . Just tell her, in your own words, that you like the music there and would like it to continue.
And second, you can help by coming to hear me there! And you can go hear other musicians there, too, if you want. There is music, for now, every Friday from 6-9 p.m. I play Feb. 29 and March 14, so come on one or both of those dates if you can! Another reason to come: They have great happy-hour food, including the best deal on the best burger in town. Cheers and hope to see you there, SC
Me on Oregon Art Beat 2008
Me on Oregon Art Beat
Originally published 1/24/2008
Well, it's exciting to be featured on a TV program anytime but it's totally thrilling when the program turns out so well: http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/videos/view/67-Steve-Cheseborough
Check it out! My thanks and praise to Shawn Hutchinson and his crew for boiling down my life and work to a fine eight-minute piece.
Originally published 1/24/2008
Well, it's exciting to be featured on a TV program anytime but it's totally thrilling when the program turns out so well: http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/videos/view/67-Steve-Cheseborough
Check it out! My thanks and praise to Shawn Hutchinson and his crew for boiling down my life and work to a fine eight-minute piece.
Day job 2007
Day job
Originally published 10/17/2007
Flying back home to Portland from the Delta, after King Biscuit. I break into song as everyone stands to get off the plane at the Portland Airport. It had been a long and difficult trip, although wonderful in many ways. We had gotten stuck overnight in Salt Lake City the night before, so it was good to finally make it back home. So I started singing out loud, a Ma Rainey tune. Taizz joined in. And a guy standing near us says, “Don’t quit your day job.”
“I don’t have a day job. I am a professional singer,” I told him. “Yes, he’s a national act,” Taizz said. The guy made some kind of little joke and skulked away from the conversation.
Maybe I should have explained to him that that is never a nice thing to say, regardless of whom he’s talking to. People think they’re being funny or at least cute when they say that. But they are actually quashing joy. Other similar, common, mean and joy-killing sayings: “There’s no (singing, dancing, laughing, other happy activity) allowed here!” “You two are having too much fun!” Maybe there are others but you get the idea. Such statements discourage fun, creativity, music and happiness. And reinforce conformity, dullness and dumbness. Of all of them, though, “Don’t quit your day job” is the worst. It tells you to be conformist, dull and dumb not just now, but for the rest of your life.
So let’s eliminate that phrase from our vocabularies. When you see someone laughing, singing, dancing or doing some other fun, creative activity, instead try one of these responses:
1) Compliment the person and suggest that he quit his day job.
2) Join in.
3) Quit your own day job – if you go around saying things like that, you’ve been at it way too long!
Originally published 10/17/2007
Flying back home to Portland from the Delta, after King Biscuit. I break into song as everyone stands to get off the plane at the Portland Airport. It had been a long and difficult trip, although wonderful in many ways. We had gotten stuck overnight in Salt Lake City the night before, so it was good to finally make it back home. So I started singing out loud, a Ma Rainey tune. Taizz joined in. And a guy standing near us says, “Don’t quit your day job.”
“I don’t have a day job. I am a professional singer,” I told him. “Yes, he’s a national act,” Taizz said. The guy made some kind of little joke and skulked away from the conversation.
Maybe I should have explained to him that that is never a nice thing to say, regardless of whom he’s talking to. People think they’re being funny or at least cute when they say that. But they are actually quashing joy. Other similar, common, mean and joy-killing sayings: “There’s no (singing, dancing, laughing, other happy activity) allowed here!” “You two are having too much fun!” Maybe there are others but you get the idea. Such statements discourage fun, creativity, music and happiness. And reinforce conformity, dullness and dumbness. Of all of them, though, “Don’t quit your day job” is the worst. It tells you to be conformist, dull and dumb not just now, but for the rest of your life.
So let’s eliminate that phrase from our vocabularies. When you see someone laughing, singing, dancing or doing some other fun, creative activity, instead try one of these responses:
1) Compliment the person and suggest that he quit his day job.
2) Join in.
3) Quit your own day job – if you go around saying things like that, you’ve been at it way too long!
"Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks needs help 2007
"Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks needs help
Originally published 9/9/2007
"Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks has been diagnosed with a brain tumor. The tumor is operable and he is scheduled for surgery this week. He and his significant other, Nancy Klein, are expatriate Americans living in Croatia, which (like the United States) does not have socialized medicine. So they need help with medical expenses.
Ricks is a terrific acoustic blues player who absorbed the styles of John Hurt, Furry Lewis, Gary Davis, Skip James and many other masters as a young man in the 1960s, when he was booking them and accompanying them (and often putting them up at his home) when they played at the Second Fret Coffeehouse in Philadelphia. Ricks has lived overseas for much of his adult life. He returned to the U.S. to record a couple of fine albums on Rooster, and lived in Clarksdale, Miss., while he was working on those. He also has taught and performed several times at the Port Townsend (Wash.) Country Blues Workshop & Festival.
Below is a message Nancy sent to the couple's friends, along with a U.S. bank address and account where you can send donations if you want. Thanks! SC.
Dear Friends,
Both Jerry and I wish to express our deepest gratitude for all the
calls of concern and best wishes received for Jerry's full recovery.
The operation to remove his brain tumor is expected this week; we all
hope and pray for the best results.
Since hearing of so many offers for support, accounts have been
established to accept donations for Jerry to help defray the medical
expenses and the costs of the following treatments and rehabilitation.
Again, our deepest appreciation for all your concern through these
difficult times, these miles of Blues...
Sincerely Yours,
Nancy Klein and "Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks
---------------------------------------------------------
Donations may be sent to:
The "Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks Assistance Fund
Account # 004612096194
Bank of America
100 Federal Street
Boston, Ma 02110
Originally published 9/9/2007
"Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks has been diagnosed with a brain tumor. The tumor is operable and he is scheduled for surgery this week. He and his significant other, Nancy Klein, are expatriate Americans living in Croatia, which (like the United States) does not have socialized medicine. So they need help with medical expenses.
Ricks is a terrific acoustic blues player who absorbed the styles of John Hurt, Furry Lewis, Gary Davis, Skip James and many other masters as a young man in the 1960s, when he was booking them and accompanying them (and often putting them up at his home) when they played at the Second Fret Coffeehouse in Philadelphia. Ricks has lived overseas for much of his adult life. He returned to the U.S. to record a couple of fine albums on Rooster, and lived in Clarksdale, Miss., while he was working on those. He also has taught and performed several times at the Port Townsend (Wash.) Country Blues Workshop & Festival.
Below is a message Nancy sent to the couple's friends, along with a U.S. bank address and account where you can send donations if you want. Thanks! SC.
Dear Friends,
Both Jerry and I wish to express our deepest gratitude for all the
calls of concern and best wishes received for Jerry's full recovery.
The operation to remove his brain tumor is expected this week; we all
hope and pray for the best results.
Since hearing of so many offers for support, accounts have been
established to accept donations for Jerry to help defray the medical
expenses and the costs of the following treatments and rehabilitation.
Again, our deepest appreciation for all your concern through these
difficult times, these miles of Blues...
Sincerely Yours,
Nancy Klein and "Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks
---------------------------------------------------------
Donations may be sent to:
The "Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks Assistance Fund
Account # 004612096194
Bank of America
100 Federal Street
Boston, Ma 02110
No-knead no-preheat sourdough bread 2007
No-knead no-preheat sourdough bread
Originally published 4/8/2007
OK, I have to admit I've converted. A longtime sourdough home baker, I was skeptical of this no-knead craze. But I've been doing it for a few months now and the only drawback is that it makes only one loaf at a time (I used to make two and slice-and-freeze one). Of course I could double the recipe. But it's easier to make, so now I just make it twice as often and don't freeze any. No knead, no preheat, no oven-spray, no slash!
I use:
2 cups unbleached bread flour
1 cup mixed whole-grain flours (whole wheat, rye, barley, whatever you like)
2-1/2 tsp salt (yes, I thought it was excessive when I read that number in The Oregonian's no-knead article but it works great)
Mix those dry ingredients, then mix in
1/3 cup (recently recharged) liquid sourdough starter with enough water added to total 1-1/2 cups liquid.
Stir it up well, cover with plastic wrap, wrap bowl with blanket, leave about 15-20 hours, until risen and bubbly. Take it out and fold it over a few times (on well-floured or nonstick surface, with floured hands), cover with wrap, let sit 15 min, shape into ball, cover well with coarse cornmeal, wrap in towel, let it about 3-6 hours, until risen. Flop into cast-iron dutch oven, cover with lid, place into cold oven, turn oven on to 450. Bake 45 min covered, then remove lid and bake another half hour or so, until browned and hollow-sounding when tapped top and bottom. Let cool and eat.
Originally published 4/8/2007
OK, I have to admit I've converted. A longtime sourdough home baker, I was skeptical of this no-knead craze. But I've been doing it for a few months now and the only drawback is that it makes only one loaf at a time (I used to make two and slice-and-freeze one). Of course I could double the recipe. But it's easier to make, so now I just make it twice as often and don't freeze any. No knead, no preheat, no oven-spray, no slash!
I use:
2 cups unbleached bread flour
1 cup mixed whole-grain flours (whole wheat, rye, barley, whatever you like)
2-1/2 tsp salt (yes, I thought it was excessive when I read that number in The Oregonian's no-knead article but it works great)
Mix those dry ingredients, then mix in
1/3 cup (recently recharged) liquid sourdough starter with enough water added to total 1-1/2 cups liquid.
Stir it up well, cover with plastic wrap, wrap bowl with blanket, leave about 15-20 hours, until risen and bubbly. Take it out and fold it over a few times (on well-floured or nonstick surface, with floured hands), cover with wrap, let sit 15 min, shape into ball, cover well with coarse cornmeal, wrap in towel, let it about 3-6 hours, until risen. Flop into cast-iron dutch oven, cover with lid, place into cold oven, turn oven on to 450. Bake 45 min covered, then remove lid and bake another half hour or so, until browned and hollow-sounding when tapped top and bottom. Let cool and eat.
Chezz and Taizz reviewed! 2007
Chezz and Taizz reviewed!
Originally republished (in Steve Cheseborough blog) 3/21/2007
Old-time vaudeville revived in mirthful, mixed acts
Review: Miz Kitty's Parlour shows off more than parlor tricks, though
the result can be tedious
Monday, March 19, 2007
LUCIANA LOPEZ
The Oregonian
The building may have changed, but the parlor's still the same.
The vaudeville and variety show Miz Kitty's Parlour moved to the
Mission Theater earlier this year, but, as Saturday's performance
proved, the long-running pageant's retained its grab-bag mix of acts,
from the musical to the comical to the harder-to-classify, all
presided over by Miz Kitty -- aka Lisa Marsicek, of the old-time band
Flat Mountain Girls.
That eclectic approach is the both the show's strength and its
weakness: Though the variety, surprise and irreverence are welcome,
the blend doesn't always work. Saturday, for example, the parlor
included a hula hoop dance troupe, the whirlyGirlz. Impressive, sure;
it's decent odds most in the audience hadn't even picked up a hula
hoop in years, much less danced choreographed routines while spinning
one about the neck, waist or other body parts. But the Girlz, in
tight, midriff-baring outfits, didn't quite fit the show's old-time
vaudevillian aesthetic.
