"How Long Before The Change?"

Hello again, readers. The summer heat has been baking the ground around here to a crackly crunch, but I'm doing what I can to consume energy
and stay cool in my humble abode.

Here are some more lyrics from my latest batch of songs for your reading. This was the first thing I wrote when I began my little spasm
of creativity a couple of months ago. I was thinking about the song "A Change is Gonna Come", written by Sam Cooke back in 1964, and later
recorded by Otis Redding. I was also thinking about Bob Dylan's"Blowing In The Wind", and had the idea of writing a kind of "Are we
there yet?" kind of song.

As I was doing some research to make sure I wasn't committing some kind of unconscious plagiarism, I came across a site that proclaimed that
Cooke's song was actually inspired by Dylan's, which I don't remember knowing beforehand. Is the circle unbroken, or is it a meaningless
coincidence?

It seems that each generation repeats the mistakes of the previous one, and for every step forward society makes, there are at least one or two
steps backward. My childhood was informed by the idea that an age of great spiritual enlightenment was just around the corner. It was the
dawning of The Age Of Aquarius, according to the musical. These days it seems that we are living in Orwell's "1984", but a few years
chronologically down the road.

But I can still write a song about it, so here it is - a jazz waltz with an R & B feel:

How Long Before The Change?

How many ears ever hear the same story?
How many people really see things the same?
Who will be left to call the names when it's over?
How long before the change?
How long before the change?

How many days will be spent without knowing?
How many people will just turn away?
Choosing their path, but not care where they're going?
How long before the change?
How long before the change?

When I was young man, I thought it was coming,
Things would get better, and it wouldn't be long?
Those dreams have faded, but still I keep searching
For one thing to cling to, so I can be strong

How many voices will cry in the night?
How many people will hear that old song?
Will you carry the tune? Will it ever be right?
How long before the change?
How long before the change?

--------

words and music by Darrell Lea. Copyright 2005. All rights reserved

May 15, 2005: "The Tale of The Man Gone Wrong"

Hello, readers. It's now mid-May, and things seem to be moving along at a lurching kind of pace. Periods of extreme stasis seem to be followed
by other periods of ever-accelerating changes.

These days I have my songwriting cap on again, after leaving it off for too many years. One aspect of this period of activity I enjoy is the
feeling that I don't have to write the way I used to write. All expectations, either external or self imposed, seem to have fallen
away, or so I tell myself.

Here's a set of lyrics for you to read. The song they go with is based on an old English folk rhythm style in the key of E minor. Some of the
seeds of inspiration were personal experience, but I tried to create a universal setting for the ideas, working from the microcosm to the
macrocosm.

Another thing one has to worry about is whether or not the act of expression is the right thing to do. If you point a finger at those who
point fingers, are you as guilty of the same sanctimony as those you accuse? I tried to avoid that conundrum by presenting the information
in an unrelenting series of questions.

Cop out? You decide.

"The Tale of The Man Gone Wrong"

Have you heard the tale of the man gone wrong?
How all in his path were laid to waste?
Have you heard the tales of the ones along his way
Who swore they would give the man a taste
Of all the pain they held inside?
Show their scars, their poor wounded pride,
How the mighty would fall . . .

Have you heard the tale of the circle of friends
Who shared all their secrets with the town?
Who believed what they were told, knew that it was true,
And weren't afraid to spread the word around?
What once was a private affair
Soon would be on everybody's mind,
How the mighty would fall . . .

Who does the talking? Who does the listening?
Who can declare that they know what is right?
Who pays the price for one careless whisper?
Who does the hiding?
When will it end?

Have you heard the tales from years gone by
Of sinners, and how they paid their price?
Some were burned at the stake, some would run for all their days,
Those who cast the stones need not think twice,
They were the ones who knew the best,
Pass along their judgment for the rest,
How the might would fall . . .

Have you heard the tales of the next perfect world
Where everyone's forgiven of their shame?
Can you tell me some more about this perfect illusion?
All I see are players and their games,
Try to win, keep an eye out on the door,
Forget the things you thought you came here for,
Now the mighty will fall . . .

Who does the talking? Who does the listening?
Who can declare that they know what is right?
Who pays the price for one careless whisper?
Who does the hiding?
When will it end?
----

Words and Music by Darrell Lea, copyright 2005. All rights reserved.

March 5, 2005 - The Ten Commandments of Rock and Roll

The Ten Commandments of Rock and Roll -

I. Suck up to the Top Cats.

II. Do not express independent opinions

III. Do not work for common interest, only factional interests.

IV. If there's nothing to complain about, dig up some old gripe.

V. Do not respect property or persons other than band property or
persons.

VI. Make devastating judgments on persons and situations without
adequate information.

VII. Discourage and confound personal, technical and/or creative
projects.

VIII. Single out absent persons for intense criticism.

IX. Remember that anything you don't understand is trying to fuck
with you.

X. Destroy yourself physically and morally and insist that all true
brothers do likewise as an expression of unity.

- Robert Hunter -

"Where have you been, my blue eyed son?"

- Bob Dylan -

Hello again. It's been almost two whole years since I attempted to
communicate in this format. Pardon me if I'm a little rusty, OK?

My time in The Schwag ended in October, 2004. My semi-annual follow up
scans for lymphoma yielded conflicting results, and I was advised by my
doctor to not travel for a while. This news must have been interpreted
as a resignation by the band leader. The e-mail that advised my band
mates of my situation was answered with a long silence, and I
eventually took notice of the new band photo that was featured in the
ad for the KC Thanksgiving gig.

So it goes. Readers of this space may have noticed a similar story
occurring in my world sometime back in 2002, with another band.

It has taken a while to reclaim the part of myself that I surrendered
to the group mind, and that recovery remains an ongoing process. I had
been living in a chronic state of near exhaustion for a while, working
forty hours a week at the day job, then driving hundreds of miles most
weekends to do the band business.

Good news is plentiful these days, if one knows where to look. Spring
is just starting to peak through the blinds of what has been a fairly
weird winter. I find myself at the very beginning of a couple of
musical projects that just may bear fruit, if we are patient and
focused. We'll see.

There will be more to follow soon. Cheers for now.

DL

May 19, 2003–Brainwashed

Hello reader - sorry about the long break between communiques. Busy.

Here's what I thought should be said in this space vis-a-vis "Operation Iraqi Freedom". These lyrics were taken from www.sing365.com.

We loved George then, and he's still right today.

Cheers,
DL

BRAINWASHED by George Harrison

Brainwashed in our childhood
Brainwashed by the school
Brainwashed by our teachers
and brainwashed by their rules

Brainwashed by our leaders
By our Kings and Queens
Brainwashed in the open and brainwashed
behind the scenes

God God God
A voice cried in the wilderness
God God God
it was on the longest night
God God God
An eternity of darkness
God God God
Someone turned out the spiritual light

Brainwashed by the Nikkei
Brainwashed by Dow Jones
Brainwashed by the FTSE
Nasdaq and secure loans
Brainwashed us from Brussels
Brainwashing us in Bonn
Brainwashing us in Washington
Westminster in London

God God God
You are the wisdom that we seek
God God God
The lover that we miss
God God God
Your nature is eternity
God God God
You are Existance, Knowlwedge, Bliss

The soul does not love, it is love itself
It does not exist, It is existence itself
It does not know, It is knowledge itself
"How to Know God" Page 130

They brainwashed my great uncle
Brainwashed my cousin Bob
They even got my grandma when she was
working for the mob
Brainwash you while you're sleeping
While you're in a traffic jam
Brainwash you while you're weeping
While still a baby in your pram
Brainwashed by the Military
Brainwashed under duress
Brainwashed by the media
You're brainwashed by the press
Brainwashed by computer
Brainwashed by mobile phones
Brainwashed by the satellite
Brainwashed to the bone

God God God
Won't you lead us through this mess
God God God
>From the places of concrete
God God God
Nothing's worse than ignorance
God God God
I just won't accept defeat

God God God
Must be something I forgot
God God God
Down on Bullshit Avenue
God God God
If we can only stop the rot
God God God
Wish that you'd brainwash us too

Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare Mahadev
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare

Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Hare Hare Hare Hare Mahadeva
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva

Namah Parvarti Pataya Hare Hare
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 19, 2002

Hello Gentle Reader -
My gosh, it's been over seven months since I've written, hasn't it? One might think that I had fallen off the edge of the planet, particularly with where I left us all hanging the last time I wrote.

A quick up-to-date: The Rituxan treatments for the lymphoma I mentioned in April have done their job, and I am currently back in "remission" for the moment. No one knows exactly how long that moment might be, so I am doing as much as I can to live as "in the moment" as possible.

To that effect, I've taken on as many Schwag gigs as I can handle, which at this writing is almost all of them. This weekend I go to Oklahoma. Next weekend is Arkansas and Missouri. The road goes on forever.

Life is good.
("Sure beats hell out of the alternative!" my father used to say.)

I still miss Esau.

Other than that, there's not a lot to tell. I feel fine, I've gained far too much weight, and I intend to stay as busy as possible until I simply can't anymore.

I hope everyone who reads this is doing well, and I hope you all have a fine Christmas, Solstice and New Year to celebrate.
See you again soon.

DL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 15, 2002 "My Brother Esau"

“In another time’s forgotten space,
When your eyes looked from your mother’s face,
Wildflower seed by the sand and wind,
May the four winds blow you home again.”

“Franklin’s Tower” by Robert Hunter, 1975

We were living in a cute little house in North Lawrence – we being myself,
Maria, and Sally the wonder dog. I was managing a record shop (remember
those?) in Kansas City, Kansas and commuting thirty five miles back and
forth to work most days. One of the things we had noticed when we had taken
the house the previous November was the fully enclosed dog run out by the
garage, and we had said to each other that day that we’d find a dog for it
sometime soon.

That day came on Friday, April 14 of 1989. It was about noon, and I
suddenly decided that we would go right then and there to the Humane Society
shelter and find ourselves a big dog. Maria agreed somewhat quietly, and
away we went to the pound.

The row of cages we looked at was almost fully occupied, as I guess they
almost always are. Several pooches caught our eyes that day. I remember
somewhat liking a Golden Retriever, but there was an advisory sign about
some undisclosed special circumstance hanging on his cage. Not knowing what
to think, I deferred to Maria, who had spotted a nondescript, wolf-like
looking guy who had the “Pet Of The Week” sign hanging proudly on the front
of his cage. We asked for a leash to walk him around inside the kennel area,
and after sitting on a bench in the hallway there for a moment, papers were
signed, a check was written, and a household of two humans, one dog and five
guinea pigs had suddenly gained a new member.

We discovered our new life would be full of challenges the moment that we
got our new boy out to the parking lot. He knew no commands. He seemed to
not even care that we were talking to him. I hoisted him into the back of
the pick-up truck, and Maria held his leash for the drive home. As we drove
underneath the railroad overpass en route, the boy hit the flatbed of the
truck as if sheltering from the apocalypse. I spent what time I could with
him that afternoon, and departed for my shift at the store later in the day,
wondering what on earth to call this new arrival.

