More than Instinct

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Brookville, "Golden"

Time: Night.

Bear with me here. I might not get all the way around to anything resembling a point. I'm circling, as a friend says, toward something.

I've been rereading Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses of late. I've also been, as ever, listening to a good deal of music and viewing a huge amount of art (including one installation which combined prints on rice paper with the scent of sixty pounds of loose-leaf jasmine tea, adding another sense to the mix).

And it's got me wondering how much biology has to do with our appreciation of -- and emotional responses to -- art.

The sadness inherent in minor keys, I can comprehend. A friend of mine once observed that life sings in a minor key, and life is a fragile and (physically) finite thing.

I understand the links between red and violent emotion. Your opponent/prey is bleeding, and it's up to you to keep that gusher going until (a) the threat is ended or (b) dinner is served. (There might be more than one "and" in there. I prefer not to think about that too much.)

And I get that the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump of a blues shuffle echoes the heartbeat.

But is that really all there is to it? Is it only our DNA, some trace race memory encoded in the genome, that makes the heart soar with the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria or causes us to shudder at Munch's The Scream? Why do Buson's haiku slip tiny needles into our memory centers, making us sure we should remember the scenes he describes?

Maybe there is. I'm sure there's a wealth of research on the subject (and on the subjects), all of it beyond my powers of comprehension.

But at heart (and call this blind faith if you will), I don't believe it's purely physical. I believe we're made -- fashioned -- with a spiritual bent toward beauty, toward harmony -- and yes, toward joy.

Art doesn't have to include all or even any of those elements, obviously. Sometimes, for the sake of a greater good, we must be shown what upsets, even repels us. A Modest Proposal is hardly beautiful, joyful or harmonious. Neither is Guernica. But our response to them -- horror at the effects of modern warfare, shocked compassion for starving children -- reinforce our humanity.

We are our DNA, yes. But we're more than that. We're body, mind, spirit, each resonating to its own frequency. And when those frequencies harmonize ... that's where art lives.

Cup, Mug and Glass

Tea: Hot Cinnamon Chocolate

Music: Endusk, "Four"

Time: Night.

It has been a long, productive day, marked by a triad of most excellent potables. The wellspring was the same for all three.

The "hot" in this morning's tea -- a hand-blended gift from a friend -- was more than temperature and more than cinnamon. It's seasoned with Szechuan peppercorn, which becomes more pronounced as the tea cools. It's the sort of heat one feels around the edges of the tongue, in the soft palate -- even in the teeth.

This afternoon's coffee, from Homer's Coffeehouse, was chocolate Irish cream. The same friend who sent the tea bought me the coffee, long-distance.

And tonight, after a walk that ended just as the rain began, I broke out something porty, a gift received during an impulse stop at Holy-Field Winery, and raised a silent toast to the giver.

Leaf, bean, grape ... all testaments to things that grow, take root and produce wonders. Not everything is a metaphor -- but then again, from time to time, everything is a metaphor.

Salut.

Goin 'Gnuts

Tea: Christmas:

Music: Fleuma, "Eternal Drowning"

Time: Night.

(Yeah, I know. Cheerful music the last couple of nights, huh? It's a good song, though. And wherever possible, I'm going to start posting links to the music so you can hear for yourselves.)

So I was going to write about the gnats, or midges, or whatevertheheck those little insects were that kept buzzing around me (and into my ears) while I was bagging leaves this afternoon. Then it occurred to me that I had twice as many encounters today with even more annoying creatures: People Who Are More Important Than You.

By "You," I don't mean you personally. But they do. In their world, "You" means anyone who's not them.

Case 1: I was driving to the bank, to cancel an automatic withdrawal (long story). I was in the parking lot, about to pull into a space, when a woman drove straight across my bow on her way to the drive-through lane. Never mind that I had to slam on my brakes -- which was, of course, only right. She was More Important Than You, and by "You" she meant me.

Case 2: On my way to pick up the two youngest from their (successful) drama callbacks at the high school, I saw a woman jogging down the sidewalk. The light ahead of her was red, and there was cross traffic. Rather than running in place until the light changed, however, she darted ahead, forcing a mini-jam as people (kinder than I might have been) let her cross. And well they should have done; obviously, she was More Important Than You ("You," in this case, meaning them.)

