#musicstory

Of Gardens and Graves, a story from Hawaii

Gathering with friends to celebrate my birthday in Hawaii, my good fortune tricked me into thinking I had earned such leisure. Ocean waves crashed up on the island and giant palm leaves swayed in the wind. Hawaiian music playing from a house next door accompanied the party as we talked our way through the euphoria that comes from the first sips of alcohol.

That afternoon I started playing, for probably the 300^th time, “The Last Nail” a song by Dan Fogelberg. It’s not a love song or a song with a happy romantic arc, but a song I had turned to when I was a long way from home or in a time of introspection – like a birthday.

Its about the final nail which closed the coffin of a relationship. Realizing it had ended, he delivers a poignant and deep-diving lyric.

“I hear you’ve taken on a husband and child and live somewhere in Pennsylvania

I never thought you’d ever sever the string, but I can’t blame you none.”

I continued and played The Last Nail’s lyrical sarcophagus to the end.

“We walked together through the gardens and graves

I watched you grow to be a woman

living on promises that nobody gave to no one

they were given to no one.”

For years, the song was a catharsis and helped me accept the reality of a gradual goodbye. She wasn’t in Pennsylvania, but she lived close to Pennsylvania, and a long way from where I was.

On the beach, the sun moved from a bright white to a muted orange as my party day crawled toward dusk.… read more...

GATHERING AT THE VALLEY OF FLUID ANGLES

Words and music below for my spoken word piece accompanied by sitar.

My friend Dino Corvino in his, “Here You Are Wausau” podcast will be focusing on Writing in Public – what he also calls citizen journalism – in his next few episodes. He’ll be speaking with a few friends that write, talking about his own writing, and will publish these podcasts soon.

I spoke with him regarding aspects of writing: process, ego, why we write, how we started, and more. It was lots of fun, and in the middle of our convo, drawing from an experience with my friend Randy here in Arizona, I stated that a writer also puts something in the public eye to make a statement.

This strikes me as a credo for all artists, and while I’ve not put anything in public with sitar before, here is a combined sitar and written word work. Wait till it’s dark, light a candle, hear the story and sound wash over you like a gentle river.

My sitar flows in 19 bands of light: baaj, chikari, and tarab. Its journey to my hand is a mystery, but its music-medicine came to my doorstep from an old land, gripped me from the eons, and pulled my soul into its orbit. It’s a path unlike any other, bending more than notes.

A musician said, “Its all angles.”

Sitar bends the note, Saraswati dances with a swan, and because I’ve felt this resonance I participate in its step toward the depths from which rises a watery siren-song of the fathoms.

Sitar bends the note, Saraswati dances with a swan, and because I’ve felt this resonance I participate in its step toward the depths from which rises a watery siren-song of the fathoms.… read more...

WOJB: Radio Talk, Radio Chant (acoustic guitar and story)

Acoustic guitar and vocal response to radio talk of the northwoods.

WOJB: Radio Talk, Radio Chant

I turn the radio on and a smoky voice greets me, “Good evening everyone. You’re listening to WOJB, 88.9 FM, Woodland Community Radio from the Lac Court Oreilles in Reserve, Wisconsin, broadcasting on the Web at WOJB.ORG.

“It’s Tuesday, and I hope you’re having a good night.” The radio that’s been sitting in the same place for 40 years, goes silent . . . then a jock speaks again to his invisible community. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Wait a minute, let me check . . . oh, it’s Thursday. Ok then, well I hope you’re having a good Thursday.”

Ok then, becomes my north-land talk, courtesy of WOJB, where words break through from another world. His musical voice landing quiet on the microphone, nearly a chant, and the jocks’ idiom camouflages a humor that’s easy to miss. Dead air . . . lots of it . . . and then again he’s on, “You’re listening to WOJB, Community Radio of the Northwoods.”

I sat by the wood burning stove and noted the program change. “Good evening from the mountain state of West Virginia,” someone said. And in seconds, soft notes from a wooden guitar, played on a stage in West Virginia, melted in my ear and met me in my place of dark pines and starry skies. Warmed by fire on a cold Wisconsin spring night, I sipped my drink and wondered what the air waves would bring next.

Opening the stove door to add wood, the restless child of Prometheus took oxygen and rose with the flame.… read more...

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