The Grateful Dead were at the height of their popularity then, and it had
always been one of the inside things among Deadheads to name their pets in
reference to one of their songs. “My Brother Esau” had been a favorite of
mine, and as I drove to work that afternoon, Esau was the name that seemed
to present itself most in my thoughts. Not wanting to inadvertently saddle
my pooch with bad karma, I went back to my old Bible that evening to reread
the story of Jacob and Esau. It seemed to fit, even down to the color of his
fur, so that night the new arrival was christened Esau.

To say that Esau had “issues” during his early days at home would be a
drastic understatement. They had known very little of his background at the
animal shelter. All they really knew was that he was a loose stray on the
western edge of the city limit, and no one had reported him missing or
claimed him in the time he had been in the shelter. Essentially, we had a
fully-grown, sexually mature and completely untrained Collie/Shepherd mix on
our hands. He also seemed to be slightly autistic as well. Progress with him
was slow and fitful during those early months, and there were many times we
both wondered if we had made some sort of terrible mistake by adopting him.
But one of Esau’s qualities that Maria seemed to be cognizant of more than I
was that, deep down inside, Esau really wanted to be good. He simply had
never had the opportunity to fit in anywhere else before.

His early years were filled with the kind of anecdotes that always bring
joy to a dog owner’s heart. There was the time we had decided, perhaps
unwisely, to go out for the evening and leave both dogs in the house – just
to see what might happen. What occurred we’d never know. What we came home
to was Sally with her head covered in spit and a huge pile of loose foam
chunks in the corner where some pillows used to be. Then there was the time
we’d left him in his dog run, and a surprise thunderstorm dumped a massive
amount of rain in our absence. Esau had apparently tried to crawl UNDER the
doghouse for protection, and a muddier dog has never been seen in those
parts before or since. Those days were filled with little stories like that,
but change is inevitable, and soon Esau and I were living in another house,
with Maria and Sally making their residence separately a block away.

It was during that period that I learned a thing or two about Esau’s
“separation anxiety”. I had tried to turn Esau into an outdoor dog, but the
yard at the new place had very little shade. I came home once to find Esau
slightly overheated, to say the least. He came in the house, and I excused
myself to use the bathroom, closing the sliding door. Ten seconds later,
Esau had walked right through that door. He was an indoor companion after
that. Later that same summer, Maria and I departed for a Sunday evening
drive, leaving Esau outdoors, in the company of my housemate and the
neighbors. Moments later, we were west bound on Sixth Street, when I
happened to glance in the rearview and see Esau chasing our truck down the
street with all his heart and spirit. It’s amazing what can be done when one
wants to do it bad enough.

Living arrangements came and went, and one day in 1993 Esau and I found
ourselves alone together again. Life eventually became comfortable and
routine for both of us, I suppose. During the hard traveling years of
roadwork with the L.A. Ramblers, I always had a reason to get back home.
During my first battle with lymphoma in 1995, Esau was as understanding as
he was able to be, never demanding more from me than I could deliver. My
friend (and surrogate Florence Nightingale figure) Megan would come over
most days during the worst of it and walk him, for which he was always
grateful.

On our lives together went, year after year.

Esau’s final days were difficult. Perhaps they were made more difficult by
my having to be absent during some of them, due to gigs and the like. I’ll
never know. Maria always came to take care of him while I was away, for
which I‘m certain he was always grateful.

His spirit and sense of humor never faltered, though, no matter how
bad things got. Even as we waited quietly to transport him to the on-call
veterinarian after his collapse, he couldn’t resist barking at the guy
upstairs climbing his staircase

We said good-bye to him on June 10.

Sixteen hours later, I was hooked up to an IV bag at Lawrence
Memorial Hospital, taking the first of four scheduled Rituxan treatments for
my latest battle against cancer. It was a welcome diversion, to be honest.
Some fights may never be won, but the last lesson I learned from my dog that
Monday was to never, ever consider surrender. Never.

“Sometimes at night I dream he’s still that hairy man,
Shadow-boxing the apocalypse, and wandering the land”

“My Brother Esau”, by John Barlow and Bob Weir, 1983

DL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 3, 2002: “God Save The Queen”

Today, I came home from the day job, turned on the television, and
saw a whole bunch of English rock and roll stars lined up behind Charles,
Prince of Wales, as he made some closing remarks at his mother’s garden party.
As his speech ended, while Christiane Amanpour made small talk to Wolf Blitzer
via satellite, I realized once again what a truly weird world we live in.

It had been a fairly squalid day at the office. Stuff that is
supposed to work didn’t; stuff I needed to get the job done. Thusly, the job
didn’t get done as well as it could have. Office work is like that. Tomorrow
will either be exactly the same, or somewhat different. Either way, it’s a lot
like pushing a boulder uphill. A very, very long hill. Once the boulder arrives
at the top of the hill, someone who never speaks to you will take credit for
it’s arrival, and you will be dispatched to retrieve the next boulder.

It’s a living.

Last week I performed at the first Schwagstock of the season. It
was a three-day affair at Bagnell Dam at Lake of The Ozarks. The weekend was
not without some drama, but we’ll leave that for another day’s writing. The
music was essentially good all three nights, no one was seriously injured, and
we’ll do it all over again at the end of this week. This time, the weather
should be perfect…

The cancer thing goes on, as it is prone to do. Took a trip to
Omaha, to visit a transplant doctor at a transplant center. Oddly enough, her
opinion was that I should look into having a transplant. You don’t go to a Ford
dealer and expect ‘em to sell ya a Chevy, I guess. Have decided not to explore
the option of a transplant of any kind at this time. Instead, I will take a
series of treatments with the new monoclonal antibody Rituxan, and hopefully
get this shit back in remission. Then, through sheer brute force, ignorance and
healthy eating habits, I intend to live to be thousand years old.

Or at least old enough to round up a bunch of aging musicians and
leggy young females to perform in my garden at a party in my honour

DL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 19, 2002: "Don't Worry, Be Happy"

Hello Gentle Reader -

The following is most of the text that I e-mailed out to forty-five or so of my
closest friends the other day. I don't wish to turn this page into a version of
"As The World Turns" or anything, but I felt it appropriate to post this here,
since I broached the subject at the end of my last column.

My point is: life is too short to have a bad time.

Don't Worry, Be Happy. It works.

(forwarded text follows)

This is one of those good news/bad news letters, so I'll start with the bad
news first.

I am a cancer patient again. As in 1995, the culprit is non-Hodgkins lymphoma.

Now for the good news. The initial prognosis is very good for another victory
over the disease.

Here's the back-story:

Around April 1 of last year, I detected a suspicious lump on my neck while
shaving. Since I had just passed the annual checkup with my oncologist with
flying colors two weeks previously, I did what any 21st century person would
do: I researched "neck lumps" on the Internet, and read of several scenarios in
which they weren't malignant. I also followed the suggested timeline regarding
their disappearance, and was back in to see my oncologist by the end of May.
Another round of tests and scans followed, and all were negative.

I was then referred to an ear/nose/throat specialist for follow-ups. He decided
on March 13 of this year that it would be best to remove the lump and biopsy
it. That surgery occurred on April 5, and I was notified of the positive
results of the biopsy on Tuesday April 9. After another round of scans and
blood work, I saw my oncologist again today (04/15) for initial planning and
strategizing of what's to come.

What I have this time seems to be a very slow moving disease, as compared to
what I had seven years ago. Initial indications are that this might be
treatable with prescription drugs - NOT chemotherapy - and all signs look good
for a complete recovery. I'll know more about treatment options at the end of
the week.

For those of you I haven't discussed this with lately, sorry for the shock of
delivering such bad news to your in-box. Rest assured that I'm feeling QUITE
well these days; probably better than I've felt all winter.

I'm including a link to an information page that will provide some basic
background info on what I'm dealing with here.

http://www.lymphomainfo.net/nhl/follicular.html

Well, that's all for the moment. Thanks for being in my part of the world, and
stay in touch.

Cheers,
Darrell

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 31, 2002 - "Easter 2002"

Hello, dear reader. How are you? How have you been? I hope things are well in
your world.

The silence from my end hasn't been intentional, nor has it been unintentional.
Things have been quiet here - almost TOO quiet, as they would have said in
those old jungle movies from the 1930's.

Today is one of the major Holy days of one of the world's major religions. At
the cradle of this system of beliefs, known today as The Middle East,
proponents and opponents of two of the worlds other major religions are busy
blowing themselves up and committing horrible acts against each other, all in a
blind rage they somehow manage to ascribe to their belief in their God.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world takes sides and argues about this stuff from
the safety of their own refuges, usually rehashing the same old rhetoric they
always spout for their own benefit and the benefit of their respective
audiences. Same as it ever was.

Here in Lawrence Kansas USA the city quietly awakes today with the annual
hangover associated with the NCAA basketball tournament. Once again, KU is not
the champion of all things basketball, despite the related frenzy of T-shirt
buying and alcohol consumption. I guess the vibe wasn't right. Maybe next year.

The Dirtytoes folks did a show last night in KCK, but I haven't heard from
anyone yet about the gig. In a way, I guess they're attempting to fight
ignorance and bigotry in Leavenworth County with this show, in an effort to
keep Camp Gaea afloat. They're not alone in this battle, but ignorance and
bigotry are firmly entrenched values in Leavenworth County - sometimes actually
encouraged and respected by a lot of the citizenry up there. I wish them well
in their battle(editor's note: See the front page of this site for the good news!).

Musically things are mostly quiet for me at the moment. Almost, but not quite
too quiet. The Schwag haven't been to Kansas for a little while, and the summer
festival season is still about eight weeks away. The quartet I've been
attempting to get into a rehearsal groove with has been intermittent at best,
with the latest recess related to the bassist's out of town wedding. None of my
old bands are due for reunions at the moment, and my acoustic muse is still on
an extended vacation, far away from here.

I've still managed to keep my mind and ears busy, though. This month's rave has
been the music of Phil Lesh and Friends; these days also referred to as The
Phil Lesh Quintet by their fans. As you probably know, Phil played bass for the
Grateful Dead. His current group is a superstar cast of virtuosos that have
managed to hang together for almost two years now. The stuff they play is
absolutely out of sight sometimes. Phil's enthusiasm for the new band was so
great that he posted soundboard recordings of twelve of their shows on the
Internet. However, one has to be computer-savvy to actually download them,
which is where my coworker Fred came into the picture. Thirty-seven CD's (and
an angry phone call from Fred's ISP about bandwidth) later, my mind is blown
and Fred is still on-line. See http://www.phillesh.net for details, and follow
the links to the software and show downloads.

So, in the space of a few short paragraphs we're all caught up for the moment.

One more thing - This Friday, April 5, I'll be participating in a bit of
outpatient surgery, to remove a suspicious lump on my neck that we've been
watching for a while. We all hope it's nothing, but the fact that the doctor
feels compelled to cut it out says it's at least something, right? With my
medical history, the idea of what that something might be is just a little
daunting, particularly considering the proximity of the lump to my larynx.
Anyway, your kind thoughts and groovy vibes will be appreciated at this time,
folks.

Enjoy your springtime, and I promise to write again soon.

-DL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February 17, 2002 (posted March1st, apologies from the editor) "The Unavoidable Ravages of Time"

I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago. Birthdays for me have always been cause to celebrate, a reason to party and get wild. This year, I had decided to approach things differently. I wanted it to be just like any other day.