Gnats, you can swat. People, you can't -- not without incurring the wrath of weapon-bearing people in blue polyester. Pity. Any politician who can push through a "He Needed Swattin' Defense" would get my vote.

Law Enforcement Officer: "Did you swat this man?"

You (and by "You," I mean everyone within a hundred-foot radius of the Person Who Is More Important Than You): "Yes, I did. He took a full cart through the express lane."

"Never mind, then. He needed swattin'."

That's some change I could believe in.

myTunes

Tea: Christmas

Music: Arizona Amp and Alternator, "Bottom of the Barrel"

Time: Night.

My music collection (which is causing my hard drive to sag in the middle) should, by rights, belong to five or six different people.

I have rock, pop, country (most of it alt-), classical, jazz, blues, Celtic, world (whatever that means), folk, funk, old-school hip-hop ... pretty much everything but death metal, polka and gangsta rap.

(That said, anything that combined those last three -- heck yeah, I'd listen at least once.)

A good chunk of the collection came from download.com's music section. For free. And before you howl "Piracy!" ... the artists like having their music on there, because it introduces them to new fans. I know I'd never have heard of Arizona Amp and Alternator -- or Autumn's Grey Solace or Alabaster Theatre, for a sampling of A's -- were it not for that site.

The Internet has been a mixed blessing. It delivers messages from friends ... and gives racist pinheads a worldwide audience for their venom. It lets artisans sell their wares to far-flung markets ... and helps spammer/scammers fleece grandmothers. It links people with something extra to give and those who desperately need that help ... and gives the gullible a way to spread urban legends faster than you can say "Turn me on, dead man."

But on this cold night ... listening to good music and preparing to read Grant Allen's "Wolverton Tower" (Pretty smooth way to introduce tonight's scary story, huh?), I have to say: "You did okay, Al."

Radio, Radio

Tea: Jacob's Dream

Music: Gorillaz, "Feel Good Inc."

Time: Night.

I don't know if I've plugged this yet, but you seriously have to check out Pandora if you haven't already. (Yes, I did mention it once, here, but that was a setup for ghost story posting.)

Someday, I want to be able to afford all the music I want. (Yes, that's a wish for a runaway bestseller or two, or a killer career giving workshops on creativity.)

But in the meantime, this is a pretty cool way to hear music by artists I like -- and artists who mine the same musical veins. For example, I brought up Gorillaz when I signed on tonight (yes, I have it turned down so as not to wake anyone), and after "Feel Good Inc." it played "Who Cares" by Gnarls Barkley and R3D2's "Beyond the Beyond."

And while I still miss progradio.com, which had some killer obscure tracks (Giles, Giles and Fripp, anyone, or perhaps something from Camel or Gentle Giant?), my Yes, UK and King Crimson stations produce some fairly tasty morsels from the Realm of Long Songs in Weird Time Signatures. (I think that was a Yes album, but I'm not quite sure ...)

Hey ... beats most of the crap on the commercial stations.

Spanning a Gap

Tea: Iced Litchi with honey

Music: U2, "An Cat Dubh"

Time: Evening.

It happens sometimes. Tonight, I got nothing.

You should listen to this, though. It's afreakingmazing.

More proof that polished and brilliant are not always the same thing.

Put it Back.

Tea: Chai with an added espresso shot

Music: Bobby Vee, "Take Good Care of My Baby"

Time: Night.

The weekly free concert at Broadmoor Park brought home a simple but oft-ignored truth: If you're going to do somebody else's song, don't rearrange it unless you can make it better.

The headlining band had some talented musicians -- especially the drummer (a friend of my son and a future rock star if he catches the right breaks) and the bassist. The problem was with the vocal mix (thin and reedy + blues = fail) and the arrangements.

"Not Fade Away" sounded like "Kansas City" sounded like "Summertime Blues" -- and they all sounded vaguely like "I Fought the Law," which wasn't even on the set list.