In the strength column, though, list such acts as the Stomp Down
Rollers, comprising guitarist/vocalist Steve Cheseborough and
vocalist-harmonica player Taizz Medalia. The two had an unassuming
easiness that drew the audience in, and their humor pretty much nailed
the vaudeville vibe. The song "Hot Nuts," for example, was both sweet
and sly, the former for its delivery, the latter for its broad double
entendres.
Somewhere in the middle was the Cavalcade of Beautiful Losers from
Opera Theater Oregon. The Losers performed a mix of pieces, including
a pretty accurate five-minute version of "Faust." The opera let the
troupe show off voices and insight (they're right, Marguerite is a bit
of a twit). But their performance was longer than merely the
mini-"Faust," and the rest of the material felt thrown together,
especially in comparison. For the last song, the woman who played
Marguerite was still in what she called her "Baby Jane" makeup, which
made it a lot harder to buy her singing Diana Krall's "Temptation,"
though she and the singers on backup were in good voice.
Even Miz Kitty herself could be hit or miss.
Marsicek was often funny and charming, as when handing out "rare,
exotic" door prizes, but sometimes her humor felt a little labored,
especially the leprechaun jokes. Yes, it was St. Patrick's Day, so
some Irish jokes were to be expected. In the parlor, those jokes took
the form of two men dressed as (quite large) leprechauns coming on
stage whenever Marsicek mentioned St. Patrick's Day, Irish things, or
leprechauns.
Unfortunately, the joke got, not just old, but obvious. The gag would
have been funnier if it had incorporated more surprise; if, say, the
leprechauns had started appearing for less obvious words.
But we are quibbling here: Even at Miz Kitty's Parlour's weakest, it's
still warm, willing to take risks and a barrel of laughs --
vaudeville, Portland-style.
Luciana Lopez: 503-412-7034; lucianalopez@news.oregonian.com
(c)2007 The Oregonian
Originally republished (in Steve Cheseborough blog) 3/21/2007
Old-time vaudeville revived in mirthful, mixed acts
Review: Miz Kitty's Parlour shows off more than parlor tricks, though
the result can be tedious
Monday, March 19, 2007
LUCIANA LOPEZ
The Oregonian
The building may have changed, but the parlor's still the same.
The vaudeville and variety show Miz Kitty's Parlour moved to the
Mission Theater earlier this year, but, as Saturday's performance
proved, the long-running pageant's retained its grab-bag mix of acts,
from the musical to the comical to the harder-to-classify, all
presided over by Miz Kitty -- aka Lisa Marsicek, of the old-time band
Flat Mountain Girls.
That eclectic approach is the both the show's strength and its
weakness: Though the variety, surprise and irreverence are welcome,
the blend doesn't always work. Saturday, for example, the parlor
included a hula hoop dance troupe, the whirlyGirlz. Impressive, sure;
it's decent odds most in the audience hadn't even picked up a hula
hoop in years, much less danced choreographed routines while spinning
one about the neck, waist or other body parts. But the Girlz, in
tight, midriff-baring outfits, didn't quite fit the show's old-time
vaudevillian aesthetic.
In the strength column, though, list such acts as the Stomp Down
Rollers, comprising guitarist/vocalist Steve Cheseborough and
vocalist-harmonica player Taizz Medalia. The two had an unassuming
easiness that drew the audience in, and their humor pretty much nailed
the vaudeville vibe. The song "Hot Nuts," for example, was both sweet
and sly, the former for its delivery, the latter for its broad double
entendres.
Somewhere in the middle was the Cavalcade of Beautiful Losers from
Opera Theater Oregon. The Losers performed a mix of pieces, including
a pretty accurate five-minute version of "Faust." The opera let the
troupe show off voices and insight (they're right, Marguerite is a bit
of a twit). But their performance was longer than merely the
mini-"Faust," and the rest of the material felt thrown together,
especially in comparison. For the last song, the woman who played
Marguerite was still in what she called her "Baby Jane" makeup, which
made it a lot harder to buy her singing Diana Krall's "Temptation,"
though she and the singers on backup were in good voice.
Even Miz Kitty herself could be hit or miss.
Marsicek was often funny and charming, as when handing out "rare,
exotic" door prizes, but sometimes her humor felt a little labored,
especially the leprechaun jokes. Yes, it was St. Patrick's Day, so
some Irish jokes were to be expected. In the parlor, those jokes took
the form of two men dressed as (quite large) leprechauns coming on
stage whenever Marsicek mentioned St. Patrick's Day, Irish things, or
leprechauns.
Unfortunately, the joke got, not just old, but obvious. The gag would
have been funnier if it had incorporated more surprise; if, say, the
leprechauns had started appearing for less obvious words.
But we are quibbling here: Even at Miz Kitty's Parlour's weakest, it's
still warm, willing to take risks and a barrel of laughs --
vaudeville, Portland-style.
Luciana Lopez: 503-412-7034; lucianalopez@news.oregonian.com
(c)2007 The Oregonian
Chezz and Taizz reviewed! 2007
Chezz and Taizz reviewed!
Originally republished (in Steve Cheseborough blog) 3/21/2007
Old-time vaudeville revived in mirthful, mixed acts
Review: Miz Kitty's Parlour shows off more than parlor tricks, though
the result can be tedious
Monday, March 19, 2007
LUCIANA LOPEZ
The Oregonian
The building may have changed, but the parlor's still the same.
The vaudeville and variety show Miz Kitty's Parlour moved to the
Mission Theater earlier this year, but, as Saturday's performance
proved, the long-running pageant's retained its grab-bag mix of acts,
from the musical to the comical to the harder-to-classify, all
presided over by Miz Kitty -- aka Lisa Marsicek, of the old-time band
Flat Mountain Girls.
That eclectic approach is the both the show's strength and its
weakness: Though the variety, surprise and irreverence are welcome,
the blend doesn't always work. Saturday, for example, the parlor
included a hula hoop dance troupe, the whirlyGirlz. Impressive, sure;
it's decent odds most in the audience hadn't even picked up a hula
hoop in years, much less danced choreographed routines while spinning
one about the neck, waist or other body parts. But the Girlz, in
tight, midriff-baring outfits, didn't quite fit the show's old-time
vaudevillian aesthetic.
In the strength column, though, list such acts as the Stomp Down
Rollers, comprising guitarist/vocalist Steve Cheseborough and
vocalist-harmonica player Taizz Medalia. The two had an unassuming
easiness that drew the audience in, and their humor pretty much nailed
the vaudeville vibe. The song "Hot Nuts," for example, was both sweet
and sly, the former for its delivery, the latter for its broad double
entendres.
Somewhere in the middle was the Cavalcade of Beautiful Losers from
Opera Theater Oregon. The Losers performed a mix of pieces, including
a pretty accurate five-minute version of "Faust." The opera let the
troupe show off voices and insight (they're right, Marguerite is a bit
of a twit). But their performance was longer than merely the
mini-"Faust," and the rest of the material felt thrown together,
especially in comparison. For the last song, the woman who played
Marguerite was still in what she called her "Baby Jane" makeup, which
made it a lot harder to buy her singing Diana Krall's "Temptation,"
though she and the singers on backup were in good voice.
Even Miz Kitty herself could be hit or miss.
Marsicek was often funny and charming, as when handing out "rare,
exotic" door prizes, but sometimes her humor felt a little labored,
especially the leprechaun jokes. Yes, it was St. Patrick's Day, so
some Irish jokes were to be expected. In the parlor, those jokes took
the form of two men dressed as (quite large) leprechauns coming on
stage whenever Marsicek mentioned St. Patrick's Day, Irish things, or
leprechauns.
Unfortunately, the joke got, not just old, but obvious. The gag would
have been funnier if it had incorporated more surprise; if, say, the
leprechauns had started appearing for less obvious words.
But we are quibbling here: Even at Miz Kitty's Parlour's weakest, it's
still warm, willing to take risks and a barrel of laughs --
vaudeville, Portland-style.
Luciana Lopez: 503-412-7034; lucianalopez@news.oregonian.com
(c)2007 The Oregonian
Originally republished (in Steve Cheseborough blog) 3/21/2007
Old-time vaudeville revived in mirthful, mixed acts
Review: Miz Kitty's Parlour shows off more than parlor tricks, though
the result can be tedious
Monday, March 19, 2007
LUCIANA LOPEZ
The Oregonian
The building may have changed, but the parlor's still the same.
The vaudeville and variety show Miz Kitty's Parlour moved to the
Mission Theater earlier this year, but, as Saturday's performance
proved, the long-running pageant's retained its grab-bag mix of acts,
from the musical to the comical to the harder-to-classify, all
presided over by Miz Kitty -- aka Lisa Marsicek, of the old-time band
Flat Mountain Girls.
That eclectic approach is the both the show's strength and its
weakness: Though the variety, surprise and irreverence are welcome,
the blend doesn't always work. Saturday, for example, the parlor
included a hula hoop dance troupe, the whirlyGirlz. Impressive, sure;
it's decent odds most in the audience hadn't even picked up a hula
hoop in years, much less danced choreographed routines while spinning
one about the neck, waist or other body parts. But the Girlz, in
tight, midriff-baring outfits, didn't quite fit the show's old-time
vaudevillian aesthetic.
In the strength column, though, list such acts as the Stomp Down
Rollers, comprising guitarist/vocalist Steve Cheseborough and
vocalist-harmonica player Taizz Medalia. The two had an unassuming
easiness that drew the audience in, and their humor pretty much nailed
the vaudeville vibe. The song "Hot Nuts," for example, was both sweet
and sly, the former for its delivery, the latter for its broad double
entendres.
Somewhere in the middle was the Cavalcade of Beautiful Losers from
Opera Theater Oregon. The Losers performed a mix of pieces, including
a pretty accurate five-minute version of "Faust." The opera let the
troupe show off voices and insight (they're right, Marguerite is a bit
of a twit). But their performance was longer than merely the
mini-"Faust," and the rest of the material felt thrown together,
especially in comparison. For the last song, the woman who played
Marguerite was still in what she called her "Baby Jane" makeup, which
made it a lot harder to buy her singing Diana Krall's "Temptation,"
though she and the singers on backup were in good voice.
Even Miz Kitty herself could be hit or miss.
Marsicek was often funny and charming, as when handing out "rare,
exotic" door prizes, but sometimes her humor felt a little labored,
especially the leprechaun jokes. Yes, it was St. Patrick's Day, so
some Irish jokes were to be expected. In the parlor, those jokes took
the form of two men dressed as (quite large) leprechauns coming on
stage whenever Marsicek mentioned St. Patrick's Day, Irish things, or
leprechauns.
Unfortunately, the joke got, not just old, but obvious. The gag would
have been funnier if it had incorporated more surprise; if, say, the
leprechauns had started appearing for less obvious words.
But we are quibbling here: Even at Miz Kitty's Parlour's weakest, it's
still warm, willing to take risks and a barrel of laughs --
vaudeville, Portland-style.
Luciana Lopez: 503-412-7034; lucianalopez@news.oregonian.com
(c)2007 The Oregonian
Listening spectrum 2007
Listening spectrum
Originally published 1/23/2007
(I adapted this from a jazz newsletter; I think that writer adapted it himself from a music-appreciation class.)
In most clubs, the best it gets is number 3, often it stays at number 2.