And, except for the emergency vehicles and the downed power lines, it was a day just like any other. The ice storm had actually begun the previous day, with Lawrence getting a blast of sleet and snow before the freezing rain took over. The transformer behind the house blew out with a great exploding sound at around 11:30pm. The tree branch immediately above the power lines could no longer support the weight of the ice, causing it to crash down, ripping the cables from the side of the house and causing them to land across the hood of my truck. So, I awoke on the anniversary of my birth to see the alley behind my house blocked at both ends by Power and Light trucks, and the perimeter
surrounding my vehicle marked off by red and yellow hazard tape.

I knew I would have some time to think. I napped instead.

It's beginning to appear that 2002 could be a banner year for the remaining heavyweight superstars of what's become known as the "Classic Rock" era. The Who are already selling tickets for shows scheduled in July, August and September. Paul McCartney will tour sports arenas across the US in April and May, with a European jaunt to follow. The Rolling Stones will celebrate their fortieth (40th) anniversary as a performing group this year, with a new recording and mega-tour hinted at in the press. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young are probably traveling to another city on their tour as I write this. Bob Dylan seems to always be around somewhere.

It seems a little odd to me that the music that defined my school years so long ago still commands the power it does in today's marketplace. Let's frame the idea like this: according to Billboard Magazine, The Beatles "1" compilation was the top album for the chart year 2001, thirty-seven (37) years after their career defining appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964. Their music is still heard just about everywhere. Imagine what it would have been like in 1964 if the genres of thirty-seven years prior to then still ruled the roost. The sounds of Louis Armstongs' Hot Five would have been blasting from transistor radios from coast to coast, and The Charleston would have been the dance craze
still sweeping the nation.

So what's the deal? The "New Wave" of pop music rolled over in the late 70's and early 80's. Now those who are still among us from the era are "classic" performers as well, with U2 sharing the same international spotlight with Sir Paul at The Super Bowl extravaganza last month. Did we really live in a era in which the development of musical ideas were so significant that they'll continue to influence listeners and performers hundreds of years from now, the way Mozart and Beethoven influence us today? I wish I knew.

What I do know is that it already appears that 2002 will be an exciting yet expensive year, if I manage to attend even half of the shows I'd like to, or buy half of the new releases by the old guard that will appear at the local CD shops. This month's musical highlight (so far) is the new release by Fairport Convention, titled "IIIV". If you're at this site, you probably already know about Fairport; if you do, then you should simply go get the disc. In my opinion, it's a very strong and well-rounded release, possibly the best latter day Fairport record since "Jewel In The Crown". On the horizon, next months highlight appears to be the forthcoming Grateful-Dead-does-Bob-Dylan compilation,due for release on March 19.

And so it goes.

The remnants of the "birthday surprise" still litter the alley behind home, although power was restored to the area almost exactly 24 hours after it went out. My birthday was exceptionally quiet, with only the sound of passing emergency vehicles to break the gentle sound of tree limbs crashing to the ground. Thanks to Megan for a wonderful trip out to The India Palace. The betting pool has now opened as to which will happen first: (1) my hair going gray or (2) my hair falling out. Vegas odds-makers are currently 7-5 on option (2).

Life is good. Sure beats the alternative.

-DL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 6, 2002- "Another Year, Another Year"

. . . and so it came to pass in the land of Oz that we all more or less made it through the holidays intact, only to see the challenges of the New Year bright before us like a flame . . . or something like that.

Happy 2002 to you, dear reader! How were YOUR holidays? Hopefully not as scary as some I've known of, and not as stressful as we all know they can be sometimes. Mine were alright this year, perhaps better than average.

2001 ended and 2002 began for me doing one of my favorite things - sitting in with The Schwag as part of their New Years party at The Blue Note, in downtown Columbia, MO. The evening was a three set affair, with a full blown acoustic set to kick off the festivities. I hadn't done the acoustic thing with the guys before, but an hour long rehearsal in the afternoon had us sounding like old folkies by the time the show started. Over the course of the evening we managed to go from the quietest of sounds to a show-closer that was louder (as an ensemble) than anything we had done together before. I dare say that a good time was had by all, with the possible exception of the kids I saw out on Broadway after the gig, surrounded by police, with the trained dog sniffing through their trunk. One hopes that lessons were learned and everybody involved got through their ordeal OK.

The new year received a strangely welcome and ironic lift for me on Thursday 01/03, when I paged through the show ads in the new Pitch Weekly and discovered I was no longer in a reggae band! Those of you who have read this page before know of which band I speak; new readers are referred to the "Performance Diary" pages of a few months ago, for the bands name will no longer be mentioned in this or future writings. Not that I actually got my feelings hurt or anything - if anybody in (band X) had actually had the nerve to discuss anything with me, the whole thing would have been quick, painless and bloodless. However, delusions of grandeur and backstage sexual politics seem to have been the foundation upon which the decision to fire me without notice was made, so I'm forced to simply "pity the fools" and continue dancing on my own without them. However, I am more than willing to tell my side of the story face to face - so if you ever see me on the street, don't feel like you can't ask me about it or anything. Everyone loves a gossip, right?

And that, dear reader, is my somewhat brief New Years update as of this sitting. Uncle Dirtytoes will be doing a show on 01/12, I believe. The Schwag will be back in Lawrence on Friday 01/25 - I'll be back with my homeboyz for a night of rock and roll bliss.

Oh yeah, one more thing - be sure to check out Neil Young's new song "Let's Roll", about Flight 93 and 09/11/01. You can listen to it for free at www.neilyoung.com - and make your own mind up about it.

Happy New Year!

DL

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Sunday, December 2, 2001- All Things Must Pass: George Harrison 1943-2001

George Harrison died last week. The world mourned the passing of another Beatle. And Then There Were Two.

If only it were all so simple. I have to admit that I sometimes forget what a universal experience The Beatles were, and I also admit that I've been somewhat taken aback by the amount of reverential coverage there has been in the media these last few days. By now, I suppose the story kind of resembles a pop music "Wizard of Oz" - the black and white beginnings of The Ed Sullivan Show; the explosion into Technicolour that "Sgt. Pepper" and the Psychedelic Sixties were; through "Revolution 9", as Martin and Bobby were shot and Vietnam and Chicago were exploding with rage. One could even surmise that "in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make" meant as much to the boomer generation as "There's no place like Home" meant to their parents.

My life, and lifestyle choices, were profoundly influenced by The Beatles and their music. Indeed, I probably would not have chosen the path I'm on today without them. The jury remains deadlocked as to whether that is a good or a bad thing. I still remember the time in 1969 that my freaked-out mother attempted in vain to ban all Beatle records from the house, citing "Why Don't We Do It In The Road" as vulgar nastiness that she didn't want her no-so-little boy exposed to. Throughout my school years, I was consistently amazed how some music teachers I studied with would be dismissive of the group, usually for reasons of fashion or lifestyle.

These days we die-hard Beatlemaniacs usually exist quietly on the Internet or in record and CD shops, collecting our mementos and snatching up whatever new offerings see the light of day. I personally can't say that I was shocked by George's passing, since the web sites I visit regularly had tracked the progression of his illness in great detail. That news did manage to remain under the radar screen of mainstream media until the morning of November 30, by which time the family had rightfully had their private, unencumbered-by-papparazzi memorial.

There is a lot about George Harrison's story that was left on the cutting room floor as the networks and media outlets prepared their memorial pieces. Trying to tell a story as significant as this in twenty two minutes requires that, I suppose, but it does a disservice to the man and his real accomplishments in life. Much more than being "the quiet one", George actually dared to leave the star making machinery behind and attempt to lead a "normal" life once he had decided to stop being a pop star. He raced cars and became a passionate gardener and ukulele enthusiast, among other things. When he did comment to the press about the current state of affairs in pop music, his acerbic wit and criticisms were music to my ears, rightfully taking the younger generation of pop stars to task when their work was all fluff and no substance.

Earlier in the week, I had the pleasure of going out to see King Crimson, a favorite old band that still attempts to remain current and vital through their work. It was also my first trip to the newly refurbished Madrid Theater in Kansas City, an intimate little hall that I hope to spend more time in again soon. The show itself was a gas, populated by mainly thirty and forty something that were certainly around "back in the day". John Paul Jones and his trio opened the night with a set of eccentric instrumentals and rave-ups that illustrated just what his contribution to Led Zeppelin really was - the ability to count higher than four and still rock hard all at once. King Crimson played a set that concentrated on primarily new material that still featured their trademark complexity and intensity. The Kansas City audience ate it all up greedily and hungrily. A somewhat awestruck fan even blurted out a goofily sincere "THANKS FOR COMING HERE, MAN!" towards the stage during the opening set that amused all in the room for a brief moment. For me that sort of summed up the evening.

There was a time when I was growing up that pop music was about innovation and moving forward, and striving to become a pop/rock musician seemed to be a more honorable ambition than perhaps it is now. It was The Beatles that created that kind of consciousness more than any other individual or group, and that perhaps is one of their greatest, yet cruelest gifts to the world we live in today. For a while, the world was LISTENING, with their hearts and their minds, and what was expected of an artist was to evolve and move forward, perhaps taking us a little further down the path to enlightenment along with them. George was as big a part of that movement as anyone, most notably with the fine compositional quality of his guitar work and his willful musical eccentricity, with influences as varied as Ravi Shankar, Phil Spector and George Formsby.

Nowadays things are different, of course. Pop stardom is more like it was before The Beatles in many ways, merely a vehicle to hang a brand name on while selling pimple cream or soft drinks. I recently had to submit my annual "Top Ten Albums of 2001" to the local music magazine, and I had to struggle to make ten. Half of my list was made up of vault releases or re-issues. If there is quality music of substance being made, a good portion of it is not making it to the mainstream public these days. Bands like King Crimson continue to exist in large part thanks to the Internet and to small groups of die-hard fans that refuse to give up the things that they loved.

George Harrison lived and died. His life and music mattered to millions of people, and the end results of his work will live on. We were all lucky to have been present for the ride.

All things must pass away.

DL

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November 11, 2001 - Darrell's Holiday Music Guide 2001

It seems that just about this time every year someone will look up and say "Well, it must be that time of year again!", and the rest of us will all nod in silent agreement and amazement. Never fails. Happens every time. Something about the cyclical nature of calendars or something, I suppose.

In the business of retail music, this is when it all happens. Since music is "the gift that keeps on giving", the industry has positioned itself over the years to belch forth the maximum amount of stuff all at once around the holidays, to the point that we forty-ish lifetime muso's all breathe a collective "OUCH" when we consider the financial burden of attempting to hear all that we'd like to hear. So, either to help ease the pain, or perhaps add to it just a bit, I'm offering today an overview of some of the new recorded offerings out there that tickle my fancy and arouse some curiosity.

