Word Collage/Homage to Bob Kaufman

For my last post of the year, I’ve collected one old piece of writing and one new one. The first I dedicate to Dorothy (Dodo) Miller, who died last month at age 92. She was a true friend and source of light and good spirits. Her grand smile and always lovely greeting remains fixed in my memory.

This first piece was a word collage that I wrote somewhere around 1970, by taking books randomly off a shelf and opening and choosing random phrases from them, one after another. I had in mind the work of Kurt Schwitters, whose collages I’d seen at the old San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, and the cut-up writings of William S. Burroughs along with the cubist period of modern art. I’ll let you decide whether it works:

Collage 1

That morning’s ice, no more than a brittle film, had cracked and was floating on an updraft of politics … summer hot air as it were … slowly melting like open admiration over the countenance of Wright Diehl, the man who a dozen times in the past had explained events as the outcome of character or intentions, the personal defeat of this or that statesman … or the boom of water in the rising gorge.

Now he sat stringing himself out endlessly into the hazy noonday sunshine … Nearby Moira Mayheekana, gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, swayed mischievously in the evanescent wind, sand and stars … standing out against the edge of day while their son Form shrieked joyfully in his winding sheet.

At nightfall … with the hoarse clamor of a dreamboat steamboat barking out at sea guiding myriads of tiny flames across the ocean … came an odor of parrots, cockatoos and art dealers wafting across the hours to his ears with memories of a curious sense of relief.

“That fellow I knocked down was her brother,” he recalled absently, presently gazing at the subject. “Mine, too.”

He laughed then, a golden necklace of laughter links from his throat cast out into the gracious evening breeze like blown kisses, lusty in the true style of the old court.

“Till we have faces! Till we have faces!” he called, stooping to pick up a fallen sparrow at his feet … amazed to find it was only his shoe that had come off.

(c) Bob Loomis
---

This second piece is one I improv’d yesterday at the dentist’s office & completed this morning after earlier rereading some of Bob Kaufman’s Cranial Guitar. I dedicate it to his memory:

Homage to Bob Kaufman

used to actually SEE you pass on the street, usually Grant Avenue or in the Coffee Gallery drinking beer … listening to Young Rabbits by the Jazz Crusaders on the jukebox … drinking a beer or two … in sainted serape & tilted hat … not talking in those days … not declaiming the Abomunist Manifesto … eyes silent, too, & dark … waiting for wars to end … for legal state murders to end … waiting for God to admit his malfeasance, admit mistaken identity … give refunds on all unsatisfactorily answered prayers … return all to sinlessness …

waiting for top intellectual guns to stop misfiring … stop contracting out services to the highest bidders … waiting for everyone to learn via TV how to be gourmet chefs … cook up something grand & epiphanal … holy wafers to surpass all holy wafers … a more erudite poetry spun like fine webs of music from saxophones of jazz deities … Howard Hesseman behind the bar waiting wryly for his career to take off … thinking he’d use you in TV series … you’d be the weird guy down the street babbling sermons & host of late-night jazz show no one listens to … together you’d make avante-garde movies in between walks up & down Columbus Avenue & Broadway and upper Grant & all North Beach … & the universe ...

& back to tiny flat and wife & son & happy marriage of mind and soul … a marital heaven … or hell … or both … sinuosities of fleshy connections … check coordinates please, get location …

lunch break over, back to work, everybody has a job that’s disappeared from the Blueknighted States … everybody’s work gone to Asia … all Asia seeking bliss in factory production & export business … nobody left here with money to buy anything … except Big Boys … & god bless the child that’s got his own …

Bob Kaufman same initials as Burger King … BK the burgeria did not exist back in the day … Tic Toc Burgers up on Columbus … good place to score a bite to eat in wee hours … no worries then about cow methane & global warming … chow down in ignorant bliss ... or go get good glass of port at San Remo bar … long-gone now, all … replaced by Burger King et all … flipping gaseous patties … try the 99-cent value meal! ... as cheap & filling as Tic Toc … righteous manna from pole-axed cattle …

BK the poet unknown to me then ... mysterious cat in hat & serap' … I in callow marshmallow youth … now tops my Beatnik Hall of Fame list … spouted verse extemporaneously, then suddenly shut up … vow of silence till ‘Nam war’s end … now silent forever except in libraries … schools? … memories … books still available City Lights … maybe even Amazon dot com … maybe even China? … perhaps reincarnated as capitalistic purchaser of politicians? … lobbyist for Big Bucks & chemically fed beeves? … no! never! … no soul or stomach for sale here … no fast-food poesies … no drive-thru poetry … no metered verbal value meal … no cheap shots …

just two dark eyes brooding over glutenless breakfast ricecake muffin … humming modal songs from beyond … ghost-walking North Beach streets in search of boho hearts ... finding trendy wifi bars, cafes … adios, mofo! … keep stroking Cranial Guitar … keep serenading generations to come …

© Bob Loomis, 12-11-2009

Happy Holidays to all!