When I give a concert I strive, and often manage to, get the listeners up to level 4. That creates a very satisfying experience for me and the listeners.
Level 5 is where you have to go to learn a piece from a record. I try to get my students to do that.
Whichever point you are usually at in listening, try to take it up to the next level!
Listening spectrum
1. Oblivious – Listener is asleep or totally ignoring the music.
2. Somewhat aware – Listener is talking or doing some other activity while music plays in background.
3. Attention engaged – Paying attention, maybe singing along or dancing.
4. Highly attentive – What the musicians and intense listeners do: pay close attention to the music’s structure, almost in conversation with performers
5. Analytical – Breaking it down note for note, concentrating hard and learning the piece as you listen to it over and over, working at it.
Originally published 1/23/2007
(I adapted this from a jazz newsletter; I think that writer adapted it himself from a music-appreciation class.)
In most clubs, the best it gets is number 3, often it stays at number 2.
When I give a concert I strive, and often manage to, get the listeners up to level 4. That creates a very satisfying experience for me and the listeners.
Level 5 is where you have to go to learn a piece from a record. I try to get my students to do that.
Whichever point you are usually at in listening, try to take it up to the next level!
Listening spectrum
1. Oblivious – Listener is asleep or totally ignoring the music.
2. Somewhat aware – Listener is talking or doing some other activity while music plays in background.
3. Attention engaged – Paying attention, maybe singing along or dancing.
4. Highly attentive – What the musicians and intense listeners do: pay close attention to the music’s structure, almost in conversation with performers
5. Analytical – Breaking it down note for note, concentrating hard and learning the piece as you listen to it over and over, working at it.
how to behave with live music 2006
how to behave with live music
Originally published 10/23/2006
I played at a restaurant last night. There were a couple tables of people already there before I started. I played a song, then a second one, and got no reaction at all from any of them. They didn't applaud, didn't even look over to see what this person was doing, onstage singing and playing amplified music. They had certainly seen me carry all my gear and instruments, in multiple trips, into the place and set it up, so it's not like they thought it was a recording. Usually I would just keep playing, figuring "well, I'm getting paid to practice" or something like that. But this time I decided to set them straight. "Hey folks," I said. "It's OK to look at the performer, smile maybe, even clap. I'm playing for you, you know. This is part of the environment in this place." They all looked over and applauded. I thanked them and they continued to pay attention, at least halfway (I mean, I don't mind if they pay attention to their meals and companions too, I just expect to be included somewhat in their fields of attention) and applauded regularly. The house turned over and an hour later I made a similar speech to a new group of diners. This time one man apologized, said he was eating with his daughter, whom he hadn't seen in a week, and was so into the conversation that he hadn't had a chance to get into the music. But then he commented on the last song to show he had been listening a little, and I engaged him in conversation from the stage, and he became very attentive from then on, tipped me well. I think most of the people who I "set straight" did leave tips! I guess this is part of being a live performer in this age -- educating people how to behave, people who are used to recorded music only.
Originally published 10/23/2006
I played at a restaurant last night. There were a couple tables of people already there before I started. I played a song, then a second one, and got no reaction at all from any of them. They didn't applaud, didn't even look over to see what this person was doing, onstage singing and playing amplified music. They had certainly seen me carry all my gear and instruments, in multiple trips, into the place and set it up, so it's not like they thought it was a recording. Usually I would just keep playing, figuring "well, I'm getting paid to practice" or something like that. But this time I decided to set them straight. "Hey folks," I said. "It's OK to look at the performer, smile maybe, even clap. I'm playing for you, you know. This is part of the environment in this place." They all looked over and applauded. I thanked them and they continued to pay attention, at least halfway (I mean, I don't mind if they pay attention to their meals and companions too, I just expect to be included somewhat in their fields of attention) and applauded regularly. The house turned over and an hour later I made a similar speech to a new group of diners. This time one man apologized, said he was eating with his daughter, whom he hadn't seen in a week, and was so into the conversation that he hadn't had a chance to get into the music. But then he commented on the last song to show he had been listening a little, and I engaged him in conversation from the stage, and he became very attentive from then on, tipped me well. I think most of the people who I "set straight" did leave tips! I guess this is part of being a live performer in this age -- educating people how to behave, people who are used to recorded music only.
glad to see Portland made the list 2006
glad to see Portland made the list
Originally published 9/14/2006
Forbes.com's 'Drunkest Cities'
1. Milwaukee
2. Minneapolis-St. Paul
3. Columbus, Ohio
4. Boston
5. Austin, Texas
6. Chicago
7. Cleveland
8. Pittsburgh
9. Philadelphia
9. Providence, R.I. (tie)
11. St. Louis
12. San Antonio
13. Seattle
14. Las Vegas
15. Denver/Boulder
16. Cincinnati
16. Kansas City (tie)
18. Houston
19. Portland, Ore.
20. San Francisco-Oakland
20. Washington-Baltimore (tie)
22. Phoenix
23. Los Angeles
24. New Orleans
24. Tampa (tied)
26. Norfolk
27. Dallas-Fort Worth
28. Atlanta
28. Detroit (tie)
30. Indianapolis
31. Orlando
32. New York
33. Miami
34. Charlotte, N.C.
35. Nashville
Forbes said it used numbers from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to rank cities in five areas: state laws, number of drinkers, number of heavy drinkers, number of binge drinkers and alcoholism.
Originally published 9/14/2006
Forbes.com's 'Drunkest Cities'
1. Milwaukee
2. Minneapolis-St. Paul
3. Columbus, Ohio
4. Boston
5. Austin, Texas
6. Chicago
7. Cleveland
8. Pittsburgh
9. Philadelphia
9. Providence, R.I. (tie)
11. St. Louis
12. San Antonio
13. Seattle
14. Las Vegas
15. Denver/Boulder
16. Cincinnati
16. Kansas City (tie)
18. Houston
19. Portland, Ore.
20. San Francisco-Oakland
20. Washington-Baltimore (tie)
22. Phoenix
23. Los Angeles
24. New Orleans
24. Tampa (tied)
26. Norfolk
27. Dallas-Fort Worth
28. Atlanta
28. Detroit (tie)
30. Indianapolis
31. Orlando
32. New York
33. Miami
34. Charlotte, N.C.
35. Nashville
Forbes said it used numbers from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to rank cities in five areas: state laws, number of drinkers, number of heavy drinkers, number of binge drinkers and alcoholism.
brilliant business idea 2006
brilliant business idea
Originally published 7/17/2006
actual ad in Tacoma Weekly classifieds:
"Boogie Chillin" a George Thorogood tribute band needs a guitarist to play the part of George. Must sing lead and play slide guitar. 360-877-9464.
Originally published 7/17/2006
actual ad in Tacoma Weekly classifieds:
"Boogie Chillin" a George Thorogood tribute band needs a guitarist to play the part of George. Must sing lead and play slide guitar. 360-877-9464.
Big poker tourney - Part 1 2006
Big poker tourney - Part 1
Originally published 6/5/2006
Big tourn
I went to play in the US Tournament Poker quarterly tournament. USTP is a league where you play free poker in bars all over the Portland area. If you win one of these nightly tournaments, or do well in it, you get little prizes as well as points that add up to qualify you for this big quarterly tournament. I qualified this time. The quarterly involves hundreds of players and takes all day. You report there by 9:30 a.m., to the Elks Lodge in Milwaukie, Ore., and play until there is one person left. Of course it could be a very short tournament for you, if you get knocked out quick. I had booked a gig for that evening, before I knew that the big tournament would be that day or that I would playing in it. I didn't want to cancel the gig, but I went to the tournament wondering what if I do well and it starts getting late and I have to leave for the gig? The gig started at 8 p.m., and I had to haul and set up my own PA, so I'd have to get there early. And it was way north of Portland, and the tournament was way south, so I'd have a 45-minute drive to get there.
I get to the tournament, sign in, stand around and wait. They're selling breakfasts, coffee, drinks. They don't let you bring any of your own food or beverages in. And the stuff they're selling is not cheap. Guess the Elks want to make a few bucks on this too. I've already had breakfast and I don't want a drink at this hour, so I walk around, say hello to a few people I know from my home-bar games, get a book out of the car and read. Finally they let us sit down at the tables but then there are lots of announcements, introductions, raffles, etc. The chips are distributed – we don't start equal. It depends on how many wins and points you have. The range is about 3,000 to 10,000. I'm starting with 4,500. Finally, a little before 11 am, we deal the first hand.
I don't know about the cards, but my table seating turns out to be lucky right away. One of the eight people at our table introduces himself as the owner of one of the bars that hosts poker games. His name is Mike Wren and the bar is Wrenegades. His bar had been giving away T-shirts to people who signed up for a new poker web site and mailing list he was starting. He's a big, jovial guy. He's smiling, joking, and soon asking when we're going to start drinking at this table. "As soon as you buy a round," I say, half-joking. "I'll buy a round if we can get a waitress over here," he says. It's a great big room with hundreds of people playing at dozens of tables, and it looks like only one waitress working it. Oh don't worry, we'll get her, the woman next to me and I both pipe up. We get her attention and she comes over and Mike says "I want to buy a round for the table." She starts to walk away and we call her back. "Oh, I thought you were kidding," she says. We place our orders and thank Mike and drink up. When the glasses become empty he orders us another round. And then another. It's before lunch still. Our table has become the loud one in the room, everyone laughing, shouting, having a ball. People keep looking over to see what's going on at our table. And we're playing slow and friendly. While the other tables are getting combined as people get knocked out, no one gets eliminated from our table for a very long time. Of course Mike tells us to keep him in so he can keep buying rounds. Sounds good.
But finally the party ends – a few people get eliminated from our table and our drinking party gets dispersed among the other table in the room. Fortunately another guy from my original table gets sent to the same one as I do, so I'm not the only drunk at the new table. But still it takes me awhile to adapt to the idea that I'm playing in a serious poker tournament, not just drinking and playing cards for fun. The other players don't take me real seriously, either, with my fancy getup (most of them are in T-shirts but I'm wearing a jacket, white shirt and skull bola tie) and shaker (an African gourd shaker with cowry shells, which I use to hold my cards down, and shake at key moments) and drunken demeanor. But one hand gets their attention and puts me way up: I start off with QT. And for some reason I raise preflop with it. A couple of people call. And the dream flop hits: QQT. Since I already bet before the flop, I go ahead and make a moderate bet on the flop instead of slowplaying. Sure enough, one guy calls. The next card is a 7. He checks and I check, smiling as if I had just been testing him before. The last card is another rag and – oh yes – he bets into me. I reraise all in. He calls. I show my hand and he folds his. Doubles me up and demoralizes him.
Soon we break for lunch and I sober up during it. I come back and soon get sent to another table, and good thing, because this one has turned sour on me. I'm down low when I move, and a few bad hands make me even lower. In fact I get down to 500, when the blinds are 200 and 400! But the new table eventually proves berry berry good for me. The cards start coming and I play 'em strong. Soon I'm one of the chip leaders in the tournament. I check the clock and start to worry: jeez, it looks like I might be here for awhile. I don't want to willfully blow the tournament. But I do have to make that gig. The printed schedule shows a dinner break starting at 6:15 p.m. That would be a good time for me to head out of here. But if I'm still in the running then what to do?