Everything old becomes new again this time of year, and this year is truly no exception. I eased the burden of certain family members this year when I picked up "The Golden Road: Grateful Dead 1965-1973" 12 CD box set on it's first day of issue a few weeks ago. It fulfills the three basic rules of boxed sets well: (1) all of the previously released material - in this case their Warner Brothers releases, from their first album through "Europe '72" - appears in a superior, sonically upgraded form, (2) there is a plethora of previously unreleased and unheard material that will cause every major fan of the group to feel incomplete without possessing it, in this case tacked on to each of the original titles, and (3) the "before the fame" extra recordings added to the package are so dreadful that you'll never want to hear them again, except perhaps to satisfy some creepy urge, or perhaps to prove to a friend just how young and amateurish these guys once were. The new masters of the original albums really are superb, and those who don't have $150.00 to spend on Grateful Dead stuff can hopefully be patient for a year, when the individual versions of these albums should finally be issued.

Also receiving the collected works treatment this year is Creedence Clearwater Revival. This is the third time that purportedly "improved" versions of these releases have been foisted on the marketplace since the advent of the compact disc, and one has to wonder just how much you can improve on thirty year old recordings of an old electric guitar being played through an old Fender amp, but I'm still putting this one at the top of my wish list. The price tag breaks the $100.00 threshold, but not quite like Jerry's kid's.

Other archive releases of note getting the deluxe edition/box set treatment this season include The Who's "Live At Leeds", this time the complete concert with the complete live "Tommy", with a brand new re-mix; "Miles Davis: The Complete 'In A Silent Way' Sessions", three CD's of his earliest electric jazz/funk explorations, circa 1966-1969; an expanded edition of Bob Marley and The Wailers "Exodus" that has an entire second disc of live recordings and re-mixes from the era; and for those on a budget there is "Echoes: The Best of Pink Floyd", an affordable two CD set that sequences the material non-chronologically for added artistic effect.

In addition to old music, there's also new music by old guys to rouse your curiosity as well. You've undoubtedly been made aware of the new Bob Dylan disc "'Love and Theft'" if you've been paying attention, and I can't think of a thing to say about it that hasn't already been said and thoroughly argued elsewhere. I really dig the record, and I think it's absolutely fabulous that an old guy like Bob is still into his thing enough to challenge himself and the rest of us like this. Get this and listen to it repeatedly - it'll do you good!

Much heralded in advance is the forthcoming (at this writing) Paul McCartney release, "Driving Rain". Writers who normally don't like Paul's stuff are already saying good things about this one, so perhaps I'll have something to add to the discussion at a future writing.

Two of the major pop music benefits since the 9/11 tragedy are being rush released just in time for the holidays. "The Concert For New York" will be two full CD's, including three out of the four numbers The Who performed, most of Paul's set (except the two "Driving Rain" songs), and just about all of the more significant moments of that show. It comes out on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving. The "Tribute To Heroes" telethon that aired September 21 will be issued on CD and DVD the following week, including previously unavailable stuff from Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young's performance of "Imagine" (which is near-perfect, by the way) and the truly astonishing performance by Celine Dion of "God Bless America" that I attempted to describe in last week's column. Of course, all proceeds from these records are intended to do good for people who need it, and undoubtedly much of those same proceeds will either end up in escrow accounts while lawyers argue about them, or at least be a topic on some political talk show the next time someone needs to assail the entertainment industry, so be advised.

And that's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, as they say. It's times like this that I get just a minor twinge of nostalgia for the "good old days" I spent behind the counter in record stores, grooving for hours and trying to learn a little history all at once. Then I remember how frantic those days leading up to the big one always were, and how I never seemed to listen to music at home when I sold it at a record store all day.

And I become very thankful for credit cards.

Have a good Thanksgiving, and maybe I'll see you when King Crimson comes to town.

DL

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Of course, Darrell didn't need to mention that we still have copies of the two Uncle Dirtytoes albums -"Foot to the Path" and "Make Them Come Alive!" available for purchase with naught but an letter and a check! Then of course there is Maria and Megan's "Thegither an' a'" and Maria's Ian Anderson tribute "Songs of the Troubadour". Heck, for that matter, I'll bet Darrell still has a few copies of his and megan's duo CD "Season of Change hanging around somewhere!

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November 4, 2001 - " . . . but just HOW different?"

"All we are saying is give peace a chance" - John Lennon 1969

"I will fight for the right to live in freedom" - Paul McCartney 2001

And so, after a period of profound and accelerated changes, all of us in this part of the world are going about the daily business of "returning to normal", as they say. Not that any of this was ever really normal in the first place, and now perhaps even less so, but it's been stated by the pundits, politicians and leaders as our duty to "get back to business", so back to business we go.

Of course, there will always be some mildly amusing stuff happening on the home front that can perhaps provide a chuckle, or maybe a momentary feeling of enlightenment or something. So, today I'll try to share a couple of those vignettes . . .

1) UNCLEAR ON THE CONCEPT

I have an acquaintance who now fancies herself as a music promoter. This is someone I've known for a long time, and is someone with whom I had quite a falling out with over a year ago. For the sake of this piece I'll call her "Miss X". Anyway, after being gone for awhile, Miss X came back to Lawrence recently with the intention of promoting some musical events, with varying degrees of success.

A couple of weeks ago my phone rings. The caller ID lets me know who it is. I pick it up anyway:

(paraphrased)

Me: Hello?

X: Hi, it's X. Listen, I'm gathering together the musical performers for a peace march this Saturday, and we'll be at South Park in the afternoon, and I was wondering if you'd like to play for us (for free) . . .

Me: Well, I don't know...(providing a litany of excuses, including too many shows in the days prior to the event, overtime at the day job, etc.)

X: (not taking a polite "no" for an answer this time) Well, what time do you get off work? We'll still be there.

Me: Uh, what if I support the war effort?

X: Well, I guess you just shouldn't come - YOU LOSER!!! Me: (hanging up the phone) Thanks for calling.

Lesson learned? Give peace a chance OR ELSE, I suppose.

2) PERFORMANCE DIARY #4 - UDT ON THE ROAD 10/25/01

One thing that kept me away from the "peace" rally was a series of gigs that began with a trip to St. Joseph, MO as the sound engineer and technician for Uncle Dirtytoes. The group had landed a nice job performing for the retirement party of a man named Malloy, who was obviously greatly respected and admired by all of the co-workers and friends in attendance. The show was at The St. Joseph Country Club, deep in Country Club Village, just outside the city limits of ol' St. Joe. Very staid and posh surroundings for our little band to be in indeed. We were treated to a very nice dinner in our own private sitting room, where we waited an almost interminable length of time to perform.

The speeches were finished, the thank you's were wrapping up, and one last special request of the guest of honor was to occur before we took the stage to wrap things up. The video screen was rolled out again, and Mr. Malloy requested that all in attendance stand up to sing "God Bless America" together, as a candlelit display of an American flag was displayed below the video screen.

The pause before the song began was long, and just a wee bit unnerving for those of us who had to perform immediately after it's conclusion...and then it began. This was not your parents "God Bless America". Oh, no, not in the least. As the candlelit image appeared on the screen, I flashed back to Friday, September 21st, when all the networks shared two hours of commercial free programming for the "Tribute to Heroes" show . . .

And there she was again! Coming out of sabbatical prematurely for this special occasion, Celine Dion was BACK, baby, and so was her arranger and orchestrator David Foster as well. Now, no one sings a song like Celine. No one. And with two or three gratuitous key changes in the space of three minutes and vocals that can blow out a flamethrower at sixty paces, no one can sing ALONG with Celine as well. Every once in awhile folks could come in on the turn-around line a little bit, but singing along with THAT diva was, and remains, impossible.

How does a band like Uncle Dirtytoes follow that? Why, with an old Fairport Convention song, of course! Mr. Malloy sat in with the group for a stirring rendition of "Wild Mountain Thyme", I got to bash a bit on "Brown Eyed Girl", and we all got home very very late on a school night. Maria and I got to debate the vocal gymnastic approach of singers like Celine and Barbra vs. "pure" folk vocal stylings for a good part of the ride home, and all ended well for all concerned that evening.

3) THAT WAS THEN, THIS IS NOW

Where does that leave you and I, now that I've shared those simple stories? At the bottom of the page, I suppose. There's just so much food for thought in the air these days that it's hard to find time to sleep. I hope I brightened your day just a bit this time, and I hope to have a chance to do it again soon.

Remember to brush your teeth, take your vitamins, get your rest, and be SURE to wash your hands before eating - and after handling the mail!

DL

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Sept. 23, 2001 - "Everything is Different Now" (flag inserted at Darrell's request)

I had never wanted to get away from the television so much in my life.

That was just one of the many things I was thinking and feeling on the morning of Thursday, September 13, as I prepared myself to drive over to Schwagstock 11 in Leasburg, MO. Almost any other time of my life I've been a certifiable news junkie, the kind of guy who could spend uncountable hours watching the events of the world unfold via satellite in the comfort of my own living room. Now I just wanted to get my band gear loaded into the truck and disappear into Schwagworld for a few days to play some Grateful Dead music and try and get my head right.

My own experience on September 11, 2001 was probably as ordinary as a lot of folks, but certainly profound in it's own way. I work a day job for a large data management corporation in the Midwest; my particular department works a private sector government contract handling information for the Department of Labor. To work there, I had to go through a security check, wear a security badge on the job and work in a government secured area. At around 8:50AM, a department meeting was suddenly called, the kind of thing where everyone stops what they're doing and listens to one of the big guys talk about something.

This time, the head big guy, who is also a retired military guy, had the dubious honor of announcing to a room of people who did not know that "America was the victim of the worst terrorist attack in it's history today..." and tried to explain about the airplanes and the World Trade Center, and the moment of silence he was asking for at what had been just another day at work. The department went "on break" after that, and as I exited our work area to stretch my legs outdoors, a woman was walking back into the room uttering the words "My God, they just hit The Pentagon!"

I stepped out the door and looked to the south, to see one big-ass jet contrail in the sky in the shape of an "O" ... and realized that (1) The US Government was obviously under attack. No one yet knew by whom or what for, and (2) I was working for the government, and therefore a potential target along with everyone I worked with. I can only assume that the higher-ups in the department realized the same thing, because within minutes another meeting was called, and "liberal leave" was granted for anyone who for one reason or another felt that they shouldn't work anymore that day. I was out the door and on my way home at 9:30 that morning, just as the second tower was falling down one time zone to the east.

I retreated home, and did what so many other folks did that day: watched those buildings blow up and fall down, over and over and over again, first from one angle, then another, first on CNN, then CBS or ABC. I bought the new Dylan CD, but refused to listen to it that day, lest I inject that music with the same bad mojo that was going around elsewhere. Had a band rehearsal that night - on break we all gathered around the TV and watched the attack a few more times. The music was less than inspired, to say the least.

And on Wednesday I went back to work, and that night I had another rehearsal with another band that was less than inspired, and come Thursday morning it was time to go to Leasburg. The drive through Missouri was as peaceful a time as I've ever had on I-70. With the planes still essentially grounded, not much commerce was happening, and the road was as un-crowded in the light of day as I ever remember it. Some high school kids were waving an American flag at an overpass near Boonville, giving the standard "Whoo!" cheer to all the passing motorists. The small towns between Jefferson City and I-44 all seemed to have their best faces on that day, and it was comforting instead of annoying to have to slow down from highway speed to 30 mph just to pass through.

The festival itself was good - good for the heart and the mind. Oddly enough my cabin-mate Dave brought a TV along, of all things. Fortunately, we were far enough out of the city that the only thing we could get was CBS, and only then just barely. We would be able to tune in if the world ended, but wouldn't be viewing for any other reason. The bands played on, the DeadHeads gathered and did their usual thing, and we had an oasis of (almost) normality for a weekend.