Oh, well. At least it was cool out, and there were still some crabapples on the trees. I'll take my pleasures where I can find them.

Every Picture Tells a Story

Tea: Lemon

Music: AC/DC, "It's a Long Way to the Top (if You Wanna Rock 'N' Roll)"

Time: Night.

Tonight, I took my son to a picture party for his high school strings group's trip to Australia.

There was food. There were, of course, pictures. There were videos (and, as usual, the homemade one was better than the one provided by the tour company).

And there was one moment that linked generations in my family.

My late father spent some time in Australia during World War II, on R and R from the brutal island-hopping battles of the Pacific Campaign. (His Marine unit fought at Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester.)

He crossed the Pacific by ship, wondering if a torpedo would send his ship to the bottom and him into the water with the sharks. My son crossed in a jumbo jet, sleepless only because his seatmate ("some random adult from England") was snoring.

But one shot tonight -- a picture of Luna Park in Melbourne -- brought their trips together.

My father went there, escorting a young Australian woman whose sweetheart was off fighting. (It was an honorable arrangement, and my father an honorable man.) My son didn't go in, but his group stood outside the gate in the same place where his grandfather stood more than sixty years ago.

I wish they could have talked about Australia ... but I'll tell my son what I can of my father's time there. And I'll pray that he never needs R and R from a shooting war.

You What Me?

Tea: Pu Erh Dante with ginger

Music: Rammstein, "Du Hast"

Time: Night.

This one's for you, Rod Smart.

Yeah, yeah, I know ... hard rock has never been about the lyrics. And this song's been out for years. And the list of great German rock bands is about as long as the list of reasons to eat well-done steak. (Okay, so even one entry on the band list makes it longer than the steak list.)

And sure, even if you don't know that in German, "du hast mich" means "you have me" and "du hasst mich" means "you hate me" ... that repeated shout of "NEIN!" should tell you something's going on.

I'll be headed back into the gym soon, once my foot heals up. And yeah, "Du Hast" will be on the workout mix. It's not that I feel that way about anyone ... but as any musicologist could tell you (and my experience deejaying long years ago proved), music hath charms not only to soothe the savage breast, but also to rattle its chain and taunt it.

And anger in any language does wonders for the adrenalin levels ...

Six Silent Strings

Tea: Mandarin Green with eucalyptus honey

Music: Jeff Healey Band, "Angel Eyes"

Time: Night.

Jeff Healey died yesterday. Cancer. He was 41.

Never met the man ... but man, could he play.

I think it's fitting that he once covered "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." My guess is, there are other guitars crying in his memory tonight.

Line, Line, Everywhere a Line ...

Tea: Mandarin Orange with Honey

Music: Lots and lots of first lines ...

Time: Night.

So I was shooting pool at church tonight (You didn't know Baptists could do that, did you?) and one of my friends Brian (I have several) and I migrated to the topic of great opening lines to rock and roll songs.

We came up with:

"I met her in a bar (naturally), and naturally she wanted to dance ..." (The Rainmakers, "Another Guitar")

"I saw the Werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand ..." (Warren Zevon, "Werewolves of London")

"Well, I used to be disgusted, but now I try to be amused ..." (Elvis Costello & the Attractions, "(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes")

Then we ran out of time, or we likely could have gone on for hours.

We're both Rainmakers fans, so I'm sure the list would have included several more from their canon. If I had to limit it to five, not counting "Another Guitar," I'd pick:

"Somewhere under this moon tonight, my lover is holding my shadow tight ..." ("Width of a Line")

"Older than I used to be, younger than I'm gonna be ..." ("Long Gone Long")

"Thirty days have September, April, June and county jails ..." ("Thirty Days")

"I was prayin' last night when an angel broke the line ..." ("The Wages of Sin")

"Moses went up to the mountain high, to find out from God 'Why did you make us? Why?' ..." ("Let My People Go-Go")

Moving on, we have ... oh, let's go for another (baker's) dozen, in no particular order, over the years:

"I met a gin-soaked barroom queen in Memphis ..." (the Rolling Stones, "Honky Tonk Women")

"When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all ..." (Paul Simon, "Kodachrome")