They start announcing how many people are left as it gets close to 50, the cutoff for being "in the money" – or in the prizes anyway. They ask us to deal one hand at a time and then wait to see how many people are still left. They announce 56, 54, etc. It gets down to 50, the milestone, and I'm still in. Very much in. It gets down to 30, and then down to two tables, and I'm still in and doing well. I'm pulling strong moves such as: I limp in with pocket 5s. The flop comes 679. Not a great flop for me, as anybody pairing one of those cards has me beat. But those are not the kind of cards people usually go in with. I make a test bet, and two people call but no one raises. OK. The next card is a 9. OK, if the first 9 didn't help anyone, neither did this one. I go all in, representing the 9. I get a caller! He's on a straight draw, I guess, but he doesn't get it. I'm doubled up again.
A little later I have my only dispute of the tournament, against that same guy, Bill. Another player at our table, with a very short stack, goes all in on the big blind. Bill and I are the two callers. We both check on the flop and on the turn. The last card is a K, pairing me up. Since the pot is so small I don't want to bet a lot and scare Bill out; I just want to get a few more chips out of him. So I bet 300 into a pot of 600. But someone at the table points out that the minimum bet is 800, which was the big blind (if the all-in had been able to afford that).
Originally published 6/5/2006
Big tourn
I went to play in the US Tournament Poker quarterly tournament. USTP is a league where you play free poker in bars all over the Portland area. If you win one of these nightly tournaments, or do well in it, you get little prizes as well as points that add up to qualify you for this big quarterly tournament. I qualified this time. The quarterly involves hundreds of players and takes all day. You report there by 9:30 a.m., to the Elks Lodge in Milwaukie, Ore., and play until there is one person left. Of course it could be a very short tournament for you, if you get knocked out quick. I had booked a gig for that evening, before I knew that the big tournament would be that day or that I would playing in it. I didn't want to cancel the gig, but I went to the tournament wondering what if I do well and it starts getting late and I have to leave for the gig? The gig started at 8 p.m., and I had to haul and set up my own PA, so I'd have to get there early. And it was way north of Portland, and the tournament was way south, so I'd have a 45-minute drive to get there.
I get to the tournament, sign in, stand around and wait. They're selling breakfasts, coffee, drinks. They don't let you bring any of your own food or beverages in. And the stuff they're selling is not cheap. Guess the Elks want to make a few bucks on this too. I've already had breakfast and I don't want a drink at this hour, so I walk around, say hello to a few people I know from my home-bar games, get a book out of the car and read. Finally they let us sit down at the tables but then there are lots of announcements, introductions, raffles, etc. The chips are distributed – we don't start equal. It depends on how many wins and points you have. The range is about 3,000 to 10,000. I'm starting with 4,500. Finally, a little before 11 am, we deal the first hand.
I don't know about the cards, but my table seating turns out to be lucky right away. One of the eight people at our table introduces himself as the owner of one of the bars that hosts poker games. His name is Mike Wren and the bar is Wrenegades. His bar had been giving away T-shirts to people who signed up for a new poker web site and mailing list he was starting. He's a big, jovial guy. He's smiling, joking, and soon asking when we're going to start drinking at this table. "As soon as you buy a round," I say, half-joking. "I'll buy a round if we can get a waitress over here," he says. It's a great big room with hundreds of people playing at dozens of tables, and it looks like only one waitress working it. Oh don't worry, we'll get her, the woman next to me and I both pipe up. We get her attention and she comes over and Mike says "I want to buy a round for the table." She starts to walk away and we call her back. "Oh, I thought you were kidding," she says. We place our orders and thank Mike and drink up. When the glasses become empty he orders us another round. And then another. It's before lunch still. Our table has become the loud one in the room, everyone laughing, shouting, having a ball. People keep looking over to see what's going on at our table. And we're playing slow and friendly. While the other tables are getting combined as people get knocked out, no one gets eliminated from our table for a very long time. Of course Mike tells us to keep him in so he can keep buying rounds. Sounds good.
But finally the party ends – a few people get eliminated from our table and our drinking party gets dispersed among the other table in the room. Fortunately another guy from my original table gets sent to the same one as I do, so I'm not the only drunk at the new table. But still it takes me awhile to adapt to the idea that I'm playing in a serious poker tournament, not just drinking and playing cards for fun. The other players don't take me real seriously, either, with my fancy getup (most of them are in T-shirts but I'm wearing a jacket, white shirt and skull bola tie) and shaker (an African gourd shaker with cowry shells, which I use to hold my cards down, and shake at key moments) and drunken demeanor. But one hand gets their attention and puts me way up: I start off with QT. And for some reason I raise preflop with it. A couple of people call. And the dream flop hits: QQT. Since I already bet before the flop, I go ahead and make a moderate bet on the flop instead of slowplaying. Sure enough, one guy calls. The next card is a 7. He checks and I check, smiling as if I had just been testing him before. The last card is another rag and – oh yes – he bets into me. I reraise all in. He calls. I show my hand and he folds his. Doubles me up and demoralizes him.
Soon we break for lunch and I sober up during it. I come back and soon get sent to another table, and good thing, because this one has turned sour on me. I'm down low when I move, and a few bad hands make me even lower. In fact I get down to 500, when the blinds are 200 and 400! But the new table eventually proves berry berry good for me. The cards start coming and I play 'em strong. Soon I'm one of the chip leaders in the tournament. I check the clock and start to worry: jeez, it looks like I might be here for awhile. I don't want to willfully blow the tournament. But I do have to make that gig. The printed schedule shows a dinner break starting at 6:15 p.m. That would be a good time for me to head out of here. But if I'm still in the running then what to do?
They start announcing how many people are left as it gets close to 50, the cutoff for being "in the money" – or in the prizes anyway. They ask us to deal one hand at a time and then wait to see how many people are still left. They announce 56, 54, etc. It gets down to 50, the milestone, and I'm still in. Very much in. It gets down to 30, and then down to two tables, and I'm still in and doing well. I'm pulling strong moves such as: I limp in with pocket 5s. The flop comes 679. Not a great flop for me, as anybody pairing one of those cards has me beat. But those are not the kind of cards people usually go in with. I make a test bet, and two people call but no one raises. OK. The next card is a 9. OK, if the first 9 didn't help anyone, neither did this one. I go all in, representing the 9. I get a caller! He's on a straight draw, I guess, but he doesn't get it. I'm doubled up again.
A little later I have my only dispute of the tournament, against that same guy, Bill. Another player at our table, with a very short stack, goes all in on the big blind. Bill and I are the two callers. We both check on the flop and on the turn. The last card is a K, pairing me up. Since the pot is so small I don't want to bet a lot and scare Bill out; I just want to get a few more chips out of him. So I bet 300 into a pot of 600. But someone at the table points out that the minimum bet is 800, which was the big blind (if the all-in had been able to afford that).
Big poker tourney - Part 2 2006
Big poker tourney - Part 2
Originally published 6/5/2006
I start to pull back my 3 chips so I can think this over, but that same commenter says no, you made a move at the pot, you can't take it back. I wasn't sure I wanted to take it back anyway, but now I want a director's ruling to know what my options are. Different directors come over and say different things, but one who sounds authoritative says my choices are to increase my bet to 800 or to fold and forfeit the 300. "I'm not forfeiting anything," I say, and push the rest of the 800 in. Bill of course figures I don't have anything since I was reluctant to bet the 800, and he calls. I show the K and he can't believe it. It wasn't a lot of chips from his stack, but he's pissed. "You've been playing all day and you don't know how to bet yet," he says. "I haven't been here all day. I just got here," I say. "They've been blinding me in all day." He thinks this over before realizing I'm joking. But he's not laughing. "Go out to your car and smoke another doobie," he tells me.
I hang in there as the numbers get trimmed. I was getting some good breaks. Four times during the day I was all in (either my opponent or I was all in, that is) before the flop with A-low card against A-higher card, and I won three of those contests and split the pot in the fourth. Besides getting lucky when I needed to, I was making some bold plays and succeeding with them. Stealing blinds occasionally. Raising with marginal hands and taking down pots. My reputation grew as my stack did, enabling me to get away with more stuff.
I make it to the final table, which is very formal. Ten of us move to a big red velvet table. And there's a dealer now (before that, everyone had dealt in turn, as in a home game), dressed formally. There's an announcer with a microphone and there is an audience of at least 150 people. The announcer asks us to introduce ourselves and which bar we play at. Every one of the 10 is from a different bar, so different factions of the audience cheer in turn. There are two women at the table, including an 89-year-old! Of course she gets huge audience support, but she doesn't last long. Eric, a young player from my bar, the Interstate Lounge, is my main supporter there. I've coached Eric, as he often credits me, and helped him become a very good player who wins the weekly bar tournaments regularly. He's proud of me for getting this far. But I've told him of the gig I have to get to. He offers to go play the gig for me. No, but you can take over the poker game for me, I say. I doubt they'll allow that though. He says I'll have to just blow off the gig and keep playing. I can't, though. OK, I tell him, here's what I'm going to do: Play superaggressively. Take my nine opponents out boom, boom, boom, right around the table. End the tournament in half an hour, which is all I have.
And the plan proceeded quite well for awhile! Boom, boom, boom. I started going all in and taking out players. And shaking my shaker and delighting the crowd. And amassing chips and confusing my opponents. We got down from 10 to three in no time.
The trouble was, I lost a few thousand chips somewhere along the line, and was no longer chip leader when we got down to three. I think the time pressure helped me in that part of the tournament. But as Carl, the director of my local game, explained to me the next day, a big tournament is like about six consecutive tournaments, each requiring a different strategy. You (if you're playing correctly) play very differently in the first few rounds of a tournament from how you play in the middle or in the end. And, he says and I agree, there's a different strategy for the beginning of the final table from when it's down to three. I not only agree, I felt that at the table. When it got down to four, even, I felt like slowing down, tightening up, settling in. But I did not have time to do that. I had to just keep going nuts, forcing all-in confrontations and hoping the chips would go my way.
Soon after we got down to three, the guy with the big stack was first to act, and he raised into me. Now, from the way I had been playing, he should have expected me to reraise all in. And I didn't disappoint him. I held KQ suited, and I reraised all in. The third player folded, and the original raiser called, putting my chips all at risk. We flipped up our cards and he held AK offsuit. I'm at a big but not overwhelming disadvantage. I could pair up the Q or get a flush or straight to win. I've made better catches during the day, that's for sure! But it was not to happen this time. An A and a K came up on the flop. Then another A after that, I think. I wasn't really looking too hard after that. I shook my opponents' hands, went to the side to have my official photo taken, and accepted my little prize.
The prize? For coming in third out of hundreds? A piece of poker jewelry. I don't know what it's worth, probably no more than $25. Second prize is the same thing. Only first place is a significant prize: a trip to a major real-money tournament in Lake Tahoe, including all expenses and buy-in. Or $1500 in chips for a local Indian casino. And you can go to the casino and cash in the chips if you want. So it's $1500 for first, $10 (assuming you could sell the jewelry for that) for second and for third. Really a winner-takes-all tournament. It took awhile for that to sink in. I was still excited about getting so far in the tournament, and rushing to try to make my gig in time. It took a bit for it to sink in that I had come so close to winning $1500 and blew it at the end. Or failed to do it, anyway. Very sad. They hold these tournaments every three months, and I'll try to make sure I don't have a gig to run to next time, but it's not like I'm likely to get to the top three again next time. For example: the guy who won the previous tournament was first out this time! A lot of things have to happen right for me to ever get the chance again. Well, I guess it was a learning experience for me. And an enjoyable one, most of the time. And I got a few free drinks and met some nice people. I might get a gig at Wrenegades. And Carl is baking a cake to celebrate my success (to him and to everyone else from my little bar, this was a great success) at this Thursday's game.