Of course, EVERYTHING is different now, just as it was after the events that occurred the morning of 9/11. I had initially intended to go on about my feeling about America today, the good things I'd seen and experienced in the wake of the tragedy and the not-so-good things I've been seeing here and there as life goes on and people attempt to "return to normal". But ostensibly this is a web site for music and the arts, and I think I'll save my political rants for another day.

I will, however, offer up one example of just how different things are now. I wholeheartedly agree with every word that President George W. Bush said in his address to the joint session of Congress on Thursday September 20. Every word. I never thought I'd agree with that guy about much of anything, but things have changed.

Almost seven thousand of our neighbors were executed, in some of the most horrible ways imaginable, as millions of us looked on via satellite - all for the crime of either going to work or being a tourist. It could just as well have been you or me. If the free world does not find a way to punish those responsible for this, and work towards changing the collective consciousness of the human race to where this kind of unspeakable horror won't happen again, our children will never forgive us.

DL

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Performance Diary 3: Spiritfest 2001, KC, MO 09/01/01

"What's good is bad, what's bad is good, you'll find out when you reach the top you're on the bottom."
Bob Dylan, "Idiot Wind", 1974

"I am totally committed to the fifty bucks"
Frank Zappa, "Wet T-shirt Night", 1979

Somehow, I've managed to become involved in more festival appearances and multi-band shows this summer than any summer previous. Aside from the Schwagstock gigs, the drill is pretty much the same:

1) Arrive at the performance site at least one hour prior to performance time, because you'll need that extra time to try and find a place to park your vehicle and unload your gear.

2) Make your way to the backstage area and find a safe looking place to pile up your stuff.

3) Attempt to match the time on the clock with (a) the band currently performing and (b) the schedule of events, in a vain attempt to deduce how far behind schedule the show is running.

4) Hurriedly load one's band gear onto the stage during the appropriate moment of the set break, then wait twenty minutes while the sound crew attempts to remember which microphone is on which instrument.

5) Pace the event grounds looking for a cold beverage at a reasonable price while waiting for everything else to happen.

Personally, neither Gary (the horn man and esteemed driver) nor myself were looking forward to our big Saturday night out in Kansas City. We had heard horror stories of how dreadful the load in could be at Liberty Memorial, how huge the crowds can be - upwards of 100,000 in the past - and all the other little hazards that make performing in a band "not just a job, but an adventure!"

So, following the drill laid out in the preceding paragraphs, we initiated item 1, only to discover that - voila! There was an actual real-life band parking area that was really paved and really secure! Our amazement was compounded by the on-time arrival of the guy with the ATV and trailer to lug us and our band gear to the stage.

Number 2 was then performed, but the backstage area was not "secure" in any real sense of the word. Broken police tape and fallen down snow fence do not create a secure environment in anyone's world. But there were other band members about, so it looked safe enough to leave our toys out for a moment and attempt to initiate item 5.

Spiritfest this year seemed to have more of an emphasis on "Fest-ing" and a lot less emphasis on performers. The main stage line-up consisted of classic rock radio main stays such as Huey Lewis, Cheap Trick and Eddie Money, with the rest of the performers being decidedly local and underexposed, for the most part. Huey was the main act on our night, and we were to wrap up at our tent just before he was to take the big stage. The clock was running, so I settled for a six dollar can of Fosters Lager and hurried on back to the stage. It was time for number four.

This summer's run of hurry-up/hurry-down shows has finally convinced me of the need to perform with ear plugs as much as possible. The best one can expect from setting up an 8 piece band in fifteen minutes is that the on-stage monitors will be LOUD, and if you're lucky and don't move too fast they might not feed back. This time the offending instruments were the horns - big and brash and right in your face! The downside of wearing plugs is that one's perception of subtleties like the tone of one's instrument and where one is "in the mix" is essentially gone, and one begins to play one's instrument by rote.

Despite it all, once again the band seemed to go down pretty well with the audience. People danced from start to finish, and responded warmly at all the right times. I even took out one earplug for about ten seconds...but quickly replaced it when the horns introduced the next song.

Load out was as painless as load in, and soon we were back on the highway back to Lawrence, discussing sobriety checkpoints and old gigs we have known. We even managed to get on the road before ol' Huey namechecked "Kansas CITY" in that "Heart of Rock and Roll" song he still does.

Life is full of little pleasures.

Sometimes things do work out alright.

I am still totally committed to the fifty bucks.

. . . maybe next year we'll get a raise or something.

DL

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Performance Diary 2 - The Schwag at The Bottleneck, Friday 08/17/01

"Shall we go, you and I, while we can . . . through the transitive nightfall of diamonds?"
Robert Hunter, "Dark Star", 1968

The Schwag is a Grateful Dead tribute band from St. Louis, MO, but you probably already knew that. I've been an occasional member of the band for almost a year now, first as a substitute lead guitarist and vocalist for road gigs in such exotic locales as Iowa City, IA and Rock Island, IL, then as the (sometime) second guitarist whenever the need arises and the opportunity presents itself. Being in and with the band is an ongoing educational process that continues to be challenging and stimulating in a number of ways, both artistic and personal.

Arrival and setup for Friday's gig was 7PM, and as I pulled up, I noticed Jimmy (bassist/vocalist and de-facto band leader) heading up 8th Street with his girlfriend Tiffany and son Chris. No worry, I wasn't late this time - they were early. Shawn the guitarist was busying himself making technical adjustments to his way-too-complex-for-me effects pedal board, and Dave the drummer and Jack the keyboardist had yet to arrive, as they were traveling separately in Dave's brand new used mini-van. I hadn't been in the door more than ten minutes when Dave and Jack arrived, and the setting up ritual began in earnest.

The Schwag does well over one hundred shows a year. Factor in side projects and other gigs and the number approaches two hundred. Setting up and soundcheck become fairly routine and comfortable rituals at that point, like another day at the office for the rest of the world. After a while, the relationships between musicians and those traveling with them become just like family, for better and/or worse. People assume their comfortable role in the family, and things go from there.

Soundcheck when I come to play is usually more like a brief rehearsal. Since I'm not around all the time, they need to get me up to speed on whatever is new in the repertoire. "Slipknot", the instrumental piece from 1975's "Blues For Allah" album, was the choice of the evening, and I really needed the extra work on it. There's one particular fast moving sequence of diminished and minor chords that's been stumping musicians for over twenty five years now, and after some brief attention and therapy, I finally understood the entire part. Epiphany!

Showtime finally rolled around about 10:15PM. This had been somewhat of a last minute booking for the band, and early attendance was indicative of that. The promoter got the band on the monthly calender and did some advertising, but posters never made it to the streets and bulletin boards of downtown Lawrence, which would have helped. Still, The Schwag has a loyal and Deadicated following in the Midwest, and by halftime there was enough of an audience to rightfully say that a party was in full schwing . . .

How did the band play? Boy, I'm never the one to ask that question to, particularly playing this idiom of music. At its essence, Grateful Dead music is more of a process than it is a performance. The idea is to free yourself up from conventional structures within the framework of any given song, so something new and hopefully magical can happen. Textures and arrangements change from song to song, performance to performance, and sometimes note to note, phrase to phrase. If one is truly in the moment, completely in the act of doing, then there really isn't a way to objectively judge what you've done. That becomes the duty of the audience, who seemed to be doing just fine.

I can say that I believe my hearing has been permanently altered by Shawn's new amplifier, a vintage (70's?) Fender Twin Reverb. His new set-up had the amp at about head height, and there were times when he was cranking out lead lines that I thought my head was going to explode...just like that guy in "Scanners", dude! However, I survived it, and that stuffy feeling in my ears has started to subside after twenty four hours rest.

I can also say that it was "Night Of The Living Weird" at The Ol' B-neck!! There are lots of locals around town that have, shall we say, a special way of viewing and living in the world. Well, they all managed to catch our show. How many times do you have someone hanging out at the side of the stage, yelling, "Don't everybody play the root of the chord at once!?"

I suppose my favorite was the one drunk guy at the end of the night, who introduced himself as we were loading out. "I am Russian", he announced, in a accent so thick that I was waiting for Yakov Smirnoff's punch line of "I love this country!" to finish the sentence. Turns out he really was Russian, and wanted to discuss virtues of rock music with the band. All I really learned from the encounter was that he loved Yngwie Malmstein and The Scorpions, but he was happy to have some folks to talk to, and I was at least happy enough to listen at that moment. But, all good things must end at closing time, and out the door we all had to go . . . until the next time.

Meanwhile, in other news, Common Ground will be performing at Kansas City SpiritFest on Saturday, September 1, around 8:30PM. We should be wrapping up our set just in time to hustle over to the main stage and groove to Huey Lewis and The News. Kick ass, dude! Check out http://www.spiritfest.org for details.

DL

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Performance Diary 1: Common Ground at The Jazzhaus, Saturday August 11, 2001

"Later in the evening, as you lie awake in bed, with the echoes of the amplifiers ringin' in your head, You smoke the day's last cigarette, remembering what she said."
Bob Seger, "Turn the Page", 1973

There are some nights when all signs and indicators say that doom is imminent. Then, despite it all, you succeed. Last night was one of those nights.

We knew on Tuesday previous that last nights' gig would be a real uphill challenge. One of our horn players had lost his mother after a long illness and had to be out of town, so we were going into the game shorthanded. This prompted a last minute rehearsal on Thursday that more closely resembled "WWF Smackdown" than anything musical or artistic. Fortunately, no one in the group is actually violent - just aggressively passionate about their art, I suppose.

Scheduled arrival time for the show was 7:30pm, with showtime to follow at 10:00. Like a chump, I showed up on time, like I always do. I don't know what it is about reggae music that causes everything to run later than one could possibly imagine, but somehow everything always seems to drag waaaay behind schedule in this band. I was greeted by by Joe Cameron, our drummer, who was just realizing that he had left his stick-bag at his previous job in Kansas City. There are very few things in this world more impotent than a stickless drummer. That didn't bode well to me as an omen for the rest of the evening . . . and I was right.

We finally had all the performers in the building by 8:30 or so, when the creeping awareness that our sound engineer hadn't arrived yet started to overtake the group mind. Kurt Stockhammer, the talented-yet-somewhat-absent-minded genius who provides the P.A. systems for The Bottleneck and The Granada here in town, had been hired on specially by the band to mix our show. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that he had taken on the extra work. Fortunately, he was easily located in a public place, and at 9:10pm the sound system finally started to be prepared for our 10:00 performance . . .

So, I took a walk. You readers have heard me complain about un-professionalism on the gig in these writings a lot if you've been reading them regularly. It's the kind of thing that can turn an otherwise rational human being into a fire breathing jerk consumed by their own nervousness and rage. I've seen it happen a billion times, and been guilty of such behavior a billion times more. But in this group I'm ONLY the guitar player. Thankfully, I'm not the band leader or sound technician or anyone who's responsible for anyone other than myself. My stuff had been ready for hours, so to the streets of Lawrence I went a-walking.