NOVEMBER NOTEBOOK GLEANINGS

I see I've almost let November slip past without a monthly post, so here 'tis:

Just this morning
it started -- brown and red leaves
drifting down
and the sun hiding out
behind distant hills.

Big full moon
up before dark
eager to be seen.

Put out
at his usual time
the neighbor's dog yips loneliness.

Quiet morning--
the autumn time change
has spread a hush
over everything.

Why now
after all these years
does her face
still appear in a dream
to haunt me?
Memory's so tricky.
Who knows if
that version's even close?

I scribble on,
still searching
for the key
to the door
of the wordmusic room.

Autumn leaves
relax out of the wind
in the wicker deck chair.

Our band Awed Ducks played its first coffeehouse gig in almost two
years on a recent Friday. Almost no one showed up, but I did find
these poems in it:

Cold evening --
three coffeehouse musicians
serenade rows of empty chairs.

Coffeehouse trio
almost as numerous
as their audience.
Outside, warm yellow
streetlights
belie winter's chill.

First night of winter
almost no one
in the trendy
plaza cafes.
At the outdoor tables
one guy sits smoking.

A small audience.
Afterwards, the manager
is gently evasive
about future gigs.

Almost no one there
but one guy
about our age
stays through
the entire show,
applauding each song.



(c) Bob Loomis, 11-27-2009

Halloween Treat

Against autumn’s golds And browns,
A sudden, almost
Psychedelic
Purple-blue:
One jaybird on the trail.

Plop, plop! …
Plop … plop … plop!
From this one old oak
An acorn shower!
Browsing on the Summer-sere hillside,
The first turkeys
Since spring.

Time-change weekend,
We’ll regain an hour.
Start it with
A cup of coffee.
Too dark at 7 a.m.
To view the
Lovely garden.
Not even a single Neighbor up
This early on Saturday.

Strip of paper
Used as bookmark
In tanka collection
Bears one printed word:
“Untitled.”

So desperate
For a poem
This morning
That I use
Anything that
Comes to hand!
But nothing good
Comes to mind.

Suddenly I think
Of Dutch poet
Anselm Hollo –
Without discussing
The quality of his work
(Which is very
Good, IMHO),
What a great name
For a poet!

Stacks
Of vacant thoughts
This Halloween morn.
No mask needed now
I come costumed
As Old Man.
OK, then!
TRICK OR TREAT!

Hated Halloween
As a kid.
Never had the money
For a decent
Costume
And no one
In my family
Passed along the gift
Of invention.

Even that one year
When I got that
Great rubber skull mask
I hated how hot
It was to wear
And how it
Made my glasses
Steamy. No
Chill of grave there!

I was always glad
When we were done
Trick-or-treating.
Didn’t like candy
All that much
Except for
The bittersweet,
Dark chocolate.

(Don’t tell
My grandsons
About all this –
They love Halloween
And I never
Wanted to spoil
Anyone’s fun.)

Thinking on it,
I always hated
Mysteries and
Scary movies.
Something in me
Made (makes?) life
Itself mysterious &
Scary enough –
I need no further
TERROR.

Must have been
A combination of
My gentle genetic bent
And my mother’s
Constant paranoia
(In her defense,
It was fed
By her generation’s
Pre-sulfa-drug,
Great Depression
Era) about
Almost everything.
She always
Kept the shades drawn
Even on the most
Beautiful days,
And would caution all
To be on the
Lookout for
“Bad Guys”
(The chief of whom,
In her mind,
Was my father).

The click … click … click
Of the battery-powered
Clock on the mantel
Sounds almost like
The old key-wound clocks of childhood.

Nothing to be done
After all this
Time
But write it
All down
In ersatz verse,
A lovely way
To help pass the
Remaining days,
Or, more accurately,
The mornings.

Used to love to write
Late at night
When dark thoughts
Crowded in,
Or weed-fueled
Silliness.
Now, my mind
Works best
(& none too
Quickly at that!)
In morning’s natural
Sunshine mode.

Even the friendliest
Cat looks wary
& disturbed
If addressed
While eating.

I’m writing with
My new harmonica pen
That was one of two
That were gifts
Along with
My Harrison Harmonicas
Company coffee cup
For buying
One of their
Custom instruments.
I canceled my order
And got a refund
But they’d already
Sent the rewards
For ordering, so
Just told me to keep
The cup. They
Didn’t mention pens.
They gave me
The refund and
I didn’t find
The pens till
I was about
To use the box
To mail something else.
Ah, life’s
Unexpected blessings!

