Very early on in our relationship, my future spouse asked me to move to California with him.   This presented only two issues at the time.  The first was my future mom-in-laws contention that we were going to be “living in sin”.  Actually, this didn’t bother us as much as it tested her Catholic sensibilities. (We always laughed about that turn of phrase btw, since it made doing those mundane household chores together sound much sexier and morally dangerous than they actually were.) 

The larger issue, however, was the large amount of records we were now forced to figure out how to get from Coast A to B.  Both of us were and still are massive music freaks.  When the coast migration was planned we had between us over 2,000 albums.  So after a bit of discussion, we decided to take the leap of faith that we would not be breaking up anytime in this lifetime, and go through the collections and eliminate any duplicates.  Then we would have the gang over and give away the extra albums to new homes.  

The result of this experiment?  We had exactly 155 duplicate albums.  While we shared a love of New York Punk, Devo,  David Bowie, classic Rock and Elvis Costello—the rest of the pile were all destined to be shipped to sunny California.   He loves Zappa and prog rock; I’m a huge English punk fan and have a healthy collection of Electronic and Goth.  He loves Springsteen and Dylan; I love Ska and Sonic Youth.  You get the picture.

Over the years, we have found more common ground musically.  I have learned to love Zappa and Captain Beefheart; he recently started to listen to Stiff Little Fingers.   But we still diverge enough that when concert season rolls around,  there is the on going dilemma of…

 
How far out of my life partners comfort zone am I willing to push them and suggest that we spend the mutual cash towards a concert experience that they could reminisce as having been the most horrendous two plus hours of their lives?

 
The rule we decided on was this.  If the person felt passionately about the artist, the other person had to see this said artist live at least once.  If after that experience, they felt that would rather spend time getting say, a root canal, then they could pass on any future concerts by said “artist”.

 
Over the years three logical categories have emerged:

The “Oh dammit, I’m sorry  honey, I have a date with the Dentist!”

 
These are few and far between, but they do exist.  I refuse to go see Bruce Springsteen again.  If you love “the Boss”, then the extended versions and the multiple encores are nirvana.  For me, it was four hours of hell. I have a similar loathing of Neil Young, whose bass players even bore me to tears.  I refuse to see Robert Fripp again on principle.  We saw Fripp in the early 90’s when he decided that he would face away from the audience for the entire concert.  I found it to be pretentious and swore that I would henceforth save the 40 USD and just listen to the records at home.  For the spouse, he will forever pass on any reggae or Ska concert, unless it’s the Selector, and even that’s a bit of a reach.  Ditto for any reunion of Love and Rockets.  He hated that concert so much I almost had to see Springsteen again to make up for miserable time he had.  He says he suspects that going to see Earth the next time they play locally may add to his “once in a lifetime” list.

The “They’re OK, but I can enjoy myself enough to accompany you again”

For me, Tom Petty falls into this category along with Hot Tuna.  I like Hot Tuna’s recorded output, but their concerts get a bit jammy at times.  The same holds for the Black Crowes.  For the better half, Tower of Power is fun merely for the fact he gets to get his yearly fill of “bad white people dancing”.  And he’s promised to go with me to the next Les Claypool / Primus New Year’s thing, because in his words “Les’ playing makes up for his voice” (though I strongly suspect Les/Primus is making it slowly into the next category, see below). This year he  also decided yes, he could stand another round of Robyn Hitchcock as well.

I have learned to love Adrian Belew and Billy Cobham to a point that I will buy the tickets even before the spouse notices they’re playing locally.   I felt the same way about the late Warren Zevon, who we saw twice in a smallish club in Santa Cruz. I will go see Dweezil Zappa again in a heartbeat, even though I must admit it felt a bit odd being one of about 12 females in the audience. For his part, the spouse will gladly accompany his lovely bride to see Stanley Clarke, Stuart Hamm or the Violent Femmes.  I also suspect that it’s a matter of time before he starts screaming “Primus Sucks!” with the rest of the gang, but it’s still a bit too soon to tell. 

Guide to maritial happiness?  Know the limitations of your spouse’s musical tastes, but be willing to at least give a band and your spouse, the benefit of the doubt.  Well, at least for one concert.