It was a typical party night downtown. Bumpin' rap tunes booming out of Chevy trucks. Cops on the corner, doing their shakedown thing. The weird hemp guy waving his sign and passing out propaganda. Pretty girls in tube tops and way-too-tight pants talking about nothing on their cell phones as they pass by. I was finally accosted by a couple of rather pleasant Mormon missionaries who wanted to tell me about Jesus, but I already knew, so we talked about Utah instead.

Anyway, our 10:00 performance finally started slightly before 11, and guess what? It was (almost) the best complete performance we've done. It was a great help to have Josef Scales sitting in on steel drums and 2nd guitar. He's a very talented musician who's visiting the home town from his current digs down Mexico way. Having him jamming with us freed me up to do what I had to do, which was play more solos and double up on horn lines, to cover for Gary's absence.

You see, sometimes the old timers in the band are WAY too anal-retentive about attempting to play "authentic" reggae parts and letter perfect arrangements, to the point of talking about the stuff endlessly in rehearsal - and losing valuable playing time in the process. No one can ever remember what was agreed upon anyway, so usually that stuff is a lesson in futility that none of them are ever willing to accept. However, last night I got to be a little freer with my part, and I ended up having more fun in the process.

So, we had a good show, the audience danced, the bar sold lots of drinks, and a good time was had by most. I was even fortunate enough to have an extremely attractive waitress help me carry my guitar to my vehicle at the end of the evening . . .

Next week - another show with another band.

DL

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August 5, 2001 - Happy Birthday Maria!

Hello, campers and net-heads! Since it's been nearly four months since I contributed to the site, I thought I'd attempt a little something today. By the way, Maria turned 21 today - no more fake ID's!!! I'm sure she's very happy, and I hope to phone her soon.

So, you may ask, where have I been for so long that I couldn't write? Well, here and there and out and about, either too dog-ass tired to say much, or not having enough to say at any given time. I've been living more of a musicians life these last few months than I've been able to for a long time, and that has it's advantages and drawbacks. Rather than assail you with one of those "family Christmas letters" that we all secretly dread, I'll merely attempt to provide some flavor as to what's been up in D-world lately.

My on-again, off-again relationship with The Schwag continues, most recently at Bagnell Dam in Lake Ozark, MO, for their tenth Schwagstock festival. The festivals are great if you are (or ever were) a DeadHead - 2500 or so hippie-types take over a camp area for a weekend and do their twirling thing. I really enjoy being with the group on a number of levels, and their professional attitude towards performance and production is a welcome relief from some of the silly amateurish poop one sometimes has to endure here in Kansas. They've documented these shows really well on their photo pages @ http://www.theschwag.com - click on over there, then be sure to come back here.

Common Ground is back doing their reggae thing again after a couple of set-backs. We played the Lees Summit Reggae fest just last Friday (08/03/01), and will be doing a couple more shows this coming week and next. The group exists in a semi-chronic state of barely contained anarchy, but usually sounds pretty good. The lessons I'm learning here are all about being a team player and keeping my mouth shut, and never being too far away from my earplugs. I'm almost certain that our drummer and bassist are deaf - either that, or they just want to make me that way!

All this activity had almost rendered me into a state of exhaustion, but a good solid round of antibiotics in July seems to have made great progress towards healing that. I'm still doing follow-up in our "most excellent" U.S. health care system, but haven't had to miss any gigs yet.

So, what else? Not a lot to pontificate on at the moment. Shows go on and on. My dog is healthy. I have no life other than music, my day job and my dog, and that is generally OK. There might be some news of more exciting musical projects here in the weeks ahead, so check back when you can.

Bye for now. Write when you can.

DL

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March 11 - Random Thoughts on a Gray Day...

Sometimes one needs to force ones self to work. Today is one of those days. Not that I've been suffering from some kind of seasonal affective disorder or anything like that; quite the contrary, I've been enjoying the earlier sunrises and longer days that this time of year brings. But sometimes the job of a writer is to write when there apparently isn't much to say, and today feels like one of those times.

Thank you very much to all of you who took time to write after the "Shattering the Myth" column appeared in your in-boxes. Your feedback was truly appreciated. I realize that, in a lot of circles, what I chose to say and write could have been perceived as the moral equivalent of charging down the aisle at Sunday Mass and screaming "THERE IS NO GOD!", which wasn't really my intention. I loved The Grateful Dead more than most folks. Jerry Garcia was one of the few authentic virtuoso geniuses of the electric guitar, and the fact that he only lived to be fifty three years old is a tragedy, plain and simple. Unfortunately, if ever there was a rock star death that could have been prevented, it was his. Doubly unfortunate, then, is the fact that the story has not yet been properly told by the folks who knew him best, and probably won't get told as long as there is a buck to make by exploiting the myth. Try not to laugh when you see the cover of the forthcoming post-posthumous CD "Shining Star", and try not to cringe when you see the Jerry Garcia Action Figure in a toy store or collectors shop near you soon. Really.

America seems to me to be a crazier place than ever to reside these days, thanks in no small part to the ever-pervasive presence of Big Media. Those of you who read George Orwells' "1984" prior to the actual calendar year undoubtedly breathed a big ol' sigh of relief when January 1, 1985 rolled around and Big Brother hadn't kicked your collective posterior yet. Perhaps Mr. Orwell was just a bit premature in his selection of years.

We just finished an election year like no other. Thanks to a well entrenched system of political cronyism and lots of underhanded tactics, the guy who lost the election actually won the Presidency. The incidences of vote manipulation, intimidation and outright fraud and chicanery have been well documented - just not by the mainstream American media that's pumped into mainstream American homes. When the Supreme Court finally blew the whistle and picked the winner, the bullshit detectors of the average citizens should have been buzzing like crazy. Instead, the public reaction was more of a collective "OK. Show's over. I wonder what else is on." I won't bother y'all with a long winded diatribe about the particulars of this and that related to our political landscape. I would, however, like to remind you readers that just about ALL the news presented to you in the U.S. of A. these days is controlled by a handful of multi-national corporations whose primary concerns are (1) making money and (2) getting bigger so they can make more money. The easiest way to do that is by keeping the buying public happy, complacent and somewhat sedated. I get my news from The BBC these days. That may not be everyone's cup of tea, but if you care about the world you live in, you should take the initiative to educate yourself. "Don't follow leaders, watch your parking meters," Mr. Dylan said.

So, today is Sunday, and a gray one at that. Tonight will be rehearsal with the Common Ground reggae band, as is every Sunday these days. Gigs are actually right around the corner, after what seems like decades of barely focused practicing and song collecting. I'm really looking forward to real authentic gigging again. This band experience will be different for me. I'm the only guitar player in a rhythm section, and only doing one vocal during the entire set - if that. Not being up front should be a welcome change of pace. Send me an e-mail if you want show dates.

The Monday night jam sessions accidentally resumed last month, but should be done in a week or two. It's been fun to play those old songs again - fun and slightly dangerous. Ask me in person about that one.

Did yet another gig with The Schwag two Fridays ago at The Bottleneck, which totally rocked, even if I do say so myself. However, I seem to have caught some sort of dreadful chest cold from the experience, which only now seems to be going away. From what I read on their web page, the rest of the band has been sick as well, and updates to their site have been temporarily put aside, I guess. Be careful what you share with a touring musician, folks - who knows what kind of microbes they may be carrying from town to town, and what sort of weakened state their road-weary immune systems may be in.

That is probably the most useful advice I can give you today, Gentle Reader. I hope we're caught up now. I hope all is well in your world, and that spring will be sprung upon us before we wither away from the repeated blasts of Old Man Winter.

See you at Mark's Big Hoo-Haa! (editor's note: Spring Equinox bonfire, Tuesday, March 20 at my place: email me if you want to come and don't know where- mark)

DL

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Feb. 17, 2001 - Exploding the Myth

Boy, howdy! With a title like that one, this bit better be good!

Being the winter months, a lot of the activities that take place here in the Midwest are more of an internal, reflective nature. This winter particularly has been one to discourage any kind of outdoor activity or predictable travel plans, so your fearless correspondent has been spending a lot of time at home, listening to music and going on his own head trips.

You may have noticed in the introduction to this page that I bill myself as a "former Dead Head." This really isn't accidental, nor is it meant to piss anyone off. I spent a lot of years in almost slavish devotion to The Grateful Dead, and managed to attend 66 (sixty-six) Dead concerts between October 28, 1977 and July 6, 1995. Without the fanaticism of their core following, my career as a barroom musician and saloon entertainer might have been extremely different, since my most commercially successful groups were always essentially Dead cover bands. Their history is well known and widely available, so I'll endeavor to skip the obvious stuff here.

The experience of watching the film "Jazz" had the effect of reawakening my interest in improvised music in general, which had the effect of leading me back to The Dead's music with slightly different ears. One of the statements that has been put forth in the online discussion groups at the official Grateful Dead home page is that The Dead were really one of the ultimate jazz bands, and that is not too far off the mark. If jazz is music that (a)swings, and (b)is improvised, then that's what The Grateful Dead were - a jazz band. Their approach to their gig was to improvise as much as they could, from the running order of every show to the relationship between the parts and instrumentalists in the music.

But no jazz band in history had been relegated to the performance circuit of football stadiums and outdoor festivals prior to the widespread popularity of The Dead that happened in the 1980's, at which time the band began to fall victim to their own pop-star myths. Back in 1974, a newsletter was mailed from the Dead's office to their fans, explaining the reasons the band was then going on hiatus, and telling the story of the mythical creature Orobouros, a dragon so hungry it chases its own tail to ultimately consume itself. A copy of that newsletter exists at www.dead.net, so go there if you are unfamiliar.

However, when the exact same consequences of success reared their ugly heads in the '80's and '90's, the same care was not taken to preserve the human components of the machine. After having a hit record in 1987, the scene in and around Dead concerts exploded to almost unmanageable proportions, to the point of being banned from venue after venue. Leaflets were sometimes distributed to fans, essentially saying "You kids better be good", but no other responsible action was ever taken. Brent Mydland, an essential component to the group on keyboards and vocals, died alone at home just two days after completing a big summer tour. The band missed exactly three shows before replacing him with someone who eventually turned out to be the wrong guy - but the machine would not be silenced at that point.

Then there's the Jerry Garcia factor. The man nearly died in 1986 from too much lifestyle and general benign neglect, but almost miraculously returned from an early grave...only to have almost the exact same thing happen again in summer 1992. Maria and I saw The Dead in Chicago around a month before that 1992 episode, and the suntanned, almost muscular guy we had seen in Kansas City in 1990 had become a pasty colored flabby ghost of a man. By December of 92, Jerry was back - again, rumored to be reformed, and actually sixty pounds lighter and supposedly macrobiotic. The touring machine sputtered back to life. Jerry died two and a half years later, of the same stuff that nearly took him out twice before . . .

Recently my friend Ray dropped by for a Saturday afternoon visit, and requested that we watch the "Downhill From Here" video of The Dead live in 1989. Maria and I had attended these shows as well, and my memories of those gigs were of a strong, confident band exploring new material as well as old favorites. What I saw when I turned on the VCR that afternoon was something different - Brent obviously grinding his jaw in a cocaine induced frenzy, Jerry with glazed eyes and little patience for artful transitions between songs, and a band of big rock stars putting on a hell of a good rock show for an audience of close to 40,000 fans. But it's nearly impossible to improvise once you've played the crowd favorites literally to death, and its hard to invite and create magic with frayed nerves and a cynical attitude. The Dead, in what should have been their glory years, had become illusionists to a willing audience, and ultimately slaves to the almighty dollar and the intoxicating presence of unadulterated adulation.