Now how to pay
My monstrous
Credit-card debt?
The refund
From the harp purchase
Won’t do it.

Must sell
EVERYTHING!
Get out of debt!
Or win the lottery
(Almost typed
“loitery …”
I’ve already
Mastered that)

Fat chance!

Saturday, October 31, 2009:
(c) Robert Loomis

CONCRETE SEASONS, A Collection of Urban Tanka

Decades ago, a number of my haiku were published in journals such as Modern Haiku and Dragonfly. As time passed, I wrote fewer and fewer poems and stopped submitting them for publication. Since retiring in 2001, I've slowly returned to poetry. This brief book, Concrete Seasons, A Collection of Urban Tanka, is the first result, completed in 2005. With a few revisions and deletions, I have collected them in August 2009 for this blog.

Like haiku, tanka is a Japanese poetry form. I originally was inspired to try it by the books and quarterlies of Jane and Werner Reichhold's Aha Press and since then have pursued it via the Web and publications such as Ribbons, Modern English Tanka and translations such as those by Kenneth Rexroth and Jane Hirshfield.

Traditional tanka generally were love poems. Modern tanka take many different directions. Concrete Seasons is basically my personal poetry recycling project. I took a number of old urban haiku I had written and found unsatisfactory and reshaped them, usually by combining two or more, into the tanka form. In Japanese traditional tanka that form is five lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables. Modern tanka in English are more fluid, but the five-line protocol is usually followed. Because of the humorous content, some of these might be classified as kyoka rather than tanka.

Since these were originally haiku, they are more seasonally based than tanka might normally be. I have divided them into spring, summer, autumn and winter sections.

I hope the reader enjoys them. I dedicate this book to my wife Beverly, whose birthday it is today.

(c) Bob Loomis, Concord, CA, USA, 08-31-2009

---

SPRING

This morning's rainbow
ends at the shopping center bank
but the only gold
available to us there
is our own earnings.


Two sparrows
hunt for tidbits
near the laundromat door.
Inside, a young couple
nag at each other.


The first warm day
but the bus driver
has the heater on.
Our ride becomes
a mobile sauna.


Another spring --
in the office planters
weeds sprout,
pigeons strut and coo
on the window ledges.


The light turns green
and a single blackbird
strolls across.
Two teenagers
hurry toward the mini-mart.


Even where traffic
spews exhaust all day
purple lupin flourishes.
Drivers speed past,
intent on their destinations.


In Monday morning's
sea of sidewalk faces
just one smiles back
highlighted by the sun
above the skyscrapers.


Nothing to throw
so he yells "HEY YOU!"
but the squalling tomcats
remain oblivious,
backs arched, eyes locked.


SUMMER

Late dinner out --
the youngest child
slumps, eyelids drooping,
too tired now to complain
of being hungry.


Crouching,
but not flying
from the traffic --
a city pigeon
hunts for scraps.


Bobbing carefree
in the freeway fast lane:
an orange balloon.
An aluminum ladder
clatters off a speeding truck.


At the toddler's squall,
the street mime flees
in whitefaced alarm.
Lunchtime diners
relish the drama.


Behind the front seat
the remains of last night's fun:
empty beer cans.
The car is heavy
with the odor of regret.


The slain woman's houseplants
draw admiring comments
from one detective.
Even her housedress
has a flower pattern.


Headlights at high noon --
a funeral procession
stuck in traffic.
On a bus stop bench
a young couple smooches.


Late summer sunset --
in the parking lot
children play ball.
BART train riders stare,
recalling such days.


Her truck overheated
she stops at the hillcrest
to pick wild berries
while commute traffic
creeps past.


AUTUMN

His happy pooch
crosses the finish line
ahead of the road runner.
Both hurry
to the water fountain.


Early autumn night
too hot for covers,
too cold without them.
She gets up
to change nightgowns.


Autumn's gusts
quickly fashion
new hairdos!
A child's homework
blows along the street.


Autumn night:
the rustling tree leaves
flicker the neighbor's light.
Somewhere nearby
a window slams shut.


Bamboo windchimes
clatter in the storm.
The wind even tries
to snatch the wool watchcap
off my head!


Blue eyes wide
baby reaches
for the windchimes,
then pauses to look at Mommy
for reassurance.


Batiks billow
and paintings topple
at the fall crafts fair.
Even Mother Nature
is a critic!


Taking off
in close formation
at the airport:
a flock of ducks
heading south.


WINTER

The first chilly night --
the children come in early
from their street games.
On the stove
the kettle whistles.


A brown rain hat
skitters down the street
faster than the traffic,
not even pausing
for the red light.


A shopping cart
abandoned
in a vacant lot,
one empty plastic bag
in the basket.


