SongBench

A Christmas Story

Jeff — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 23:37:06 +0000

This is a re-post of a note I wrote on MySpace a few years ago, but it’s timeless and will likely be recycled each Christmas season.

+++

Rarely are we blessed enough to see a holiday more filled with joy and surprise than this season has brought, and rarer still do we get a gift bigger than was received by 125 people in attendance at the Steeple Players‘ Saturday night presentation of A Christmas Story. Certainly, no show will ever be as memorable, thanks to my friend Tommy Williams, who played the part of Ralphie’s dad, The Old Man.

Dana and I arrived just after 9:00pm, and joined Tommy’s parents in the lobby. They had seen the show previously, but came this night (as we did) for the special event. The four of us sat at a table together, and waited for directions from an absolutely giddy house manager. At this point, apparently, the whole cast and crew was in on it.

Tonight was extra special, because Tommy’s girlfriend of 4+ years, Wendy, was in the audience, and after receiving the blessing of her parents – and the encouragement of his – he had decided it was time to pop the question. Which he was planning to do as the show closed, in front of a packed house that included many friends and family. Most of which, like Wendy, had NO idea what was coming.

From our seats out in the lobby we heard the furnace and the Bumpus hounds. We heard the cursing that created the black cloud that hangs over Lake Michigan to this day. We heard the terrible moment when the Fra-Geel-Lay leg lamp broke! We laughed along with the audience to some of the more memorable lines – “You used up all the glue on purpose!” “You look like a deranged Easter Bunny!” and “You’ll shoot your eye out!”

And we heard the angels sing the Hallelujah Chorus when Ralphie opened his last Christmas gift from his Old Man.

I think Tommy stole the show this night – his adrenalin was pretty high, he was in excellent form, and his “Old Man” bellows could be heard above everything else.

When the play was over and they came out for the curtain call, each of the actors got big cheers, then they stood in a chorus line and bowed together… the house was on its feet, and everyone was smiling. Our group of “insiders” was hustled into the theater where we had a perfect view of the stage, but most of the audience – and more importantly, Wendy – couldn’t see us.

As the applause died down “The Old Man” said, “There’s one more present we want to give… an award really… Ralphie, go get that other present under the tree, will ya? And Wendy Woodard – will you come down here please?”

Switching in and out of character – not a big leap, since Tommy and the old man are kindred spirits – Tommy told the audience “My girlfriend Wendy was the inspiration for me trying out for this play. A few years ago she took me up to 3159 West 11^th street in Cleveland to see the house where the Bumpus dogs ran loose, where the movie A Christmas Story was filmed. And I want to give her this gift tonight to honor her.”

At this point “Ralphie” handed Tommy a long box-shaped present, which you just KNEW contained an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time.

Holding the box for Wendy – who was looking at him like he was Captain Dorkville for calling her down there in front of 100+ people, but still a little curiously – Tommy said, in perfect Old Man voice, “Well? Are you going to open it?”

Wendy opened the box… and I’m pretty sure she stopped breathing. She reached in, and from this 12″x4″x40″ gift-wrapped box, she pulled out a much smaller unwrapped jewelry box. The audience gasped. Wendy still wasn’t breathing. She opened the jewelry box and saw the ring Tommy picked out… and her eyes went big as saucers and she started crying.

Tommy reached to set the box down, and the same smooth motion, dropped to one knee. Wendy grabbed Tommy around the neck, and as the audience finally got our breath, we cheered.

After a few moments it quieted down a little, and Wendy pulled back to look at Tommy. He said, “Wendy, I want you to share my leg lamp with me forever. Will you marry me?” And she said “Yes!!” and grabbed him again, just as the crowd applauded, the women squealed, and, thanks to some quick thinking in the sound booth, the Hallelujah Chorus again came singing from the speakers!

There was much weeping by all the ladies in the house, and not just a few men. Out front, after the show, the receiving line for the cast was rivaled in size by the cluster of women surrounding Wendy, looking at the ring, asking, “Did you even have a CLUE?”

But neither was as big as the grin on the face of the crafty Old Man, who had surprised more than just Ralphie with a gift this holiday.

Good work Tommy. That will truly be A Christmas Story to remember.

Lit Like a Hippie Candle

Jeff — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 11:57:10 +0000

After a lot of hard work and two years of planning (even if I didn’t always know what I was planning FOR), I’m finally studying for my Bachelors degree at ETSU. In Bluegrass.

If you’ve been reading you know that I’ve been excitedly watching the program develop, and this is my first semester–also the first semester that the Bachelor of Arts became a reality.

Though my brother Jason and I talk about how I’m *living the life*, I haven’t been fully appreciative how unbelievably lucky I am to be here.

But I had an epiphany yesterday in my Bluegrass History I class, and suddenly I felt as if the candle had been lit. We. Talk. About. Music. All. Day. And play it. And dig inside the lyrics and context and back story and the dream…

I need more than 10 fingers to count the number of people that have inspired me, and there isn’t enough room on the page to detail how I got to this point. My parents, my high school and college teachers, my friends that went off the grid–at least for a moment–to follow their passion. Starting my own business, paying off my credit cards, saving money, applying for a scholarship. Practicing. Only the tip of the ice berg. The corner of the picture. Two lines from a verse…

But now, after yesterday, I dream. Without calling it *hope*… Like it is totally possible to do this for the rest of my life… I am one of those crazy, colorful candles with the loops and the paisley that my folks used to have. And I. Am. Lit.