Ken Burns film speaks of the Duke Ellington bands, and the incorrigible characters that inhabited them. In a way, The Dead were like those groups of Ellingtons - unrepentant junkies and bikers that could show up on stage with bad attitudes and absolute contempt for their fellow players and the ticket buying public, but put their instruments in their hands and - VOILA! The magic happens and the people dance.

But, at the same time, Jerry Garcia had as much in common with Elvis Presley as he did with Duke Ellington - perhaps more so, since they shared a drummer (Ron Tutt toured with Elvis, and played with The Jerry Garcia Band in his downtime). Elvis was courted and spoiled and pampered and filled with drugs, until the talent dissipated and a bloated shell of a man remained. The same thing happened to Garcia. In both cases, the devoted failed to see what they didn't want to see, and to this day most still fail to make the connection: Graceland = Haight/Ashbury, Memphis = San Francisco - it's all the same.

Of course, the music remains, and a vault full of tape recorded performances remains as well. I recently indulged myself by buying two shows from Grateful Dead Merchandising, both from the "controversial" 90's era. The one from summer 1990 is bittersweet and ironic now to my ears, realizing that Brent would be dead in less than three weeks from the performance I was hearing. It's a show filled with loud, crashing mistakes interspersed with moments of sheer brilliance. Another package from fall 1991 I'm still waiting to listen to properly, but that version of the group - with Bruce Hornsby as resident "guest" - was the closest thing to the "Grateful Dead Orchestra" there ever was. They came to Kansas City in June of that year; Garcia was obviously using again, and his playing varied from mundane to inspired, sometimes all in the same solo. But the shear number of players on stage made the band somewhat of a steamroller, and the momentum of it all kept things going for a bit longer.

The ideals that were attached to this music by the players and the fans are still true - to be open to the moment, to be ready for change and to swing WITH the audience. Other bands today still do this job well. Some of the Dead tribute bands today do their work with purer motives than the original players ended up with. Personally, I don't think I'll ever be able to hear the sound of Garcia's guitar or voice again without tasting the bitterness of what eventually proved to be just another rock and roll sellout. Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and that's one story that's already been told too many times.

Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. And there's nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.

DL

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Feb. 3, 2001

For two or three weeks at the beginning of the year, a diverse bunch of us were gathering around our TV sets - when we could - just to watch another one of those documentaries that make Public Television something worthwhile. Critics, the overeducated and the self-important were weighing in with their all-knowing opinions on the subject, as if they mattered. A funny parody piece made the rounds in e-mail boxes everywhere. It was a beautiful thing, just like other beautiful things that have drawn varying segments of our society together over the years.

I'm talking about the film "Jazz", by Ken Burns. I didn't get to watch all of the episodes, because life intrudes and I didn't feel like using my VCR. Of course, I could always buy the CD Box Set/DVD/VHS/Coffee Table Book/or CD Anthologies of Important Artists (under the "Jazz" logo). . . but I have no budget for that. I'm a musician. I live in the Midwest USA. I will never have a budget for that until I (1)leave the Midwest, or (2) get a REAL job. But I digress . . .

To try and sum up over 100 years of musical and cultural history in an eighteen hour documentary is a daunting task, and will certainly leave the creator of such a work in an extremely vulnerable position for scathing attacks from the cultural elite. By this point in the game, anyone who has watched PBS for the past several years knows the formula for a Ken Burns film - grainy black and white photos and/or films, a self-important sounding narrator explaining the meaning of it all, etc. . . . an easy target for parody or vicious criticism, by any stretch of the imagination.

Ken Burns got it right this time. Films like this are not made for those who already know the story. If an alien landed here from the planet Meepzorp and needed to know about our American cultural heritage, they could grok this down in the prescribed time and pretty much know the truth. Try doing that with anything else on Cable TV.

A lot of us have been very fortunate to have come of age in a time of tremendous innovation and discovery. Personally, to have been a child in the 1960's was a blessing I'll always treasure - particularly the "child" part. I could watch tremendous social changes happen from a position of relative safety and comfort. The cliché "if you can remember the '60's, you weren't really there" doesn't apply in my case.

I was also fortunate in that I received a good amount of my formal musical training from a guy who had actually lived the Big Band life. I was educated as a saxophone player, and my teacher, Al Biddle, played in the Jimmy Dorsey band after the war. For five years, from age 13 to age 18, we played through every jazz and bop book he had in his studio. Sometimes I wouldn't practice my lesson properly, which made him play and prod me that much harder. Eventually he decided that, if I wouldn't practice, then the lessons would become sight reading drills. He was a good person, a killer alto sax man, and was surely as eccentric as any musician. I was lucky to have known him.

Every era is not one of massive change and upheaval. Things are invented, then used for years before something else comes along to take its place. Not every generation has its Louis Armstrong or Duke Ellington or Elvis Presley or Beatles. Some generations have Pat Boone or Frankie Avalon or Britney Spears or N'Sync or Kenny G. In this digital age we occupy now, it's easy to be distracted or dazzled by the fancy bells and whistles that the multinational media conglomerates constantly throw at us. Which is what made this particular work by Ken Burns all the more important and encouraging.

Nothing beats reality, I guess. No matter how you dress it up.

DL

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Dec. 31, 2000

It's been cold in Kansas for a long time now. I received the heating bill for the month of December the other day, and had to laugh out loud at the ridiculous amount of money they wanted to charge me just to stay warm. Who do they think they're kidding?

I suppose that it's kind of traditional to look back at the year gone by on this day and try to make sense of it all somehow. That's what they do in the media in lieu of real news. Lists of the top ten or twenty stories or videos or songs or events are everywhere. It's too bad that real life is not always that simple.

The year 2000 was quite a roller coaster ride in my world; one that will probably not make much sense in context until I've traveled some distance down the road and look back at it. Personally, I'm quite glad that the year is coming to a close - so glad that I violated one of my mothers' old Southern superstitions this morning and put up all my 2001 calendars on the wall a day early.

For me, the year started inauspiciously enough. I had been fired from my position at The Backwater Redneck Bank and Trust Company of Tonganoxie on the Monday after Christmas 1999, and was actually feeling pretty good about it. My six month sabbatical from the work force had ended the month before when I had accepted their job offer, and it was only one or two days on the job before I realized what a mistake I had made. Vegetarians should not work for cattle ranchers. I had never been fired from a job before, and after the shock wore off I was alright with it. Little did I know at the time that they would successfully screw me out of my remaining unemployment insurance, but that's another tale not really worth telling.

Economic necessity dictated that I re-enter the performing world any way I could, so I somewhat begrudgingly revived my solo acoustic act and returned to some old haunts - and one or two new ones. The limited number of gigs I did in that format revived both my good and bad feelings about being a solo performer. On the good side is the fact that one can change direction in a set for any whim or reason without having to alert the other folks in the band. The bad side occurs when performing for an unappreciative, talkative bunch of folks in a coffee shop or restaurant, for whom music is merely an unwanted distraction. Time never moves so slowly as when that happens.

Band business what rather up and down this year in my world as well. Our ongoing Monday night party outfit Chill Factor ground to a halt this year, as part of the 3rd annual financial fiasco and freak-out that's been come to be known in these parts as The Omega Festival. Rock and roll is sometimes a shady business, and the desire to not be shady can sometimes cause one to walk away - or run away, as the case may be. Attempts to revive the format later in the year with a different drummer didn't pan out as well, but so it went.

For me, the most fulfilling band experiences were actually exercises in going backwards. Tofu Teddy reared it's graying mantle one more time, doing the most real gigs for us in any year since 1983. We actually got to rehearse a bit this time, got the traditional reunion/health crisis out of the way early, and sounded pretty good doing it for the most part. Like any reunion event, the reasons that the working relationship ceased occasionally became apparent as well, but that sort of thing seems to be inevitable. You either get past it or you don't, and this time we got past it. Score one in the plus column.

Also notable was the opportunity to do some substitute work for The Schwag, a Grateful Dead cover band out of St. Louis that I've previously mentioned in this space. When my old Dead tribute band The Deal ceased operations in September 1999, I had truly had my fill of all things Dead-related - to the point of swearing off that kind of gig altogether and getting rid of a bunch of CD's and tapes. The Deal had operated around here for four years, and during the last twelve months or so of it the bands music had gotten so stale that the audience was noticeably shrinking. That's what happens when a group doesn't rehearse and move forward, or when the party in the dressing room becomes more important than the one on stage.

Of course, the one sure way to insure that you'll do something again is to swear that you'll never do it again, so come Autumn 2000 there I was, hustling down the interstate and playing Dead covers in Midwestern bars. Guess what - I liked it! There is nothing quite so intoxicating as a sold out room shouting its sweaty approval at you all night long, and on a good night one can earn as much as a weeks pay at a shitty day job. Of course, you're playing a time tested repertoire of tunes to folks who want that and not much else, but you can create your own challenges within that framework, which these guys managed to do well enough. Sadly for me, the band lineup stabilized with me not in it, but some new friendships were made, and I felt like I regained a small piece of my spirit from the experience.

As a music fan, this was a very good year. Admittedly, they're all good years anymore, but any year that Bruce Springsteen tours and The Beatles have a Number One record is a good year in my book. It's too easy to be a fan - decide what you like and go out and get as much of it as you can. The business of music has developed now to the point that being a fan can be a full time occupation, to the point of distracting one from any real business at hand. It's like anything else in this digital age - there's so much of everything out there to keep one entertained that one can sometimes confuse being entertained with actually doing something.

So, winter is here now. With it has come a cycle of non-inspiration that I've seen in my world before. I've picked up a guitar exactly four times this month. Why? I don't know. They all sit in my front room, on display on their stands, waiting to be plucked and played. Right now it just doesn't feel that exciting to me. At this age, in this space in this town, one has to have a reason for doing things. At the moment that reason hasn't made itself apparent. It will soon - it always does, or at least always has so far.

Maybe next year. Maybe tomorrow. I guess today they're both the same.

Happy 2001 to all of you.

DL

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December 8, 2000

December 8, 1980 started as a very normal Monday would have for me at that time, I'm sure. It was such a normal day that I really don't remember any part of the daytime now, but I'm sure that I woke up, got out of bed, and went to my job at Capers Corner Records in Kansas City, Kansas. I was living in East Lawrence at the time, in a shared house with two old friends. At the time relations were strained between all of us - one roommate was finding out just how addictive cocaine can be, while the other was diligently living a substance-free life while schooling and working as hard as he could stand it.

I was somewhere between the two, trying hard to care about anything at all and trying to find reasons to stay in the house that had become a high tension hellhole. My band, Tofu Teddy, had just played our "farewell" show five weeks earlier. I was on the outs with a girl I thought I cared about. Felonies were being committed in my living room on a nightly basis, and sometimes I'd wake up in the morning to find a fresh new hole punched in the drywall. Growing pains, for sure.