So when the volunteer list goes out I am stumped.  Make baked goods?  Cook dinners for the volunteer corps doing the public service project?  Organize a Tupperware party with all proceeds going to the 5th grade?  Sorry, I somehow missed that class along the way to parenthood.  I am not June Cleaver or Carol Brady.

But I finally found my niche this week. 

My oldest is involved in a high school play.  Yes, she’s very good and has a lead role. Yes I am bragging.  However, when the list came out for making dinners, baking cookies and sewing those costumes, I once again went. Well…until…

 I got the email on how they were doing PR and realize they didn’t have a clue.  Not one f-bomb of a clue.  And suddenly all those years of putting up flyers, begging fellow college DJs to play tapes, calling every friend I knew to “come see the band, please come see the band” paid off.  Newspaper coverage?  Radio PSAs?  Posters?  Calling in friends and relatives for contacts, promotional opportunities.  That I know how to do.

And so I quickly became the PR person for the performing arts group.  Made the calls, got the webpage calendars out there, pulled in a few favours from friends and got them airtime on three radio stations via PSAs.   All in a two week window.

Yes, you never know when your odd life skills as a musician can pay off, even as a parent.

 Well I am pretty well set bass wise for a bit on essential items. I have a nice Ampeg and got a good small combo from the better half for a birthday present.  And $125 is not really going to make a dent in that budget for an Urge II.  I also have problems not spending gift certificates right away. 

 So…I bought a Mandolin.  Yes, a Mandolin.

 I messed with my sister’s mandolin when I was younger and I love its sound, esp. on minor chords.  It’s somber and crying like a wailing woman. 

 I came home today to find a big box waiting on the table.  The mandolin is here.  I set the bridge and tuned it up. It’s the opposite of bass in string tuning and size.  While my calluses never hurt on bass, the double thin strings have left significant dents in my fingers.  But man, it sounds so nice.  I wait for my fingers to stop throbbing and play “Battle of Evermore” for the 20^th time this evening.  Its a fun instrument to play and I probably won’t get to the bass before the sound ordinances kick in…

 I love music and instruments.  Which is a bit of a problem right now.   Bass will still be a focus, but along with drums and guitar I now have another dangerous distraction from practicing bass.   And the instuments are starting to take over the house, to be perfectly frank.  Right now I have the following in my small condo living room:

2 basses in cases

1 bass on stand

1 combo bass amp

1 combo guitar amp

1 electric guitar (Squier strat) in case

1 acoustic guitar in case

1 keyboard

1 battery powered amp

1 mandolin

1 wood drum (tuned)

1 conga

2 Irish hand drums

2 bongos, one LP, one African goat skin drums

Various and sundry percussion instruments

1 clarinet

1 tenor sax

1 uke

1 practice pad drum kit

My non music friends find it a bit overwhelming.   The musical ones just think…well that it’s par for the course, but a bit cramped in a living space of our size.   I think I’d worry more if I wasn’t trying to nail another tune on the new mandolin…

I really shouldn’t be writing this blog, I should be working on my class assignment: “Write a walking bass line for the following jazz standard”.   This is the assignment that hits me every few weeks when my teacher has determined I have become far too comfortable in my playing and/or I’m having way too much fun playing endless funk / Motown licks.  He knows I’ll be instantly stumped.

I have met my nemesis and it’s the simple jazz walking bass line. 

It’s not as though I don’t know the process or the theory.  I know my chord theory; I know my scales.   I can arpeggiate chords and leading tones in a dozen ways to Sunday.  Give me a jazz recording or a written out bass line and I can deconstruct it and tell you how it was built and why those notes were chosen.   Like a great carpenter, I can look at a house (the bass line) and tell you why the architect made specific choices and decisions to come up with a beautiful abode.

But I am a lousy architect.  The blank piece of staff paper sits in front of me unblemished.  The space between the theory and the creativity in the process is a chasm.  And when I finally stop being distracted by blog writing and playing James Jamerson songs, and start writing, it’s a long painful process. I over think and analyze too much.  And there are times that at the end, I’m still not satisfied with the result and I am dead tired of hearing the head to “Autumn Leaves” for what seems like the 1000^th time that day. 