Even at noon
every park bench empty.
This gray day
the pigeons also
look forlorn.


Midwinter wind
but two street ladies
wear miniskirts.
Hunched forward, they walk fast
hugging themselves.


On the wet street
spots of oil and grease
take on rainbow hues.
Freeway traffic
floats on fine spray.


Black ants
enjoying the day
after Thanksgiving
dining luxuriously
on leftovers.

ON THE PEAKS WITH GARY SNYDER

I have been reading the Desolation Blues section of Jack Kerouac's Book of Blues. I was inspired to it by Poets on the Peaks, an excellent book by John Suiter, whose text is augmented by his excellent photos.

Suiter recounts the experiences of beat poets Kerouac, Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen and others on fire lookouts and examines how their time in isolation on the peaks of the Cascades affected them and their writing. It resonates for me especially because of the summer I spent at age 15 on Poison Rock Lookout in Mendocino National Forest and because the Beat poets were my gateway into poetry some years later as an adult.

Kerouac's writing has always been a love/hate thing for me (and for many others). He is capable of some of the most poetic writing of his generation, yet spends much time wallowing in the dark side of life. This aspect seems to worsen as he ages and sinks into his alcohol addiction. Yet in his later writing, he was capable of producing Pic, a book that manages to reach outside his own self-absorption. I would say his best books are Tristessa and The Subterraneans. They are concise and poetic. Desolation Angels and Dharma Bums are also favorites and it was the first one I read, On The Road, that sent me north to San Francisco at age 22, searching for signs of beatnik life and intent upon wriing the Great American Novel. Of that effort only a bulky and verbose first few chapters survive in a trunk in our storage shed. I ultimately came to most relish shorter poetry forms, especially haiku. Kerouac has some wonderful haiku in his Book of Haikus. A sample:

Brighter than the night
my barn roof
of snow

Kerouac was superseded for me by, first, Whalen, whose Every Day Poems I thought was a masterpiece back when I was 25 or so. I would come home each night after work at the Vallejo Times-Herald and read and write in my small studio at the back of our house at 185 West J Street in Benicia, CA. I loved Whalen's humor and still do. Ultimately, though, his writing is so erudite and filled with classical references that he loses me much of the time. An excellent essay by poet Tom Clark on one of his books, Overtime, is here, with a sample of Whalen's work at the end:
http://jacketmagazine.com/07/whalen-clark.html

In the final analysis, Snyder is to me the best of the so-called Beat writers. He has continued to evolve and mature throughout his life and has been a leader in environmental awareness. His poetry to me is the best there is in our day and age, much akin to the great Chinese and Japanese poets and in its worldview to native peoples everywhere. A short sample:

How Poetry Comes to Me

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
-- Gary Snyder

Whalen died a roshi, a Zen Buddhist priest in San Francisco. Kerouac died of internal hemorrhaging after a beating by two men at a bar in Florida, having long since abandoned his pursuit of the dharma. Snyder lives on at his home near Nevada City, CA, still writing, still espousing and practicing green living. He of all of them seems to have retained that awareness that springs from spending time in the mountains, on the high peaks. He is able to communicate that awareness and knowledge with as much humanity and wisdom as any American poet I know.

Among his books, not necessarily in chronological order:
Riprap & Cold Mountain Poems
Mountains and Rivers Without End
Earth House Hold
Axe Handles
Turtle Island
No Nature
A Place in Space
Danger on Peaks

A good anthology of his work:
Left Out in The Rain, New Poems 1947-1985

An online selection of his work:
http://www.english.illinois.edu/Maps/poets/s_z/snyder/onlinepoems.htm

Many thanks for the great work, Gary Snyder.

Crowing, Not Eating Crow

Sorry but this morning I just have to crow about myself a little for a change instead of eating crow ... I competed in the West Coast Songwriters Association Songwriter Competition in Martinez last night and to my own very great surprise won the Best Performance Award!

I did I Hope It Never Ends (at Bev's suggestion) and Cowboy Blues, accompanying myself on autoharp. The judges really liked the sentiments of the first song and the humor of the second. They also said I established good rapport with the audience (the retired grampy's gift of gab, I guess).

It is very heartening to get even this relatively minor (in the great scheme of life and music) award at this late stage. Guess I haven't totally been wasting time with all my practicing.

By the way, I'm working on a CD and hope to post some MP3s soon at YouTube or on my MySpace site. And of course if any of you would like to learn and/or perform any of my songs, let me know. I only expect the standard royalties plus 10% of anything you earn musically from here on ...