"Some people call me the Space Cowboy, yeah, some call me the Gangster of Love ..." (Steve Miller, "The Joker")

"And the sign said, 'Long Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply' ..." (Five Man Electrical Band, "Signs")

"She never mentions the word 'addiction' in certain company ..." (Black Crowes, "She Talks to Angels")

"In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream ..." (Bruce Springsteen, "Born to Run")

"Well, tell me d'you think it'd be all right if I could just crash here tonight? ..." (Gin Blossoms, "Hey Jealousy")

"Do you have the time to listen to me whine about nothing and everything all at once? ..." (Green Day, "Basket Case")

"Saturday night I was downtown, working for the FBI ..." (the Hollies, "Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress")

"Sitting on a park bench, eying little girls with bad intent ..." (Jethro Tull, "Aqualung")

"Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin' for a train ..." (Janis Joplin, "Me and Bobby McGee")

"You say you want a revolution, well you know, we all want to change the world ..." (the Beatles, "Revolution")

"People try to put us d-d-d-down ..." (the Who, "My Generation")

Yeah, I know. I left out your favorite or included a song you hate. I never said it was an objective list.

Now I just need to make my exit. So here's one more, just for fun:

"'There must be some way out of here,' said the joker to the thief ..." (Bob Dylan, "All Along the Watchtower")

And that's my cue ...

Tony! Tony! Tony!

Tea: Blood Orange with Honey

Music: Edison Lighthouse, "Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes"; First Class, "Beach Baby"; White Plains, "My Baby Loves Lovin'";

Time: Night.

I found myself in a bubblegum mood tonight .... and perhaps the king of one-hit-wonderful confection is Tony Burrows.

He sang lead on all three of tonight's musical selections -- and had hits with two other "groups," The Pipkins ("Gimme Dat Ding") and The Brotherhood of Man ("United We Stand.")

So why am I writing about him?

Because sometimes, as I've said before, it's good to celebrate the unabashedly lightweight, lighthearted, lightness of a good pop song. Lots of things worse than bobbing your head and singing along with something you haven't heard in years, you know?

C'mon, sing with me ... "I'm a lucky fella, I've just gotta tell her, that I love her endlessly ..."

Pizza, Pizzicatos and Parental Pride

Tea: Blood Orange (Herbal)

Music: Various selections for strings.

Time: Night.

My son's strings group was one of five (one grade school, three middle school, one high school) ensembles playing tonight at his high school. It's an annual fundraising event dubbed "Night in Italy" for the simple fact that pizza is the main food offering. (There's also a dessert bake sale. We made marshmallow brownies. I, of course, had the bread pudding.)

My son plays the cello -- while walking around. His group is the Strolling Strings, you see, and only the double basses and the drummer get to stay put.

He has a lot of fun, and it's a lot of fun to watch and hear him. (Lest I be accused of playing favorites, I also love watching and hearing the senior daughter play in the chamber orchestra and sing with her choral ensemble, and hearing and watching the eighth grade daughter sing in her chorale.)

Tonight was his night, though, and I came away with -- not an epiphany, but a renewed understanding of something.

I'm proud that he's my son -- as I am that my daughters are my daughters -- but even prouder to be known as their father. There's a difference, although I have neither time nor energy to parse it tonight. Suffice it to say that it's gratifying to see them be their own people, using their own gifts and pursuing their own interests.

I see parents trying to make their children into carbon copies of themselves. That's wrong on so many fronts. They are mine, yes, and their mother's, but not in the sense of being "owned" and powerless to be themselves.

They may not take paths I would have taken. In several cases, that's a good thing. The important thing is that they find their own gifts, their own passions, their own personalities.

So far, so good.

Rock Out With Your Bach Out

Tea: White Grapefruit.

Music: Mark Wood, backed by student musicians, various selections.

Time: Night.

My son, a cellist among other things, played in his first rock concert tonight, at his high school. His strings group and several others (one of which came all the way from Hays, Kan.) backed up violinist Mark Wood, co-founder of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

I went not really knowing what to expect. I wound up in the fourth row. I came away having done a fair amount of head-bobbing (especially during "Kashmir," when I had to fight just the tiniest bit of temptation to put up the two-fingered "RAWK!" salute) and with a good deal of respect for the the star.