I am too much of a perfectionist.  I am foiled by the left side of my brain shouting at the right.  I need to go take a walk and remember music is supposed to be fun.  And then come back and stop harping on the mistakes and go with the flow, man.  And write that damn bass line.

I hate Joni Mitchell.  Yes, I do mean hate.  I don’t “dislike her”, it’s not a case of “not caring for her music”.  I abhor her to the point that I will dive over a large sectional couch at a running start to change the XM radio in the living room if the first three notes of any of her musical output start playing.  Yes, I hate her that much.

There are several reasons; however the most prevailing reason is that Joni plays the intense singer / songwriter / poetess / priestess/ intellectual to the level of absurdity that I find sickening. “I shall sit in my lonely room viewing Topanga canyon, sadly painting water colours of autumnal dreams, singing songs to lost loves, wearing my long blonde hair parted down the middle”.  Bleach.   Please.  Get a life, use your lower register when you speak, and go out and do something remotely productive.  At least be angry and less of a navel gazing victim of love and lost promises.  In my opinion, Joni is pretentious and writes the most twee and superficially “deep” lyrics in all of Christendom, delivering them in the tones of a dirge-singing folksinger. She never got beyond the sensibility of a sophomore year high school student in creative writing class.  She represents the “safe” side of being edgy, one that sits at home and writes protest songs, behind the front lines.  Give me the MC5 in Chicago 1968 instead, playing while the police sirens wailed in front of them. 

However, that is my opinion, if you feel differently then, well you are entitled to your world view and I accept that.

Now you may argue, well that’s a piss poor reason to hate someone.  True.   The main reason this is such a rock in my craw is that no one and I mean no one is ever allowed to admit in public that Joni Mitchell is less than a saint. For years, Joni could spit on vinyl and rock critics would hail it as creative genius.  No one dared to say that the emperor’s wife had no clothes.  That would infer you weren’t “deep” or “intellectual”, or “in the know”. 

With that said, the issue of criticizing St. Joni has  now taken new turn.  And thus, a dialogue of recent vintage:

 
Female musician friend (hereafter known as FMF): Joni Mitchell has been a major influence to every female singer and musician from the 60s until today, even if they don’t realize it.

 Me:  That’s not true

 FMF: How can you say that, she set the standard for all of us as female musicians!

 Me: Not me.  I hate Joni Mitchell, I think she’s superficial

 FMF: (getting very angry)  How can you say that!?! She’s influenced you and you won’t admit it

 Me:  No she hasn’t. ( I proceed to list off my musical influences, mostly of the male gender with the exception of Patti Smith, Chrissie Hynde, Courtney Love, and a few select others)

 FMF: Courtney Love!?! You prefer Courtney Love over Joni Mitchell?!?   I’m sorry; you are a disgrace to your sex as a musician.

 
Yes, she said I was a disgrace to my sex because I didn’t like Joni Mitchell.  And sadly, many of my fellow females are shocked if I admit I don’t like Joni.   It’s as though I have committed the ultimate feminist blasphemy.

 Well, if they’re all going to heaven with bonus points for being such good women for loving Joni, then I am sure there are much more interesting folk in hell.  At least I know they won’t be playing “Big Yellow Taxi” on the road to damnation.

 And speaking of that song. Joni, honey that giggle on the end of the song sounds forced and stupid.  I thought you might want to hear an honest opinion.

 And if you don’t get the title of the blog, it’s from Zappa’s “Billy the Mountain”.  Obviously Frank and I share a world view on Joni and the whole Southern Cal canyon crowd.

    "I'm so hip ... beef pies ...

    he was born next to the beef pies,

    underneath Joni Mitchell's autographed picture,

    right beside Elliot Robert's big bank book,

    next to the boat where Crosby flushed away all his stash

    and the cops got him in the boat and drove away,

    to the can where Neil Young slipped another disc .."

Cleveland rocks… but just not progressively.  The Rock and Roll Hall of fame nominees have been once again announced and there’s nary a prog rock band to be found.  If the hall opened up an inductee wing based on its progressive rock winners, it’d be a hall of one—Pink Floyd.  Yup, Floyd is the one and only.