Cheers, Grampy Bob Loomis
King of the Septuagenarian Troubadors
(Well, almost there anyway)

Old Age & Wisdom

TenaG sent the following along and with my 70th birthday coming on July 22, I thought I’d revise them to add my own personal wisdom (I’m just a whippersnapper compared with Regina). My added comments are in parentheses and are not always to be taken seriously, in case you didn’t already know me well enough to know that):

To Celebrate Growing Older: 45 lessons life taught me by Regina Brett, 90, of The Plain Dealer, Cleveland , Ohio

1. Life isn't fair, but it's still good. (On a scale of poor-fair-good-very good-excellent.)

2. When in doubt, just take the next small step. (And always carry a parachute)

3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. (Especially yourself)

4. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and parents will. Stay in touch. (my job’s history; my parents, too; but some of my friends are still kickin’ and might help out if they remember who I am)

5. Pay off your credit cards every month. (Or at least make a payment)

6. You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree. (Then use your brass knucks)

7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone. (True of most things)

8. It's OK to get angry with God. He can take it. (He – or she – won’t even notice one more whiner)

9. Save for retirement starting with your first paycheck. (WAAAY Too late)

10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile. (I’ve always favored oatmeal cookies or ginger snaps)

11. Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present. (See No. 9)

12. It's OK to let your children see you cry. (If you can find them)

13. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about. (Amen!)

14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it. (Uh-oh!)

15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye. But don't worry; God never blinks. (That non-blinkin’ so-and-so!)

16. Take a deep breath. It calms the mind. (And the wheezing may even sound musical)

17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful. (Suicide is illegal in most states)

18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger. (Pass that joint!)

19. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else. (That’s what my spouse keeps telling me)

20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer. (Viagra works!)

21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special. (OK, but Bev may think it’s a little odd for me to start wearing her lingerie at this late date)

22. Over prepare, then go with the flow. (Wear Depends)

23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple. (See No. 9)

24. The most important sex organ is the brain. (See No. 14)

25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you. (So that’s why my complaints never get any results!)

26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words 'In five years, will this matter?' (Then hope you make it for another five years)

27. Always choose life. (Until the last possible nanosecond)

28. Forgive everyone everything. (Can’t remember what the wrongs were anyway)

29. What other people think of you is none of your business. (But I’m still curious)

30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time. (And hope Time does the same for you)

31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change. (Or not …)

32. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does. (I’ve been telling people that for decades)

33. Believe in miracles. (a million Deadheads can’t be wrong)

34. God loves you because of who God is, not because of anything you did or didn't do. (Thank God!)

35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now. (Present!)

36. Growing old beats the alternative -- dying young. (See No. 34)

37. Your children get only one childhood. (Until they are as old as me, that is; see No. 19)

38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved. (That and, to your survivors, what’s in the will)

39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere. (Amen!)

40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back. (Not if I can just tiptoe out before they are reapportioned …)

41. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need. (And then some … Old age seems to consist of a continual sorting and paring away)

42. The best is yet to come. (Every second …)

43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up. (Hmmmm … since retiring I’ve been known to wear the same sweatsuit several days running …)

44. Yield. (See No. 32)

45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift." (Amen!)

46. Life is too short to waste good calories on bad food. Always eat well. (That reminds me: Time for breakfast!)

BOOK SORT

Book Sort

Today I opened two windows to air out the bedroom after its hermetic winter, and in negotiating the narrow space on my side of the bed to do that, I toppled two of the stacks of books and magazines on my side of the bed. That inspired a determination to eliminate this literary jumble. My wife has her own stacks on her side, I leave them to her to manage. I am focusing on my own stacks, these books and magazines all intermingled over the months, five stacks of them next to an already filled 3-foot-wide, four-shelf bookcase that I bought and assembled exactly to avert this kind of mess.

I plan to read all of them, of course … the books, that is … the magazines I have already glanced through and studied the indices for articles likely to be of particular interest. The magazines remaining here are ones that have articles in them that I plan to read. There are perhaps 20 New Yorkers, three Old-Time Heralds, too many issues of Poetry to count, several Acoustic Guitar editions and an Autoharp Quarterly or two … and so on.

You see, I get sidetracked so easily. One day I am reading how to restore the Northwest forests, the next a silly but well-written detective novel by a little-known Northwest writer who like myself is a former journalist. Well, at least there’s a commonality in that instance: both are set in the Northwest. Then there is Poets on The Peaks, which I keep returning to because it involves writers and an experience dear to my heart, the so-called Beats and the spending of summers on fire lookouts. Perhaps I need to read only books on or set in the Great Northwest. That would definitely thin the ranks.

Most recently added is a book loaned to me by an old friend. It attempts to unravel the mystery of why particular areas and cultures have seized dominance in the world’s evolutionary history even though other areas seemed to have all the same necessary ingredients for similar power. It is an engaging book, and was good reading while on vacation, but now that we are home and I am busy during the day, I find that reading it at bedtime results in a rapidly diminishing comprehension and a quick and effective drowsiness. It has sunk lower in its stack and now has three books ahead of it (I try to stack these in the order I plan to read them).