Musically, the guy has serious chops. I've long been a fan of rock involving violins -- especially David Cross-era King Crimson and Eddie Jobson's work with U.K. and as a solo artist -- and I have to say, Wood is an amazing player.

He has his own line of electric violins and cellos (and soon, double basses), and when he lays into his six-string Viper, it's anything but sedate chamber music. (A couple of times, when he hit the effects rack, I could have closed my eyes and sworn I was hearing an electric guitar.)

And Wood's no prima donna, either. When he's not on tour with Trans-Siberian Orchestra, he's on the road encouraging high school music students to pursue their passions. He singled out as many kids as possible by name tonight, and stayed afterward to sign autographs and pose for pictures.

I also loved seeing kids whose instruments are considered -- well, less than rocking -- get to play Led Zeppelin and Queen selections (as well as amped-up material by Bach, Vivaldi, Grieg and Copeland). It was plain to see that they got a charge out of it, too.

So, in short: Mark Wood deserves every fan he has, and more. The guitar solo from "Stairway to Heaven" and Vivaldi's "Summer" both sound great on amplified electric violin.

And these kids are more than all right. They rock.

From the Past, a Real Blast

Tea: Vanilla Chai

Music: The Rainmakers, "Small Circles"

Time: Night.

A week ago, during that kind of important pointy-ended football game, a friend (who, like me, prefers futbol) and I were talking about commercials. I brought up the Emerald Nuts spot with Robert Goulet, which is ten kinds of funny. Then, of course, the subject of Elvis shooting the TV came up.

And I said, "It's a TV with a bullethole ..." and he said, "It's autographed ..."

I realized then that the wages of sin ... sorry, that's another song entirely. I realized I'd found a fellow Rainmakers fan. I'd quoted a line from "Doomsville," and he'd picked right up on it.

To make a long story short (naturally) -- and yes, that's yet another Rainmakers song reference -- we spent about an hour reliving our favorite shows and citing our favorite lines. (Bob Walkenhorst, who was the band's primary songwriter and has an amazing solo album as well, is a freaking awesome lyricist.)

So I'm burning him copies of a couple of CDs (almost all of which are out of print), and he loaned me a VHS copy of "Archive," which has all of the band's videos.

Sometime over the next couple of days, I'm going to kick everyone else out of the house, pop it in and relive a few decades' worth of memories.

Because, as any fan can tell you, clocks are slow and hearts beat on and on ... long gone long.

Surfacing briefly

Tea: Cherry Chocolate Caramel Vanilla

Music: Various selections for piano and voice

Time: Night.

It's been a long but productive several days here in Weston, Missouri. Good food, lovely people and killer story ideas abound. (And yes, there will be plenty of pictures of rust and bricks and peeling paint. Some things never change, no matter the location.)

Tonight, there was excellent Cajun food at a new restaurant in Leavenworth. Then, back across the Missouri River in Weston, there was an impromptu piano/voice performance by one of the owners of the bed and breakfast that's home for the night. (Given that she's sung with the Kansas City Symphony, that was an extra special treat). And now, there's tea, and soon there will be sleep.

Blessings, all of them. And I'm grateful.

Rewinding a Rant.

Tea: Mandarin Orange with Honey.

Music: Seasonal selections for high school chorale, orchestra and band.

Time: Night.

This started off as a diatribe on one of my favorite rant topics. I'm not even going to go into it.

The sun came out today. The ice melted. The day has been full of life and love and productivity, beauty in places and forms both familiar and unexpected.

So you know what? Forget ranting. It's been, as Bill Withers would say, "a lovely daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay."

Here's to another one tomorrow.

Here's to Hooks.

Tea: Assam with Ginger.

Music: Ace Frehley, "New York Groove"

Time: Night.

I had this song -- heck, the whole LP (remember those?) -- back in high school. (And yeah, I had the Ace poster with the smoking guitar on my headboard. Drove my parents crazy.)