After driving frantically, I made it to the gig just on time – if I didn't have such a lengthy setup. The restaurant, Mark's on the Channel, is really on a channel. It's one of those dockside places, and you have to park far away and walk across a long metal dock and then a couple of wooden ones to get in. I had to make about five trips to carry all my gear over there. But the manager didn't mind at all, and neither did the customers. It was a rockin' evening and I was very well received and very happy that no matter what happens on the poker table I can still play the blues.
Originally published 6/5/2006
I start to pull back my 3 chips so I can think this over, but that same commenter says no, you made a move at the pot, you can't take it back. I wasn't sure I wanted to take it back anyway, but now I want a director's ruling to know what my options are. Different directors come over and say different things, but one who sounds authoritative says my choices are to increase my bet to 800 or to fold and forfeit the 300. "I'm not forfeiting anything," I say, and push the rest of the 800 in. Bill of course figures I don't have anything since I was reluctant to bet the 800, and he calls. I show the K and he can't believe it. It wasn't a lot of chips from his stack, but he's pissed. "You've been playing all day and you don't know how to bet yet," he says. "I haven't been here all day. I just got here," I say. "They've been blinding me in all day." He thinks this over before realizing I'm joking. But he's not laughing. "Go out to your car and smoke another doobie," he tells me.
I hang in there as the numbers get trimmed. I was getting some good breaks. Four times during the day I was all in (either my opponent or I was all in, that is) before the flop with A-low card against A-higher card, and I won three of those contests and split the pot in the fourth. Besides getting lucky when I needed to, I was making some bold plays and succeeding with them. Stealing blinds occasionally. Raising with marginal hands and taking down pots. My reputation grew as my stack did, enabling me to get away with more stuff.
I make it to the final table, which is very formal. Ten of us move to a big red velvet table. And there's a dealer now (before that, everyone had dealt in turn, as in a home game), dressed formally. There's an announcer with a microphone and there is an audience of at least 150 people. The announcer asks us to introduce ourselves and which bar we play at. Every one of the 10 is from a different bar, so different factions of the audience cheer in turn. There are two women at the table, including an 89-year-old! Of course she gets huge audience support, but she doesn't last long. Eric, a young player from my bar, the Interstate Lounge, is my main supporter there. I've coached Eric, as he often credits me, and helped him become a very good player who wins the weekly bar tournaments regularly. He's proud of me for getting this far. But I've told him of the gig I have to get to. He offers to go play the gig for me. No, but you can take over the poker game for me, I say. I doubt they'll allow that though. He says I'll have to just blow off the gig and keep playing. I can't, though. OK, I tell him, here's what I'm going to do: Play superaggressively. Take my nine opponents out boom, boom, boom, right around the table. End the tournament in half an hour, which is all I have.
And the plan proceeded quite well for awhile! Boom, boom, boom. I started going all in and taking out players. And shaking my shaker and delighting the crowd. And amassing chips and confusing my opponents. We got down from 10 to three in no time.
The trouble was, I lost a few thousand chips somewhere along the line, and was no longer chip leader when we got down to three. I think the time pressure helped me in that part of the tournament. But as Carl, the director of my local game, explained to me the next day, a big tournament is like about six consecutive tournaments, each requiring a different strategy. You (if you're playing correctly) play very differently in the first few rounds of a tournament from how you play in the middle or in the end. And, he says and I agree, there's a different strategy for the beginning of the final table from when it's down to three. I not only agree, I felt that at the table. When it got down to four, even, I felt like slowing down, tightening up, settling in. But I did not have time to do that. I had to just keep going nuts, forcing all-in confrontations and hoping the chips would go my way.
Soon after we got down to three, the guy with the big stack was first to act, and he raised into me. Now, from the way I had been playing, he should have expected me to reraise all in. And I didn't disappoint him. I held KQ suited, and I reraised all in. The third player folded, and the original raiser called, putting my chips all at risk. We flipped up our cards and he held AK offsuit. I'm at a big but not overwhelming disadvantage. I could pair up the Q or get a flush or straight to win. I've made better catches during the day, that's for sure! But it was not to happen this time. An A and a K came up on the flop. Then another A after that, I think. I wasn't really looking too hard after that. I shook my opponents' hands, went to the side to have my official photo taken, and accepted my little prize.
The prize? For coming in third out of hundreds? A piece of poker jewelry. I don't know what it's worth, probably no more than $25. Second prize is the same thing. Only first place is a significant prize: a trip to a major real-money tournament in Lake Tahoe, including all expenses and buy-in. Or $1500 in chips for a local Indian casino. And you can go to the casino and cash in the chips if you want. So it's $1500 for first, $10 (assuming you could sell the jewelry for that) for second and for third. Really a winner-takes-all tournament. It took awhile for that to sink in. I was still excited about getting so far in the tournament, and rushing to try to make my gig in time. It took a bit for it to sink in that I had come so close to winning $1500 and blew it at the end. Or failed to do it, anyway. Very sad. They hold these tournaments every three months, and I'll try to make sure I don't have a gig to run to next time, but it's not like I'm likely to get to the top three again next time. For example: the guy who won the previous tournament was first out this time! A lot of things have to happen right for me to ever get the chance again. Well, I guess it was a learning experience for me. And an enjoyable one, most of the time. And I got a few free drinks and met some nice people. I might get a gig at Wrenegades. And Carl is baking a cake to celebrate my success (to him and to everyone else from my little bar, this was a great success) at this Thursday's game.
After driving frantically, I made it to the gig just on time – if I didn't have such a lengthy setup. The restaurant, Mark's on the Channel, is really on a channel. It's one of those dockside places, and you have to park far away and walk across a long metal dock and then a couple of wooden ones to get in. I had to make about five trips to carry all my gear over there. But the manager didn't mind at all, and neither did the customers. It was a rockin' evening and I was very well received and very happy that no matter what happens on the poker table I can still play the blues.
playing for Do and Bo 2006
playing for Do and Bo
Originally published 6/1/2006
I was on the schedule at the Northwest Folklife Festival this past weekend in Seattle, but decided to try a little busking besides. I was singing and playing my friend Thomas Corlett’s metal guitar, with Thomas playing clarinet and my sweetie Taizz Medalia on spoons. We were doing fine, attracting and holding a little crowd (which is an accomplishment at that festival, with so much music to compete with) and even making a few bucks. But the big thrill, for me, was when a woman walked up and asked if the guitar was a National. Yes, it is, I said. A newish one. “I have an old one,” she said. I asked her about it and how she acquired it. “My grandfather is the inventor of these guitars,” she said. Sure enough! She is Teresa Dopyera, granddaughter of John Dopyera, inventor of resonator guitars. (The family name became part of “Do-bro,” short for “Dopyera Brothers.”) Very cool to meet and play a National for her. Reminds me of about five years ago when I was playing at a ice-cream parlor/coffeehouse in Newport News, Va., and a woman started singing along, quite musically. She offered to sing a few alone if I’d back her. She was good, although the songs were kind of jazzy for me to follow! I asked her if she played guitar and she said, “My father does, but he never had time to teach me, he was always on the road.” I asked his name and she told me: Bo Diddley!
Originally published 6/1/2006
I was on the schedule at the Northwest Folklife Festival this past weekend in Seattle, but decided to try a little busking besides. I was singing and playing my friend Thomas Corlett’s metal guitar, with Thomas playing clarinet and my sweetie Taizz Medalia on spoons. We were doing fine, attracting and holding a little crowd (which is an accomplishment at that festival, with so much music to compete with) and even making a few bucks. But the big thrill, for me, was when a woman walked up and asked if the guitar was a National. Yes, it is, I said. A newish one. “I have an old one,” she said. I asked her about it and how she acquired it. “My grandfather is the inventor of these guitars,” she said. Sure enough! She is Teresa Dopyera, granddaughter of John Dopyera, inventor of resonator guitars. (The family name became part of “Do-bro,” short for “Dopyera Brothers.”) Very cool to meet and play a National for her. Reminds me of about five years ago when I was playing at a ice-cream parlor/coffeehouse in Newport News, Va., and a woman started singing along, quite musically. She offered to sing a few alone if I’d back her. She was good, although the songs were kind of jazzy for me to follow! I asked her if she played guitar and she said, “My father does, but he never had time to teach me, he was always on the road.” I asked his name and she told me: Bo Diddley!
Bluesman comic book 2006
Bluesman comic book
Originally published 5/19/2006
I guess they call them "graphic novels" now when they're for grownups. I found this at my local library the other day: Bluesman : a twelve bar graphic narrative in the key of life and death. by Rob Vollmar & Pablo C. Callejo. The story includes a lot of stereotypes but it's not condescending. It paints the two main characters as hardworking musicians in a rough world (America in the 1930s). A jook joint, appropriately, is where most of it is set. Drawings are crude but sometimes evocative. If you enjoy other fictionalized blues tales, such as the movie Crossroads or Alan Greenberg's Love in Vain screenplay (I have to admit that for all their faults and stereotypes I enjoyed both immensely) you'll probably dig this too. And if you do like it there's more! I've requested part 2 from the library and there is a part 3 too, that they don't have yet.
Originally published 5/19/2006
I guess they call them "graphic novels" now when they're for grownups. I found this at my local library the other day: Bluesman : a twelve bar graphic narrative in the key of life and death. by Rob Vollmar & Pablo C. Callejo. The story includes a lot of stereotypes but it's not condescending. It paints the two main characters as hardworking musicians in a rough world (America in the 1930s). A jook joint, appropriately, is where most of it is set. Drawings are crude but sometimes evocative. If you enjoy other fictionalized blues tales, such as the movie Crossroads or Alan Greenberg's Love in Vain screenplay (I have to admit that for all their faults and stereotypes I enjoyed both immensely) you'll probably dig this too. And if you do like it there's more! I've requested part 2 from the library and there is a part 3 too, that they don't have yet.
new bourbon and make that rye 2005
new bourbon
Originally published 10/15/2005
Bulleit bourbon --
Taizz wanted another bottle of Knob Creek but Bulleit was on sale ($21 compared with $34 for Knob Creek, fifth) so we tried it. Comes in old-West-style bottle. But it sure ain't just hype! Very nice drink. Has a little corn bite too it, but also got that smooth wood-aged depth and some sweetness. Oh boy. This'll getcha through the winter.
Make that rye
Originally published 10/15/2005
I guess it's the high rye content, not corn, that gives Bulleit that nice bite. And it has a bite "to it," not "too it" as I wrote last entry. Maybe best not to mix blogging and bourbon. Cheers!
Originally published 10/15/2005
Bulleit bourbon --
Taizz wanted another bottle of Knob Creek but Bulleit was on sale ($21 compared with $34 for Knob Creek, fifth) so we tried it. Comes in old-West-style bottle. But it sure ain't just hype! Very nice drink. Has a little corn bite too it, but also got that smooth wood-aged depth and some sweetness. Oh boy. This'll getcha through the winter.