The "straight" roommate, Tim, had the evening job as a DJ for a rock radio station in Ottawa, KS, spinning records between 6PM and Midnight. I remember that I was alone in my living room, staring at the TV, when the phone rang. I had not heard Tim this agitated before, as he breathlessly explained that he'd just received a 6-bell bulletin off the UPI newswire about John Lennon being shot outside his apartment in New York City. Back in the days of teletype newswire, a 8-bell alarm meant a nuclear attack, so 6 bells was a major league deal, regardless of the content. We talked briefly, and I hung up the phone, only to place a call to my boss at the record store. We were all HUGE Beatle fanatics at work, and Gary had the most extensive collection of factory-sealed Beatle import LPs of anybody I knew. It was during that call that the news on the TV was updated. A wounding had became a fatality, and all hell broke loose in my world after that.

Not more than five minutes later the "Just Say How Much" crowd started to arrive, and conversation veered back and forth from stunned disbelief and reminiscing to heartless re-enactments of the shooting. I don't believe I moved from my chair in the living room from 10:30 that night until about 6 in the morning, going through my first stages of grief as a party boy with the party crowd, and absolutely dreading the coming day at work.

John Lennon had been a hero and a role model to me almost all my life, from seeing him on The Ed Sullivan Show at the age of six, to that crazy night sixteen years later. I identified quite strongly with the "primal" solo John - I guess a lot of his issues were mine as well. Looking back now, it all seems so silly and pretentious, like I was living life vicariously through the imagined eyes of a demi-god. I almost wanted to BE John...and now there was just one more reason not to give a damn. My band was gone, Reagan had been elected President, and now they were killing Beatles!

I slept my usual two hours after the all-nighter, being sure to get enough "powdered medicine" from "the man" to go and sell records after I woke up. I arrived at the store promptly at the 10AM opening, and at the precise instant I walked through the front door the first chords of "Imagine" rang out from the sound system. It was going to be a bad day, infinitely worse than my second day on the job in '77, when Elvis died. At least THAT happened in the middle of the day...

I can't remember which was worse - the constant parade of customers with that same devastated look on their faces, saying the same bleak things; the pressure of making sure I had every Beatle and Lennon title double-ordered by 10:30AM (I ran the tape department - 8-track and cassette); or the one doofus who walked up with five copies of the "Double Fantasy" LP and blurted out - "Hey, these will make GREAT Christmas gifts!" (Yeah, asshole - share a little death with the ones you love!)

But I think the thing that got to us all the most was one quiet girl dressed in black who just stood in our "Beatles Corner" for close to three hours, studying every album and swaying gently to herself the entire time she was in the store. She eventually bought something - I don't remember what - and left without saying a word.

And now it's twenty years later to the day. Beatle books and Beatle discs are still topping the charts. I live in East Lawrence again, still looking for reasons to give a damn. I've gotten past my "Primal John" phase, perhaps. I've traveled the country in a van with a band, been married and divorced, had cancer and chemotherapy, and generally packed twenty years of living into twenty years. I've lived longer now than both Elvis and Lennon.

And I still want to cry every time I tell the story.

It shouldn't have happened.

Darrell Lea

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October 17, 2000

Hello there.

Another week goes by . . . so many changes, so little quality time sometimes.

I survived the cold wind alluded to in the previous writing OK. A few days after that, Jimmy from The Schwag called, and off to Rock Island, Illinois I went. This Friday my friend Brad and I will both be Schwag-ing it in St. Louis.

But wait . . . there's more.

And that's what I'm getting ready to comment on. I had endeavored to make this column a weekly statement of affairs, but now, with affairs having less and less of a predictable nature, I gotta tell y'all that it looks like The Corner here will be visited by myself on a less frequent (and yes, less predictable) nature.

Here's what's up:

1) Occasional roadwork with the boys from St. Louis.

2) Rehearsals with a local reggae outfit that shall remain anonymous for the moment.

3) Pre-production work and initial recording on a tribute CD of Sandy Denny material in collaboration with Maria.

The story so far: sometime ago, Maria gave me a tape and list of songs that she wanted to record for a tribute disc to Ms. Denny. I actually lost both items when I moved a couple of months ago, but the idea never disappeared.

Then - voila! A quality home recording situation came into existence within my immediate extended family of musical collaborators. The last piece of the puzzle having presented itself, the time to act had arrived.

So, that's what's up! Hopefully in a few months there will be a finished thingie to share with you all. Meanwhile, as the Bob Dylan goes...I got a headful of ideas that are driving me insane . . . and away we go!

DL

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Oct. 7th

Having run out of excuses to NOT write here, I've finally had enough coffee and reflection time to attempt to reclaim my soapbox here @ UDT.com.org.net . . . did you miss me?

I'd had the opportunity to get back into a bit of performing recently, and to experience a lot of the ups - and downs - associated with being an itinerant weekend musician. Saturday 09/16 and Friday 09/22 were spent performing with a band from St. Louis called THE SCHWAG, who are a Grateful Dead cover/tribute band that manages to stay pretty darn busy. They needed a substitute Jerry, and, since I already knew the role pretty good, I got the call.

The trip to Iowa City on the 16th was relatively easy, as much as a jaunt down the interstate can be these days. Iowa City has a nice little downtown, which was bustling due to the big IU-ISU football game earlier in the day. The bar was packed with screaming Deadheads, and for a few sweet hours I got to revisit one of my favorite (yet one of the most artistically confounding) old jobs. The guys in The Schwag are all good players, and I'll be happy to play with them again anytime they call . . . Jimmy, you have my address if you happen to read this . . .

The show in St. Louis the following Friday was good, but the day held some reminders of some of the hazards of road life. Lesson learned - always allow more travel time on I-70 in Missouri, because they're ALWAYS tearing up something.

The bumpy interstate travel tweaked something in my lower back, so by the time the T'Gither & Eye shows rolled around last weekend, I was considering a visit to a chiropractor - something I've studiously avoided so far in life. My back is better now, but that's another tale for another column . . . anyway, the local "coming out" gig was in the semi-familiar confines of Johnny's Tavern in North Lawrence. I hadn't played the main stage there for several years, but some things don't change much in this world, and Friday night at Johnny's is one of those things. Hamburgers and beer and locals kickin' it for the weekend . . .

Technically speaking, the lack of a scheduled sound check contributed to some severe sound problems on-stage, with Maria's voice roaring like an uncaged lion in the front monitor speakers. Compounded with Mike MacFarlane (note to editor:please check spelling of last name) having severe problems with a rain damaged keyboard and the band being ever-so-under-rehearsed, this had the effect of bumming me out something fierce. I found myself having to mentally categorize this show as a "bad gig". A bad gig feels like how you used to feel in school when you discover that an important test is happening that you didn't study for . . . or perhaps one of those weird dreams in which you suddenly realize that you're walking in public naked. Fortunately, Maria had the wisdom to add an intermission to our show, and the second half of the show wasn't nearly as uncomfortable for me as the first part was.

As usual, the audience members politely told us at the end of the gig that everything "sound fine" to them, that the music was OK, etc. There are times when I wonder whether or not people are just being polite. Maybe their ears have been mortally wounded by years of local sound engineers blasting them with screeching feedback, and they just don't notice the shrieks and bleats that drive us performers to the brink of madness. I guess I'll never know.

Sunday's gig was at a new joint in south Overland Park called McBrides. The larger stage and added time to soundcheck helped the presentation immensely, but unfortunately, Maria was coming down with her first head cold of the season, so the show was a bit truncated. The group played well enough to kind of make me wish it was continuing . . . and to make me temporarily forget all the dysfunctional weirdness that putting on shows like these can add to one's life.

So, today another Saturday comes along, and it will be the first cold day of Autumn 2000. I'm substituting for Maria at the 9th Annual Harvest of Arts Art Fair at Buford M. Watson Park (the "Train Park" in local vernacular), so at 4pm I get to stand on a raised platform, in a cold North wind, and attempt to make my fingers move across a guitar in a manner that hopefully keeps everyone else warm enough to want to listen.

Wish me luck.

DL

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September 10

It seems that the on-line journal is becoming quite the popular item in the world of music. One need look no further than the official web site of whomever your favorite band might be to see at least one of the members making regular entries of their passing thoughts.

Sometimes that's a good thing. Pete Townshend of The Who has been keeping a regular journal going at his official page since the beginning of their tour in June, and some of the reading has been absolutely superb. Part of the joy of being a Townshend fan is taking in the unrestrained rants and snits he throws himself into and obligingly shares with the rest of us. There's no shortage of this in his diary, which is updated on a regular basis.

Ian Anderson posts a monthly "journal entry" on the official Jethro Tull page that can be marginally entertaining, but ol' Ian has always been quite the professional talker. I get the feeling that very little gets posted there without a lot of careful forethought and planning first. Still, its worthwhile reading for Tull fans.

Mickey Hart, formerly of the Grateful Dead, has been keeping a road journal for all his touring activities this year as well. In this case, I personally question the wisdom behind this. You see, it seems Mickey has read a lot of his own press, and he seems very convinced of the importance and significance of his own work. It comes out in his writing. Admittedly, it takes quite a bit of ego and arrogance to be a performer sometimes, but most of us still put our pants on one leg at a time, as the saying goes. Oh well, read it yourself and see.

It's nice to share such company in the world of musical journal writing, particularly now that gigs and rehearsals are happening again. I can read these guy's work and learn from their mistakes, like when Pete freaks out too much and wigs out his band mates, or when Mickey waxes too verbosely about the tribal meaning of something or another. Sometimes the best words are the ones unspoken.

We rehearsed the T'gither band for the first time yesterday afternoon. For the most part it went pretty well, considering that most of the musicians had only played their parts along to a tape recorder before, and that it was the first time this stuff had actually been played LIVE by a GROUP. I personally have the added privilege of learning five or six additional numbers that I didn't originally play on the recording, which presents it's own set of challenges. I'm playing ELECTRIC guitar on most of these numbers, which can have the effect of making some of the other musicians in the room a little nervous and protective of the existing song arrangements. I'll hear about this either during the rehearsal or later, sometimes both. When I was the electric player in UDT, the same work dynamic existed then, so it's no surprise that all these years later the same issues would come up in rehearsal. Not surprising, but still a bit stifling from a creative standpoint.

Ah, but how much of this backstage voulez-vous does the on-line reader really want to know about? Does the one keeping the diary have the unfair advantage of having their own platform to air backstage grievances? Is the nuts-and-bolts of the creative process really an interesting subject to the average music fan?

The 'Gither band will sound really good for our two-and-only scheduled performances at the end of this month. That much is for sure. You can also rest assured that much careful planning and forethought will be put into the presentation of these shows.

But you won't get any more of the backstage details here, unless you e-mail us with particular questions. Then we can get together as a group and make up the answers.

If it's drama you need, check out the other guys - it's well worth the effort.

DL

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Saturday, September 2

Greetings from Death Valley, Kansas!

The banner headline on the Lawrence Journal World left out the "Greetings" part, but the "Death Valley" part stayed in. Anytime this town gets to be first in anything, it's an immediate banner headline in the local newspaper. So, when Lawrence became the hottest place in the continental USA last Sunday, it was another thing to celebrate, in it's own weird way.

Personally, I have no use fo