I am not a prog rock fanatic per se, but I find it curious that year after year, despite fan support and pleading, not one prog rock band gets to the induction phase.  It’s as though a whole genre of 1970s rock has been wiped clean from the history books.   Except for Floyd and their flying pigs and Atom Heart Mothers and the opus that was the Wall.

Prog rock was huge in the mid-seventies.  FM radio was filed with Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Rush, Yes, Genesis, Gentle Giant and Jethro Tull.  Everyone seemed to have their well worn copy of “Brain Salad Surgery”, or “Tales from Topographic Oceans” or “Thick as a Brick”.  But this matters not to the high council that rules the induction into the Hall.

The nominations board, who decides the inductees, is a sorry lot in my opinion.  Current members include Suzan Evans, Jann Warner and Dave Marsh.   Two of these fine folks were /are involved with good o’ Rolling Stone.  RS never did take a liking to prog rock by the way, preferring to sprinkle their 70s covers with the Southern California artists and the bigger stadium acts, such as the Stones or standby of safe acts from the magazines heyday in the 1960s.  And Ms. Evans, who collects a hefty 300K salary as the “producer” has been known to drop acts from the final list, because they wouldn’t “sell tickets to the dinner” and instead placed “name acts” in their place.

So what gives Ms Evans, and Mr. Warner and Marsh? What did prog rock ever do to you? (I love Leonard Cohen, but please, did he really have more to offer to Rock music than Yes?)  Did you get snowbound in a cabin during the mid-seventies and have only a copy of “In the Court of the Crimson King” to listen to for 2 days?  Does the fact that there was only one major American prog band (Kansas) somehow fuel a jingoistic desire to pretend it never existed?

What gives?  I await your reply.  In the meanwhile, I think I'll go listen to Side two of King Crimson’s “Lark’s Tongue in Aspic” and ponder the blindness of your prejudices.

To sleep, perchance to dream…and dream of Stu Hamm.  A bit of explanation here for the curious.  As the years go by, dreams tend to fall into predictable patterns and themes.  Like the dream where you haven’t studied for a test.  The dream where you have to go back to school and take a year more of university.  The flying dreams.  I also have dreams where I find everything I’ve ever lost in my lifetime.  And then, certain characters or locations will go on heavy rotation for a while, like a particular beach in Big Sur or...Stu Hamm.  Stu’s been popping up as a character for a few months now.  Last week he was behind me in a line to get tickets for some show.   He also appeared as a student in one of my aforementioned university dreams.  He’s rarely playing bass, but he wanders in just like an expected character who feels compelled to inhabit my alternative universe as a certified citizen of the twilight zone.

Dreams are odd things.  In a recent discussion with a group of people, I discovered that I have a unusual dream trait: my dreams include more often than not, music.   Either someone in the dream is playing music or there’s this movie soundtrack as an extra added dream bonus.   It has never seemed odd, and I just assumed it was something that everyone experienced at some time or another.

Perhaps it’s because from birth I’ve been surrounded by music.  With the exception of a tone deaf brother, everyone in my family sang and played instruments.  I remember going to a friend’s house and thinking how weird it was that no one played any instrument in her family and that the piano in the living room was merely decorative. 

 Barely five years old, I played an autoharp and sang “Michelle” by the Beatles, encouraged, no egged on by older siblings. (There also exists a rather embarrassing tape of me singing “Spoonful” at the ripe age of six)  One of my sisters, used to comb the used instrument stores in Greenwich Village and bring home odd string instruments, and teach herself how to play them and then in turn, the rest of us.  For me, the autoharp was followed by hand me down mandolins, dulcimers,  guitars and assorted wind instruments.  Clarinet was followed by oboe and tenor sax.  Keyboards came and went from the household as each of us tried to learn to play piano (I failed miserably).  And following these instruments, I bought my first electric guitar. Joined my first band. Other bands came together and went the way of the wind.  And then entered a spouse whose family was as musically inclined as my own.  And then to the guitars, came a collection of drums and then eventually a bass. And now another family home where there are people who sing and play instruments, and the kids find it odd to go to houses where the living room isn’t full of basses, amps, drums and keyboards. 

So yes, I dream of Stu Hamm and music.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.