Make that rye
Originally published 10/15/2005
I guess it's the high rye content, not corn, that gives Bulleit that nice bite. And it has a bite "to it," not "too it" as I wrote last entry. Maybe best not to mix blogging and bourbon. Cheers!
The Festival Formerly Known as King Biscuit 2005
The Festival Formerly Known as King Biscuit
Originally published 10/13/2005
It’s absurd, but the King Biscuit Blues Festival had to change its name this year – on its 20th anniversary, no less. A dispute among the owners of the 1970s-era King Biscuit Flour Hour rock radio show; KFFA, the Helena radio sthat owns the 1940s-era (and still running) King Biscuit Time blues radio show; and the Sonny Boy Blues Society, which runs the festival. Somehow it ended, for now, with the festival having to change its name, and KFFA having to move its T-shirt booth off the main drag during the fest.
Well, it was a great festival anyway. The weather was fine, which is a rare and wonderful thing for Helena in October. I’ve seen it uncomfortably hot, windy, cold and/or rainy in other years. Last year it poured all weekend. This time it was sunny and in the low 70s. Just a sprinkle of rain on Saturday evening, then a thunderstorm late that night after the fest was over.
I admit I missed most of the acts, because I was performing so often myself: at Peaches restaurant in Jackson, twice at the Wild Hog Saloon in Helena, once at Hopson Plantation in Clarksdale and once on the festival’s acoustic stage. Plus time to shop, eat, hang out. But I did catch:
? The wonderful St Louis harpist Arthur Williams, although his band was kind of overpowering. He sounded better at Hopson with a pickup band.
? Robert Lockwood. He’s got assurance, great lyrics, and is not afraid of a real-slow tempo. Great show.
? Drink Small, who arrived late but took the stage by storm when they fit him into the sched, singing about “With so much water in the world, you don’t have to be funky.”
? Henry Gray, gentlemanly and totally rockin’.
? James Cotton, who doesn’t sing anymore but blows and blows and blows that harp. What a ball of energy!
Originally published 10/13/2005
It’s absurd, but the King Biscuit Blues Festival had to change its name this year – on its 20th anniversary, no less. A dispute among the owners of the 1970s-era King Biscuit Flour Hour rock radio show; KFFA, the Helena radio sthat owns the 1940s-era (and still running) King Biscuit Time blues radio show; and the Sonny Boy Blues Society, which runs the festival. Somehow it ended, for now, with the festival having to change its name, and KFFA having to move its T-shirt booth off the main drag during the fest.
Well, it was a great festival anyway. The weather was fine, which is a rare and wonderful thing for Helena in October. I’ve seen it uncomfortably hot, windy, cold and/or rainy in other years. Last year it poured all weekend. This time it was sunny and in the low 70s. Just a sprinkle of rain on Saturday evening, then a thunderstorm late that night after the fest was over.
I admit I missed most of the acts, because I was performing so often myself: at Peaches restaurant in Jackson, twice at the Wild Hog Saloon in Helena, once at Hopson Plantation in Clarksdale and once on the festival’s acoustic stage. Plus time to shop, eat, hang out. But I did catch:
? The wonderful St Louis harpist Arthur Williams, although his band was kind of overpowering. He sounded better at Hopson with a pickup band.
? Robert Lockwood. He’s got assurance, great lyrics, and is not afraid of a real-slow tempo. Great show.
? Drink Small, who arrived late but took the stage by storm when they fit him into the sched, singing about “With so much water in the world, you don’t have to be funky.”
? Henry Gray, gentlemanly and totally rockin’.
? James Cotton, who doesn’t sing anymore but blows and blows and blows that harp. What a ball of energy!
Where's the Delta? 2005
Where's the Delta?
Originally published 9/30/2005
Many people have asked me if my old stomping grounds in the Mississippi Delta were destroyed by Katrina, if I feel lucky to have moved out of that area before this disaster, whether they can still visit the Delta, etc. To clarify, a little geography: the famed Mississippi Delta, where Robert Johnson, Charley Patton, Son House, Muddy Waters and many others practiced their craft, is not where the Mississippi River empties into the Gulf of Mexico. The Delta is several hundred miles upstream, in the northwest part of the state of Mississippi (and the northeast part of Arkansas). Biloxi and the other cities of the Mississippi Gulf Coast were socked by Katrina's fury and flooding. The Gulf Coast is the land of shipbuilding, shrimping, resort beaches and, in recent years, casinos. It is far from the Delta and it does not have a major blues heritage. The Delta had some rough weather and power outages, but no flooding or major destruction. Also many hospitable Delta people are helping house evacuees from the flooded areas now.
So if you're thinking of visiting the Delta, now is as good a time as any. In fact, hurry up and pack and you might make it down for the 20th annual King Biscuit Blues Festival -- oops, "Arkansas Blues & Heritage Festival," as it was just renamed in a legal dispute over the name. Whatever you call it, this festival has a fabulous lineup, historic setting (on the streets of Helena, Ark.), great barbecue and just fun vibe that no other blues festival can match. I am very honored to be performing there this year, reunited with my sometime musical partner The Mississippi Spoonman, at noon Oct. 7 on the Houston Stackhouse Acoustic Stage. If you're down there, come on by and say hello! Spoonman and I also play at 7:30 p.m. Oct 7 at the Wild Hog Saloon, 325 Cherry St, Helena; and at 2:30 p.m. Oct. 9 at the annual Pinetop Perkins Homecoming at Hopson Plantation, Clarksdale, Miss.
Originally published 9/30/2005
Many people have asked me if my old stomping grounds in the Mississippi Delta were destroyed by Katrina, if I feel lucky to have moved out of that area before this disaster, whether they can still visit the Delta, etc. To clarify, a little geography: the famed Mississippi Delta, where Robert Johnson, Charley Patton, Son House, Muddy Waters and many others practiced their craft, is not where the Mississippi River empties into the Gulf of Mexico. The Delta is several hundred miles upstream, in the northwest part of the state of Mississippi (and the northeast part of Arkansas). Biloxi and the other cities of the Mississippi Gulf Coast were socked by Katrina's fury and flooding. The Gulf Coast is the land of shipbuilding, shrimping, resort beaches and, in recent years, casinos. It is far from the Delta and it does not have a major blues heritage. The Delta had some rough weather and power outages, but no flooding or major destruction. Also many hospitable Delta people are helping house evacuees from the flooded areas now.
So if you're thinking of visiting the Delta, now is as good a time as any. In fact, hurry up and pack and you might make it down for the 20th annual King Biscuit Blues Festival -- oops, "Arkansas Blues & Heritage Festival," as it was just renamed in a legal dispute over the name. Whatever you call it, this festival has a fabulous lineup, historic setting (on the streets of Helena, Ark.), great barbecue and just fun vibe that no other blues festival can match. I am very honored to be performing there this year, reunited with my sometime musical partner The Mississippi Spoonman, at noon Oct. 7 on the Houston Stackhouse Acoustic Stage. If you're down there, come on by and say hello! Spoonman and I also play at 7:30 p.m. Oct 7 at the Wild Hog Saloon, 325 Cherry St, Helena; and at 2:30 p.m. Oct. 9 at the annual Pinetop Perkins Homecoming at Hopson Plantation, Clarksdale, Miss.
Something about the Delta 2004
Something about the Delta
Originally published 6/6/2004
I’m back from a week in Charleston (South Carolina, not Mississippi) and I had a wonderful time. It’s a very historic and cultural city. Small but growing quickly, rather cosmopolitan compared with any town in Mississippi (even Jackson). Yet it’s still Southern, in the nice sense. People are friendly and barbecue is good. There’s even quite a bit of blues.
But still…there is something about this part of the South over here, the Delta. The shuttle driver, from Memphis airport to parking lot, was playing BB King on the van stereo. And in the car I turned on the radio and heard Big Joe Williams. Then a few days later I played at a blues brunch at Ground Zero, Morgan Freeman's club in Clarksdale. Morgan was not there (although I have met him there before). But lots of other interesting people were: a film crew doing a documentary on hot tamales (afterwards, out front, I played on their pre-film, the footage they’re gathering to seek funding for the real film). Gypsy, a Japanese bluesman who visits three or four times a year, and leaves his guitar at the Riverside Hotel in Clarksdale between visits. He doesn’t speak much English (although he does sing in accurate but accented English), but he kept saying "I'm so lucky" when he saw that I would be playing. Sweet guy. Three charming middle-aged black women from San Francisco, who left the husbands home and came here to do the blues tour. They already had the first edition of my book as their guide but they each bought a copy of the new one from me, from the stage. I even met an artsy-hippie-biker couple who just moved here from Florida, and it turns out the guy is originally from my hometown, Rochester. Everything happens in the Delta, and everyone comes here!
Originally published 6/6/2004
I’m back from a week in Charleston (South Carolina, not Mississippi) and I had a wonderful time. It’s a very historic and cultural city. Small but growing quickly, rather cosmopolitan compared with any town in Mississippi (even Jackson). Yet it’s still Southern, in the nice sense. People are friendly and barbecue is good. There’s even quite a bit of blues.
But still…there is something about this part of the South over here, the Delta. The shuttle driver, from Memphis airport to parking lot, was playing BB King on the van stereo. And in the car I turned on the radio and heard Big Joe Williams. Then a few days later I played at a blues brunch at Ground Zero, Morgan Freeman's club in Clarksdale. Morgan was not there (although I have met him there before). But lots of other interesting people were: a film crew doing a documentary on hot tamales (afterwards, out front, I played on their pre-film, the footage they’re gathering to seek funding for the real film). Gypsy, a Japanese bluesman who visits three or four times a year, and leaves his guitar at the Riverside Hotel in Clarksdale between visits. He doesn’t speak much English (although he does sing in accurate but accented English), but he kept saying "I'm so lucky" when he saw that I would be playing. Sweet guy. Three charming middle-aged black women from San Francisco, who left the husbands home and came here to do the blues tour. They already had the first edition of my book as their guide but they each bought a copy of the new one from me, from the stage. I even met an artsy-hippie-biker couple who just moved here from Florida, and it turns out the guy is originally from my hometown, Rochester. Everything happens in the Delta, and everyone comes here!
Blues for kids? 2004
Blues for kids?
Originally published 5/26/2004
I have tended to shy away from doing “blues in the schools” programs. Well, I did once do a weeklong residency with inner-city middle-school kids in Charleston. And I did a weekly harmonica class with adolescent offenders in Greenwood for awhile. And I taught a four-hour (!) – or was it six-hour? – children’s blues workshop one day at a museum. And I was one of a bunch of harmonica players who did a daylong teach-in in Glendora, Sonny Boy’s hometown, on his birthday a few years ago. And all those activities turned out fine, despite my trepidation beforehand. But recently I was asked to do a program in the auditorium of an elementary school, during National Music Week, for the whole school -- 400 kids!
I said yes. I don’t pass up work if I can help it. But I was anxious about this assignment. All the other children’s programs I’ve done have involved small groups of kids. And the key to success is, you get them doing something. Get them playing instruments, making instruments, anything physical. But on a stage in front of 400 kids, it’s not feasible to get them all doing something (I did ask Spoonman to come help, thinking we could pass out 400 pairs of plastic spoons, but he declined). I perform in front of 400 or more adults, no problem. But adults will sit and listen, and they’ll usually be polite even if they’re not enjoying themselves. With kids, I didn’t think they’d sit still for long listening to me talk and sing and play.