I am determined to sort these books and magazines and face up to eliminating the ones I know in my heart that I am not truly eager to read, or in fact have little or no interest in reading. I plan to keep only what I really want to read and give the rest away or sell them.

But wait! Here’s The Dragon Can’t Dance! I’ve been meaning to read this for ages! It had gotten buried in one of my stacks. I’ll just take a short break and read a bit of it before continuing this project …

Bob Loomis
06-06-2009
Concord CA

Kazoo Memo

Tired of all my singing, my throat began to cut itself, my lungs to drown themselves, my guitar-playing fingers to amputate themselves as though to completely outdo Jerry Garcia and his mere one truncated finger. But my feet stood pat, held my ground until I could re-digitize and get a grip on some form of music-maker again, even if only this kazoo that makes my voice burn through the melody like an angry rasp. If you are irritated by the sound, you have my permission to tune out. Perhaps your ears need rest. Be careful not to be deafened amid all this noise.

AS THE SONG GOES

I look at the few photos
Of my mother’s older sister
Jessie who died at age 7
Of diphtheria, departed early
For a flight to Heaven.

I think of the loss
These many decades gone
And all those who felt that loss,
Now all those also gone.
The lacy dress my mother wore
In one photo with Jessie
Is still neatly folded in a plastic bag
In the box of family mementos,
Yellow now instead of white
But aging better than
The little girl who wore it,
Better than any of us who came after.

That whole time and place
Now utterly gone and all the people in it
Circa 1910 or 1915
And yet some of us live now
As proof it did indeed all once exist
And led to this for us, to our lives
Also so soon to pass.

Such a short, short time to be here,
Such a long time to be gone,
As the good old Grateful Dead used to sing.


(c) 2009, Bob Loomis

Tuneweek, 03-14-2009: Potpourri Polka

Congratulations to our friends Fabrizio Poggi and Chicken Mambo. Their "Mercy" CD was voted Buscadero magazine critics' top Italian CD of 2008. Buscadero is the Rolling Stone magazine of Italy, that nation's most important music magazine. Not only was the CD the top in Italy, but it finished 7th in the voting for all international CDs.
The other top international CDs included Mudcrutch (Tom Petty), Ryan Adams, Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Van Morrison, and John Hiatt ... stellar company! Some unusual video of a rehearsal with Guy Davis after pizza in Piacenza in 2007:
Chicken Mambo Pizza
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Performance Alert: The Todalo Shakers, one of Grampy's favorite old-timey bands, will be performing on the 19th. I try to catch any band with Eric and Suzy Thompson in it. Here's Suzy's e-mail on it:
Thurs. March 19 at 8 PM
The Todalo Shakers - Eric & Suzy Thompson, Frannie Leopold, WB Reid, Steven Strauss
Freight & Salvage
1111 Addison (near San Pablo), Berkeley
$18.50 in advance, $19.50 at the door
Freight website
Todalo Shakers web page:

Oh boy! It's time for our annual Todalo Shakers get-together. Frannie Leopold will make her way down from Mendocino, WB Bruce Reid will make the long drive from Seattle, Steven Strauss will only have to come from Oakland, and they'll join Eric & Suzy Thompson for a night of vintage jug band, swingy pop songs from the 1920s, ragtime fiddling, and the like.

Todalo is pronounced "TOAD -a - lo" and it is a term closely allied to "diddy wah diddy". Todalo Shaking is mentioned in songs by Mississippi John Hurt and by our heroes, the Memphis Jug Band.

Over the past year, we've worked out a bunch of fun new songs like "Mama Don't Give All the Lard Away", "Beaver Slide Rag", "Handy's Memphis Blues", and of course we'll be singing the perennial favorites like "Sweet Lovin' Old Soul", "Cocaine Habit", "Jake Limber Leg Blues", and the ever-popular "Under the Chicken Tree"! Frannie plays her old Martin guitar, WB fingerpicks the 6-string banjo (affectionately known as "The Enforcer") and doubles on fiddle, Eric plays lead guitar and raggy mandolin, Suzy saws on the fiddle, Steven Strauss gets a good raspy sound with the bowed bass, and everybody sings.