Been years since I heard it, though. Until tonight, when I looked it up on (surprise!) YouTube. And there it was, in all its Russ Ballard-penned cheesy glory.

Timeless classic? Maybe not. Got to admit, though, that opening hook's a killer. And if you can hook 'em up front, you can make 'em sing along with just about anything.

Cup XXXVII: Isn't That What Music's Supposed to Do?

Tea: Sour Kumquat Green and Raspberry bubble tea

Music: Holly Cole, "Make it Go Away"

Time: Night

Today, while I was waiting for a news conference, I went -- as I often go -- hunting for cool music videos on YouTube.

I'd never had any luck finding that particular Holly Cole song on the site, but I thought -- as I often think -- "Oh, what the heck. Might as well look one more time."

And there it was -- or there she was, I suppose. But the arrangement was different. Same singer, same melody, same lyrics -- but the versions don't feel the same at all.

The song I first fell in love with (and no, that's not too strong a word in this case) is an aching, running on fumes of fumes, two in the morning plea. It'll think about the next day when it comes -- if it comes.

This one's stronger, acknowledging its weakness but also its strength.

It says, "Yeah, I'm messed up, and hurting, and sometimes I can't see past the next minute. And yeah, I need you to get me through that. But we're going to get through this, and someday, when you're messed up and hurting and can't see past the next minute, I'm going to be there."

And you know what?

The feelings for the first version haven't diminished one bit -- but "love's" not too strong a word for this one.

Tonight's story:

Richard Middleton, "On the Brighton Road"

Cup XXXII: Words and Music, Found in Translation

Tea: Lokon with Tiny Orchids

Music: One cover song (or interpretation, if you will) after another.

Time: Evening.

My music collection looks as though it should belong to at least seven people, given its range. That's not a brag about how eclectically cool I am. It's a testament to my inability to fixate on any one act (No, I don't own everything by King Crimson. Surprised?) or musical style.

Given that fact, I suppose it's only logical that the cover songs in said collection run a wide gamut -- from straight-up homages to a bluegrass version of a jazz piece (and perennial pep band favorite) to all sorts of genre-bending variations on a progressive rock standard.

Then again, it seems to me there's a difference between "cover" and "interpretation" -- the former being truer to the letter of the original, the latter to its spirit.

(Note: I'm leaving out song versions performed by ensembles containing at least one member of the original performing group, e.g., the Brian Setzer Orchestra's "Stray Cat Strut," the 21st Century Schizoid Band's "21st Century Schizoid Man" and Steve Hackett's take on "In the Court of the Crimson King" (with co-writer/Crim co-founder Ian McDonald on flute).

In the "cover" camp, we have -- among others -- George Winston's straight-up presentations of Vince Guaraldi's "Linus & Lucy," "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving," et al., and also Go West's take on Bobby Caldwell's "What You Won't Do for Love."

The "interpretation" subset includes Jerry Douglas' dobro-centric reworking of Weather Report's "Birdland," Johnny Cash's weary, beautiful version of the Beatles' "In My Life" -- and, yes, still more variations of "21st Century Schizoid man."

Two of those strip away the vocals, and one parses the song even more. The Crimson Jazz Trio plays the intricate middle sections close to letter-perfect, even if the instrumentation is different, but turns the verses -- the song's scary parts -- soothing. It fits, somehow. Then again, so does this trippy deconstruction by Jon Bernstein of Disparition, even though only parts of the original are easily recognizable.

Then there's Johnny G's Delta blues version, which really shouldn't work. After all, King Crimson (and especially Robert Fripp) have avoided basing any compositions on Western blues scales.

But it works. Why? Because the music and the words match, even if they weren't written to fit each other in the first place. Peter Sinfield's lyrical vision of disconnect and madness shifts handily from the shrieking proto-metal/jazz fusion of the original to the spare, dark sounds of six steel strings and one metal slide.

When a straight cover works, it's pretty much due to a gift for mimicry by the band doing the covering. When an interpretation works, it's a credit to the original material (and those who produced it) as well as to the interpreter(s).

It's because things match -- important for music, not so important for socks.

Tonight's original story:

Grant Allen, "Pallinghurst Barrow"