But anyway, it worked fine. For one thing, all the teachers were there, too, so I didn’t really have to maintain order. But the kids got into it right away. And they seemed to know quite a bit about music, and even about blues. They do have a full-time music teacher at the school – I was surprised, since I always read about arts cutbacks in public schools. I asked questions a lot during my talk, and they raised hands eagerly and usually knew the answers.
I talked about how and when blues started, how it’s related to other music genres, what its words are about. I demonstrated harmonica, guitar, metal guitar, and explained why they are used in blues.
And I played songs, and managed to pick songs from my repertoire that are appropriate for all ages. That’s one beef I have with the whole “blues in the schools” concept: 90 percent of blues songs are about love. And not love between parent and child, or love for all mankind or anything like that. You know, real love, sex, abandonment, hostility, sex, violence, sex, all that. And if you water it down, and try to write kids’ blues songs like “My dog ate my homework this morning,” you’re missing the point, and not really teaching the kids about blues.
But anyway, I managed to pick real blues songs, and some African-American folk songs, that don’t have any lyrics that would get me banned from school: “Polly Put Your Kettle On” (prefaced by talking about Sonny Boy Williamson, from this area), “Spike Driver Blues,” (by John Hurt, from a town very close to here), “Come On in My Kitchen” (Robert Johnson, who died here), “Shortnin’ Bread,” “Fishing Blues.”
I had the whole group clap along on most of the songs, and tried to get them all to sing on a few. On the final two songs, I brought volunteers up from the audience to play washboard, tambourine and shakers. They loved that of course.
The teachers enjoyed it too, and asked me to come back soon. I think I could do more of this kind of gig. Nice work, short hours, and it’s in the daytime!
Originally published 5/26/2004
I have tended to shy away from doing “blues in the schools” programs. Well, I did once do a weeklong residency with inner-city middle-school kids in Charleston. And I did a weekly harmonica class with adolescent offenders in Greenwood for awhile. And I taught a four-hour (!) – or was it six-hour? – children’s blues workshop one day at a museum. And I was one of a bunch of harmonica players who did a daylong teach-in in Glendora, Sonny Boy’s hometown, on his birthday a few years ago. And all those activities turned out fine, despite my trepidation beforehand. But recently I was asked to do a program in the auditorium of an elementary school, during National Music Week, for the whole school -- 400 kids!
I said yes. I don’t pass up work if I can help it. But I was anxious about this assignment. All the other children’s programs I’ve done have involved small groups of kids. And the key to success is, you get them doing something. Get them playing instruments, making instruments, anything physical. But on a stage in front of 400 kids, it’s not feasible to get them all doing something (I did ask Spoonman to come help, thinking we could pass out 400 pairs of plastic spoons, but he declined). I perform in front of 400 or more adults, no problem. But adults will sit and listen, and they’ll usually be polite even if they’re not enjoying themselves. With kids, I didn’t think they’d sit still for long listening to me talk and sing and play.
But anyway, it worked fine. For one thing, all the teachers were there, too, so I didn’t really have to maintain order. But the kids got into it right away. And they seemed to know quite a bit about music, and even about blues. They do have a full-time music teacher at the school – I was surprised, since I always read about arts cutbacks in public schools. I asked questions a lot during my talk, and they raised hands eagerly and usually knew the answers.
I talked about how and when blues started, how it’s related to other music genres, what its words are about. I demonstrated harmonica, guitar, metal guitar, and explained why they are used in blues.
And I played songs, and managed to pick songs from my repertoire that are appropriate for all ages. That’s one beef I have with the whole “blues in the schools” concept: 90 percent of blues songs are about love. And not love between parent and child, or love for all mankind or anything like that. You know, real love, sex, abandonment, hostility, sex, violence, sex, all that. And if you water it down, and try to write kids’ blues songs like “My dog ate my homework this morning,” you’re missing the point, and not really teaching the kids about blues.
But anyway, I managed to pick real blues songs, and some African-American folk songs, that don’t have any lyrics that would get me banned from school: “Polly Put Your Kettle On” (prefaced by talking about Sonny Boy Williamson, from this area), “Spike Driver Blues,” (by John Hurt, from a town very close to here), “Come On in My Kitchen” (Robert Johnson, who died here), “Shortnin’ Bread,” “Fishing Blues.”
I had the whole group clap along on most of the songs, and tried to get them all to sing on a few. On the final two songs, I brought volunteers up from the audience to play washboard, tambourine and shakers. They loved that of course.
The teachers enjoyed it too, and asked me to come back soon. I think I could do more of this kind of gig. Nice work, short hours, and it’s in the daytime!
blind steet singer 2004
blind steet singer
Originally published 5/24/2004
“A blind beggar wearing dark glasses, with a cottony gray beard, plucked chords on a mandolin as he sang a heartrending song about the sinking of the Titanic. On his shoulder stood a parrot picking at its feathers with its beak. The beggar’s wife, young and as agile as a dancer, collected alms in a tambourine.”
Wow, that description sounds like quite the blues or gospel act, eh? William and Versey Smith? Or some other duo in a southern town around 1920?
Nope. That passage is from Isaac Bashevis Singer, A Day of Pleasure, and it took place in a ghetto, but not of the type you might have thought. It’s a scene from a Jewish neighborhood in Warsaw, around 1913.
So Singer’s street performer was not playing the blues, although he may have had the blues. On the other hand, he was doing OK, with that agile young wife. And he’s playing a mandolin. The parrot is a nice touch, too! Sure would love to hear what he sounded like.
The blind street singer has probably been a common figure in human societies for eons – even in the U.S., before World War II anyway, when many famous blues and gospel singers fit that description. And lots of not-so-famous ones did, too.
Originally published 5/24/2004
“A blind beggar wearing dark glasses, with a cottony gray beard, plucked chords on a mandolin as he sang a heartrending song about the sinking of the Titanic. On his shoulder stood a parrot picking at its feathers with its beak. The beggar’s wife, young and as agile as a dancer, collected alms in a tambourine.”
Wow, that description sounds like quite the blues or gospel act, eh? William and Versey Smith? Or some other duo in a southern town around 1920?
Nope. That passage is from Isaac Bashevis Singer, A Day of Pleasure, and it took place in a ghetto, but not of the type you might have thought. It’s a scene from a Jewish neighborhood in Warsaw, around 1913.
So Singer’s street performer was not playing the blues, although he may have had the blues. On the other hand, he was doing OK, with that agile young wife. And he’s playing a mandolin. The parrot is a nice touch, too! Sure would love to hear what he sounded like.
The blind street singer has probably been a common figure in human societies for eons – even in the U.S., before World War II anyway, when many famous blues and gospel singers fit that description. And lots of not-so-famous ones did, too.
Goose Pond 2004
Goose Pond
Originally published 5/24/2004
Spoonman and I have a gig at a place called Goose Pond, a hunting lodge in Money, Mississippi. It’s an engagement party on a Saturday night. Like Greenwood isn’t a small enough town – I have to find gigs 20 miles out. And this isn’t even in Money proper, it’s way out in the woods.
I drive north out of Greenwood, across the two bridges and onto Money Road. Past Little Zion Church, where Robert Johnson is buried. Past a tiny concrete-block building with an enormous transmitter, a radio station out in the middle of cottonfields. Through the few buildings that make up Money, including the falling-down grocery store where the unfortunate young Emmett Till had his fatal encounter with a white woman.
Take the second right after Money. Go across the tracks. Stay on the pavement when the road splits. Go a couple miles, cross over the McIntyre Lake bridge. At the next split in the road take a right, onto the unpaved road. You should see the Goose Pond sign. Oh yes, there it is. And a bunch of torches set up along the road, I guess this must be it. There’s a two-story building near a pond. Men drinking and socializing out front. I pull right up near the stairs, since it looks like the main action is upstairs. A half-drunk is tapping on my window before I get out of the car. If I didn’t have a gig here, I’d turn around and leave now. I roll the window down and he asks me to move the car. I’ll be happy to do that after I unload my stuff, I tell him. He does not offer to help.
I carry the guitars and other gear up the stairs. Spoonman and Jackie are already there. They’ve set up the PA in an alcove, behind a half-wall with a stuffed bobcat on it. I pet the bobcat and look around. There are deer heads all over the walls, mounted fish and birds too. We’re at one end of a big room. At the other end is a kitchen, where all the women are, working and talking. They’re all dressed sharp.
Spoonman is wearing overalls, as usual. Jackie is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “Didn’t Bob tell you this was ‘Delta formal’?” I ask her. “He asked me what kind of party this was going to be so I emailed him that info. I don’t know why he asked, he’d wear overalls no matter what.”
“I thought it was a party at a hunting camp,” she says. “He just showed me your email while we were driving up here.”
We start playing at the time we’re scheduled to. Sounds good in that big room. But hardly anybody’s there. All the parent-age men and all the young people are outside, downstairs by the beer, which is in an ice-filled boat. Some of the parent-age women are in here setting out food, along with other women who come in to talk to them, and occasionally a man who comes in for a snack or a young person who comes in to use the bathroom. Everyone who does hear us gets a charge out of it, stands and listens for awhile and smiles. The hostess assures us that people will come in later. We don’t really care either way, this is a fun gig.
As we stop for our first break, it starts raining hard, so everyone does come in. I walk around and snack and get compliments and a few hugs. When we go back up to play, we’ve got an audience, and we’re warmed up. Spoonman does his walking-out-into-the-crowd routine, playing spoons on their bodies. People are utterly amazed by that and about every song we play. I don’t know what they were expecting, but they are loving this. Guess I didn’t charge nearly enough.
The hostess is delighted too. At the end of the evening, she gives us a tip and a few beers to take home. She says everyone loved it and she’s sure we’ll get some more work out of it. But you know, not one person asked us about playing another event, and no one bought a CD. Maybe they were awestruck. Maybe they’ll call the hostess later and ask how to get hold of us. Maybe not. Maybe we gave them so much that they don’t need any more.
Spoonman, Jackie and I stand outside by the pond afterward, relaxing and receiving well-wishes and congrats from people as they leave. Spoonman comments that it’s only in the Mississippi Delta that you get such a strong reaction to blues from well-off, older white people. Even in Jackson it’s not like this, he says.
It’s true. There are blues fans all over the world. But here they have lifelong connections to it. They remember hearing their servants sing it, it reminds them of what they heard coming from a little church they used to walk by, their daddy had a bunch of old 78s, things like that. They might not have heard blues in 30 years, but then when they do they feel it deep.
It’s very dark on the way back, and the roads are muddy but somehow I manage to find my way back to the main road and head back home.
Originally published 5/24/2004
Spoonman and I have a gig at a place called Goose Pond, a hunting lodge in Money, Mississippi. It’s an engagement party on a Saturday night. Like Greenwood isn’t a small enough town – I have to find gigs 20 miles out. And this isn’t even in Money proper, it’s way out in the woods.
I drive north out of Greenwood, across the two bridges and onto Money Road. Past Little Zion Church, where Robert Johnson is buried. Past a tiny concrete-block building with an enormous transmitter, a radio station out in the middle of cottonfields. Through the few buildings that make up Money, including the falling-down grocery store where the unfortunate young Emmett Till had his fatal encounter with a white woman.