The Todalo Shakers were singled out as one of the "Best Live Music" acts by the Reader's Choice Poll in the Chronicle a few years back, for their stellar performance at the Berkeley Old Time Music Convention. Because we're so spread out geographically, we don't perform as a band very often, but when we do, we sure have a great time doing it. Please come join us at the Freight if you are able!
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Review of Bela Fleck's new documentary on banjos:
Bela's Flick
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The SF Jazz 2009 Spring Schedule:
Jazz Jump
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A bit o' the auld sod, Moving Hearts, their PR blurb:
Moving Hearts was formed in 1981 by Irish luminaries Christy Moore and Donal Lunny (both of Planxty). In 1984 the Irish folk-rock-jazz fusion group released its critically acclaimed genre-defining album, Storm, and established itself as one of Ireland's most influential bands. Soon after, the ever-evolving group of musicians went their separate ways to pursue individual projects that included performing on soundtracks for movies such as Gangs of New York and Michael Collins, winning a GRAMMY for a collaborative New Age album (Davy Spillane), heading a Rock School in Ireland (Matt Kelleghan), performing as principal percussionist with the National Symphony Orchestra of Ireland and recording with artists such as U2, Van Morrison and Elvis Costello (Noel Eccles), and touring with artists such as Genesis and The Corrs (Anto Drennan). Although they were only together for four years, Moving Hearts had a profound effect on the development of modern Celtic music.
Here they are:
Moving Hearts
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J.J. Cale released his
debut album, Naturally, in 1971. Born and raised in Oklahoma, the singer
wrote songs that became big hits for Eric Clapton, Lynyrd Skynyrd and
others, including "Cocaine" and "After Midnight." an NPR feature:
Fresh Cale
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The USGS filmed this bear at a scratching pole:
Pole Dancer
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A lot of great upcoming world music shows at Berkeley's own Freight & Salvage:
Tue, Mar 17 - the Black Brothers
Sat, Mar 21 - Melanie O'Reilly & Ashling
Wed, Apr 1 - Mike Marshall/Darol Anger/Vasen
Sat, Apr 4 - Bill Tapia & Mihana
Sun, Apr 5 - Moira Smiley & VOCO
Thu, Apr 9 - Kalman Balogh Gypsy Cimbalom Band
Fri, Apr 10 - Los Cenzontles
Sat, Apr 25 - Ralph Stanley & The Clinch Mountain Boys
Thu, May 7 - Piper Link
Sun, May 10 - Cascada de Flores
Fri, May 29 - Youssoupha Sidibe
Check out their calendar here:
The Freight
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Read of the Week: Jazz History Treasure:
Treasure Trove
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While we're talking history, a fantastic clip from the only film of this all-girl orchestra that performed in the "Melody Land" number in the Ziegfeld Follies of 1927. The ladies switch instruments during the course of the song, a very skilled group:
Groovin' Gals
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That's all for this week, get out and catch (or play) some live music!
Grampy Bob

Tuneweek, 03-07-2009: Wintergrass Reprise

NOTE: From here on, I'll be posting copies of this weekly digest at my blog site as well as sending out e-mail copies. So if you miss or misplace one you wanted to read closer at a better time, go here:
http://musicmanna.blogspot.com/
You can also read other bits and pieces of my writing there.
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Our Wintergrass 2009 Trip was a great one, as it is each year. Not only do we get to visit old, best friends, and jam with some musical friends, we get to see/hear some of the best music in the world. And I do mean world. This was exemplified by the presence this year of Brazilian mandolim player Danilo Brito, as guest of the Bay Area's own multi-instrumental genius Mike Marshall. Marshall's group Choro Famoso was there and played both in its own right and accompanying Danilo.

The bandolim is a Brazilian mandolin. Marshall visited Brazil several years ago and became enamored with Brazil's Choro music. An article on what that is is here:
http://saintpaulsunday.publicradio.org/features/0109_choro/
The results of Marshall's explorations in that genre were well displayed at Wintergrass. So herewith some samples:
Danilo Brito:
On YouTube:
http://tinyurl.com/az2aum
Other:
http://vodpod.com/watch/44301-rosa-ricardo-herz-alessandro-penezzi-e-danilo-brito

Mike Marshall and Choro Famoso (they have a new CD due out in April):
http://www.mikemarshall.net/clips/Choro%20Famoso/Noites%20Cariocas.mp3
http://tinyurl.com/d2bfh8

Other samples of Marshall's music with other groups and individuals are at:
http://www.mikemarshall.net/listen.htm
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The Alison Brown Quartet & Joe Craven were another highlight for us. Some samples of her music:
http://compassrecords.com/catalog/product_info.php?products_id=4604

Nothing with her with Joe Craven on video yet, but here are some vids with other personnel, including husband on bass and the incredible John Burr on piano:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OcgJcVFqyg

Joe Craven is the most amazing self-taught musician I've seen. He's great on mandolin, fiddle and any kind of percussion. He presents programs at public schools and is co-leader of the Wintergrass Youth Academy each year. He played with David Grisman's quintet for years. Here's his page:
http://www.joecraven.com/reviews.html
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Laurie Lewis and the Right Hands sparkled as always. One of the highlights of their appearances was at the newest Wintergrass venue, the old, renovated Rialto Theatre. There, the band stepped out from behind the mics and moved to the lip of the stage to perform totally acoustically. It save a real sense of what live theater music was like in the days before amplification. The amazing part was that the music was perfectly audible throughout the 700-seat venue. Some samples of Laurie and company's music:
On YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_type=&search_query=laurie+lewis+&aq=f
Her Web site:
http://www.laurielewis.com/

Michael Cleveland and the Flamekeepers are a truly amazing and more traditonal bluegrass band with a great singer and awesome instrumentalists, including the phenomenal fiddle of Michael Cleveland:
http://www.flamekeeperband.com/
On YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvT3O_2QQGI

Some other acts that were wonderful:

The Travelin McCourys on MySpace:
http://tinyurl.com/b2x2hc

Urban Monroes:
http://www.myspace.com/urbanmonroes

The Paperboys:
http://www.myspace.com/thepaperboys
http://www.paperboys.com/press.html

Scythian:
http://www.myspace.com/scythian
http://www.scythianmusic.com/bio.html
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A Personal Footnote: Hannah McQueen, daughter of a couple of our Boston Harbor, WA, friends, Scot and Annette McQueen, contributed a number of great new tunes to the chili feed and jam session this year. Here are two that I'll be putting in my own rep. Keep up the good work, Hannah and thanks!:

Noah and the Whale doing Five Years Time:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8YCSJpF4g4

Ingrid Michaelson doing You And I:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvMVCHhwTPs
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Of course, my review of Winterland covers only a few of the many groups that played the four-day festival. For more, go here and click on the links:
http://www.acousticsound.org/!wg_lineup.htm
And tickets to the 2010 Wintergrass are already on sale!
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Sad News: SF Blues Festival canceled:
http://tinyurl.com/82flz2
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That's all for this week, get out and hear some live music!
Grampy Bob

JANUARY 26, 2009

Cat rubs whiskers
Against newly pruned
Potato vine branches.

We spent an hour or two yesterday afternoon pruning the two oleander plants against the back fence and Bev cut back the potato plant against the left side of the storage shed. The hope is that this will encourage the oleanders to fill out, but this morning they simply look spindly and bare. The potato plant always comes back like gangbusters and tries to seal us out of the storage shed. I am thinking of taking four or five pieces of the old rough redwood 2X12s and building a planter box for tomatoes. Hope to grow some cherry tomatoes this year. Will have to look up Seeds of Change or Google the Web to see if I can determine the ideal dimensions. Will see if I can get some heirloom cherry toms like the ones I grew one year here that were so profuse. We agreed to use only chicken manure to fertilize and feed them this year as Miracle Gro (or perhaps the failure to apply it regularly) always seems to result in that withering near the end of the growing cycle, just when the plants start to produce. Of course, a drought year is projected, so water will be scarce; they may wither anyway, but let’s hope not.

Frost on the roofs
But this sun brings to mind
Spring planting.

(c) Bob Loomis
01-26-2009, Concord

SEA RANCH HAIKU/HAIBUN

Beverly and I gave each other a three-night stay at Sea Ranch for Christmas. We've just returned, renewed and rested. Here are some poems from our trip:

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January morning

Warm as spring

But still no birds

Full moon past

Venus shines alone

In winter sky

All that glitters

Is not gold – in morning sun

A wet mound of poop

Eerie somehow to have 70-degree weather on the North Coast in mid-January. We’re accustomed to fog, cloudy gray days, rain and wind; instead we get day after day of warm sun, not a sign of rain as far as the eye or the forecasters can see. We enjoy the warmth but feel somehow uneasy.

One more winter day

Of endless blue sky:

Drought’s spring disguise

One drawback of aging and being a late bloomer musically is that many of the people you’d like to have know about it have already passed on.

Sending my music

To those who’ve gone on

Wherever they may be

Six deer grazing

On the hill – the 2 youngest

Stage mock battles

Last night’s great wine

Doesn’t seem so wonderful

The morning after

Along the horizon

At ocean’s edge a single line

Of sunset gold

Once in a while

Even at our age

Moans of ecstasy!

One tiny boat

Out on the deepest blue

Labors northward

Morning sun

Meadow grasses

Shining

Hearing footsteps

Six deer stare

Big ears up

A few seabirds

Bob among kelp heads

Browsing for breakfast

Now that the sun’s

On the deck

Too hot to sit there

Last night’s fog

Left damp footprints

On roof and deck

Today’s alarm clock:

Some bird perched

Pecking stovepipe cap

(c) 2009 Bob Loomis