Take the second right after Money. Go across the tracks. Stay on the pavement when the road splits. Go a couple miles, cross over the McIntyre Lake bridge. At the next split in the road take a right, onto the unpaved road. You should see the Goose Pond sign. Oh yes, there it is. And a bunch of torches set up along the road, I guess this must be it. There’s a two-story building near a pond. Men drinking and socializing out front. I pull right up near the stairs, since it looks like the main action is upstairs. A half-drunk is tapping on my window before I get out of the car. If I didn’t have a gig here, I’d turn around and leave now. I roll the window down and he asks me to move the car. I’ll be happy to do that after I unload my stuff, I tell him. He does not offer to help.
I carry the guitars and other gear up the stairs. Spoonman and Jackie are already there. They’ve set up the PA in an alcove, behind a half-wall with a stuffed bobcat on it. I pet the bobcat and look around. There are deer heads all over the walls, mounted fish and birds too. We’re at one end of a big room. At the other end is a kitchen, where all the women are, working and talking. They’re all dressed sharp.
Spoonman is wearing overalls, as usual. Jackie is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “Didn’t Bob tell you this was ‘Delta formal’?” I ask her. “He asked me what kind of party this was going to be so I emailed him that info. I don’t know why he asked, he’d wear overalls no matter what.”
“I thought it was a party at a hunting camp,” she says. “He just showed me your email while we were driving up here.”
We start playing at the time we’re scheduled to. Sounds good in that big room. But hardly anybody’s there. All the parent-age men and all the young people are outside, downstairs by the beer, which is in an ice-filled boat. Some of the parent-age women are in here setting out food, along with other women who come in to talk to them, and occasionally a man who comes in for a snack or a young person who comes in to use the bathroom. Everyone who does hear us gets a charge out of it, stands and listens for awhile and smiles. The hostess assures us that people will come in later. We don’t really care either way, this is a fun gig.
As we stop for our first break, it starts raining hard, so everyone does come in. I walk around and snack and get compliments and a few hugs. When we go back up to play, we’ve got an audience, and we’re warmed up. Spoonman does his walking-out-into-the-crowd routine, playing spoons on their bodies. People are utterly amazed by that and about every song we play. I don’t know what they were expecting, but they are loving this. Guess I didn’t charge nearly enough.
The hostess is delighted too. At the end of the evening, she gives us a tip and a few beers to take home. She says everyone loved it and she’s sure we’ll get some more work out of it. But you know, not one person asked us about playing another event, and no one bought a CD. Maybe they were awestruck. Maybe they’ll call the hostess later and ask how to get hold of us. Maybe not. Maybe we gave them so much that they don’t need any more.
Spoonman, Jackie and I stand outside by the pond afterward, relaxing and receiving well-wishes and congrats from people as they leave. Spoonman comments that it’s only in the Mississippi Delta that you get such a strong reaction to blues from well-off, older white people. Even in Jackson it’s not like this, he says.
It’s true. There are blues fans all over the world. But here they have lifelong connections to it. They remember hearing their servants sing it, it reminds them of what they heard coming from a little church they used to walk by, their daddy had a bunch of old 78s, things like that. They might not have heard blues in 30 years, but then when they do they feel it deep.
It’s very dark on the way back, and the roads are muddy but somehow I manage to find my way back to the main road and head back home.
piano as decoy 2004
piano as decoy
Originally published 5/24/2004
My system was to use the piano as a decoy. I’d get a job at one of those honky-tonks along the Gulf Coast, playing piano, then some local boys who called themselves good would ask me to play a game of pool. My system was different from most of the piano players I met along the coast – Skinny Head Pete and Florida Sam. They didn’t work because they were kept up by women. – Jelly Roll Morton
That jibes well with Honeyboy Edwards' account in his marvelous book, The World Don't Owe Me Nothing. He explains, I had three ways of making it: the women, the music and the dice.
He would go to a joint and play music only until he had enough money to get into the dice game, where he would make his real money. Or to impress a woman, and get a place to stay. Musicians now think the music is supposed to be the main thing. But traditionally, it wasn’t.
Originally published 5/24/2004
My system was to use the piano as a decoy. I’d get a job at one of those honky-tonks along the Gulf Coast, playing piano, then some local boys who called themselves good would ask me to play a game of pool. My system was different from most of the piano players I met along the coast – Skinny Head Pete and Florida Sam. They didn’t work because they were kept up by women. – Jelly Roll Morton
That jibes well with Honeyboy Edwards' account in his marvelous book, The World Don't Owe Me Nothing. He explains, I had three ways of making it: the women, the music and the dice.
He would go to a joint and play music only until he had enough money to get into the dice game, where he would make his real money. Or to impress a woman, and get a place to stay. Musicians now think the music is supposed to be the main thing. But traditionally, it wasn’t.
Jellybean man 2004
Jellybean man
Originally published 5/22/2004
“Baby when you marry, you oughtn’t to marry a jellybean man.
Said, baby, when you marry, you oughtn’t to marry a jellybean man.
The women’ll all be telling you, you can’t have that whole man.”
So sang Bo Carter in “Baby When You Marry.” Or maybe he’s singing “you ought to marry,” not “oughtn’t.” From the advice he gives, citing the disadvantage of marrying each type of man, “oughtn’t” makes more sense, but it’s hard to hear the “n’t,” and maybe he’s being sardonic.
At any rate, the other types of men he warns the listener about marrying are the farming, job-working, railroad and loafing varieties – types that are as familiar today as they were when Carter sang 70 years ago.
But that “jellybean man” is puzzling. The last line of the verse clues us about what a jellybean man is, though. In the other verses, the man’s drawback has to do with his ability as a provider. But the problem with the jellybean man, from his wife’s point of view, is that he’ll have plenty of other women. So “jellybean man” appears to be 1930s slang for a “mac daddy,” a “ladies’ man,” a slick character who charms the women.
But why call that type of guy a jellybean? Probably because the jellybean is “slick,” like the guy himself, and his hairdo. Confirmation of this theory comes from none less than William Faulkner, America’s great novelist, a Mississippian like Carter. In his 1929 book The Sound and the Fury, we find this passage, in which Jason Compson angrily confronts his truant niece:
“I want to know where you go when you play out of school,” I says. “You keep off the streets or I’d see you. Who do you play with? Are you hiding out in the woods with one of those damn slick-headed jellybeans? Is that where you go?”
Faulkner, atypically helpful to his reader, provides us with a little redundancy to make the term clear. So what do you know – Nobel prizewinner William Faulkner and bluesman Bo Carter spoke in the same slang. And from what we know of their lives, neither of them was a jellybean man, despite plenty of eroticism in their works.
Originally published 5/22/2004
“Baby when you marry, you oughtn’t to marry a jellybean man.
Said, baby, when you marry, you oughtn’t to marry a jellybean man.
The women’ll all be telling you, you can’t have that whole man.”
So sang Bo Carter in “Baby When You Marry.” Or maybe he’s singing “you ought to marry,” not “oughtn’t.” From the advice he gives, citing the disadvantage of marrying each type of man, “oughtn’t” makes more sense, but it’s hard to hear the “n’t,” and maybe he’s being sardonic.
At any rate, the other types of men he warns the listener about marrying are the farming, job-working, railroad and loafing varieties – types that are as familiar today as they were when Carter sang 70 years ago.
But that “jellybean man” is puzzling. The last line of the verse clues us about what a jellybean man is, though. In the other verses, the man’s drawback has to do with his ability as a provider. But the problem with the jellybean man, from his wife’s point of view, is that he’ll have plenty of other women. So “jellybean man” appears to be 1930s slang for a “mac daddy,” a “ladies’ man,” a slick character who charms the women.
But why call that type of guy a jellybean? Probably because the jellybean is “slick,” like the guy himself, and his hairdo. Confirmation of this theory comes from none less than William Faulkner, America’s great novelist, a Mississippian like Carter. In his 1929 book The Sound and the Fury, we find this passage, in which Jason Compson angrily confronts his truant niece:
“I want to know where you go when you play out of school,” I says. “You keep off the streets or I’d see you. Who do you play with? Are you hiding out in the woods with one of those damn slick-headed jellybeans? Is that where you go?”
Faulkner, atypically helpful to his reader, provides us with a little redundancy to make the term clear. So what do you know – Nobel prizewinner William Faulkner and bluesman Bo Carter spoke in the same slang. And from what we know of their lives, neither of them was a jellybean man, despite plenty of eroticism in their works.
Road tales from Steve and Spoonman 2004
Road tales from Steve and Spoonman
Originally published 5/19/2004
The Cafe 61 gig had some excitement. It's a hip downtown-Memphis restaurant, good food, upscale blues-themed atmosphere, well-heeled young crowd. Except for one rough-looking couple who came in. They looked like trouble right away. But very interested in our music, sitting up close, making requests etc, so we had to humor them and interact with them. The guy said he had just gotten out of prison, a skinny but tough-looking, wiry white guy, lots of tattoos, spoke in a druggy growl. The woman had some teeth missing and looked tough, too, but with a nice body that she moved well, working it all the time, flirting from across the room, smiling at everyone and getting guys to buy her drinks. Her guy asked me repeatedly if he could "check out" or play my guitar. I ignored him the first few times, then started telling him no, but he persisted, "Why? Are you afraid I'll play better than you?" and such. Well, after awhile they left, followed by the whole staff. They had bolted without paying for their drinks. And when they were caught and confronted, rather than apologize, the guy cursed out the restaurant manager and told him he wasn't paying. Class act. So the manager called the cops of course. And they arrived quick. Right outside the front window, where we were playing. Blue lights illuminated the rest of the show. They each got the back seat of a cop car. There was no way I was going to let him play the guitar anyway but I wonder if he would have dashed out with it if I had. I asked the manager, "If we promise not to bring in any criminals the next time, do you want us to play here again?" He did.
Originally published 5/19/2004
The Cafe 61 gig had some excitement. It's a hip downtown-Memphis restaurant, good food, upscale blues-themed atmosphere, well-heeled young crowd. Except for one rough-looking couple who came in. They looked like trouble right away. But very interested in our music, sitting up close, making requests etc, so we had to humor them and interact with them. The guy said he had just gotten out of prison, a skinny but tough-looking, wiry white guy, lots of tattoos, spoke in a druggy growl. The woman had some teeth missing and looked tough, too, but with a nice body that she moved well, working it all the time, flirting from across the room, smiling at everyone and getting guys to buy her drinks. Her guy asked me repeatedly if he could "check out" or play my guitar. I ignored him the first few times, then started telling him no, but he persisted, "Why? Are you afraid I'll play better than you?" and such. Well, after awhile they left, followed by the whole staff. They had bolted without paying for their drinks. And when they were caught and confronted, rather than apologize, the guy cursed out the restaurant manager and told him he wasn't paying. Class act. So the manager called the cops of course. And they arrived quick. Right outside the front window, where we were playing. Blue lights illuminated the rest of the show. They each got the back seat of a cop car. There was no way I was going to let him play the guitar anyway but I wonder if he would have dashed out with it if I had. I asked the manager, "If we promise not to bring in any criminals the next time, do you want us to play here again?" He did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)