Be free,
Jeff

10-10-10: The Binary Jam

Jeff — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 13:25:01 +0000

Went to a jam on Sunday with some really good pickers. The following songs were played:

Beaumont Rag
My Little Georgia Rose
Down Where the River Bends
Will You be Lovin’ Another Man
I Just Think I’ll Stay Around
Miss Me When I’m Gone
Big Sciota
On and On
An Old House
Big Sandy
Doin’ My Time
Crazy Heart
Love Please Come Home
New Camptown Races
True Life Blues
Old Love Affair
Pain in My Heart
Weary Heart
Won’t Be Satisfied
Southern Flavor
I’m Blue, I’m Lonesome
It Takes One to Know One
Stay All Night
Holding Things Together
Ramblin’ Fever
Sweetheart You Done me Wrong
Rabbit in a Log
Dreadful Snake
Face in the Crowd
I Think I’ll Go Away
Drifting Too Far from the Shore
Dixie Hoedown
Yellowjacket (banjo player’s original)

Songs to learn for the next jam:
Old Dangerfield
Working on a Building
Beautiful Life
Daley’s Reel
If I Lose

Be free,
Jeff

Roan Mountaineers Set List

Jeff — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 11:11:48 +0000

This semester I’m in an ETSU Bluegrass Band called Roan Mountaineers. Lee Bidgood (who founded the Steep Canyon Rangers) is our professor and coach, and the band includes the following students:

Kris, Guitar and Lead Vocal

Monique, Fiddle

Clint, Mandolin

Kayla, Mandolin (who is blogging the experience here!)

Brandon, Banjo and Baritone Vocal

Me, Bass and Tenor Vocal

We’ve been developing our set, and it looks like the following songs have made the cut:

In the Pines

Miss Me When I’m Gone

Crazy Heart

Raining in L.A.

Love Please Come Home

Gone Gone Gone

Midnight on the Water

Foggy Mountain Special

Big Sciota

On and On

Cherokee Shuffle

My Little Georgia Rose

I’ll post some tracks when we get these songs nailed down!

Be free,

Jeff

ETSU Bluegrass Band: Roan Mountaineers

Jeff — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 15:11:46 +0000

The members of my Bluegrass Band I class have been selected, and we’ve had a couple of picking sessions. After a 3 hour jam with guitarist Kris, fiddle player Monique, and mandolin picker Clint, I can’t remember even half of what we played (time to get a recorder!), but here’s what I can recall:

Washington County (my audition piece)

On and On

Gone, Gone, Gone

Cuckoo’s Nest

Red-Haired Boy

Jerusalem Ridge

Salt Creek

Mighty Hard to Travel

Georgia Rose

East Virginia Blues

Memories of Mother and Dad

Whiskey Before Breakfast

Old Dangerfield

Cherokee Shuffle

Miss Me When I’m Gone

…

Monique and Kris and I are headed to Rheatown to jam in the Rheatown Store parking lot tonight. I’ll try to capture what we play!

If Nothing Else–A Pilgrimage

Jeff — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 14:34:55 +0000

The Pilgrim rose early, showered, dressed, and shaved – which, except for the dressing part, was unusual because it was Saturday. And more than just Saturday, it was the other Saturday, as in “every-other-Saturday” – the weekend that his wife worked. Those Saturdays were almost always reserved for, if nothing else, sleeping late. But rise he did, and after folding the Rand-McNally United States atlas (that had been serendipitously left out after spring cleaning the week before) over to a map of Tennessee and Kentucky, he filled the thermos with fresh coffee, grabbed some Ritz crackers and went out to start the truck.

Traveling down this lonesome highway
Thinking of my love who’s gone
Knowing soon we’ll be together
She’s the only love I’ve known
It’s mighty dark for me to travel
For my sweetheart she is gone
The road is rough and filled with gravel
But I must journey on alone

The sun had been up for about thirty minutes, but there was moisture in the air – rain and cold were forecast for the day. The clouds cleared some as he warmed up the Dodge, and he thought to take an inventory. Thermos of hot coffee behind the seat, check; a cup full in the right cup holder, check; sunglasses, uh, yep, a look in the rear view mirror confirmed that they were perched on the top of his head, although he’d be surprised if he needed them today. Cigarettes, whoops, two left – a stop at the gas station would correct that. Hm. Fuel and an oil check might not be a bad idea either. What else? Rain poncho, a little lunch cash, bluegrass music in the CD player… all set. If nothing else, he thought, he’d certainly enjoy the drive. He picked up some chocolate milk and smokes at the Texaco, filled the truck with gas, and headed north. The dashboard clock said 7:15, and he noted that if his calculations were right, he would be in Rosine just in time for breakfast. Rosine, Kentucky – the destination and purpose of this pilgrimage – was the birthplace of William Monroe, “The Father of Bluegrass Music”. Bill is also buried in Rosine, and the previous year, newspapers had reported that town fathers were planning to erect a heck of a monument near his grave, but the story never had a follow-up. The Pilgrim wanted to find the monument and the gravesite and see if, when standing where Bill Monroe’s boots had walked, he could sense the presence of greatness.

Well, it was on one moonlight night
Stars shining bright, Whispered on high
My love said good-bye
Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shinin’
Shine on the one that’s gone and proved untrue
Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shinin’
Shine on the one that’s gone and left you blue

The Pilgrim had roots in Kentucky too, though as far as he knew no monuments larger than headstones had ever been raised for his family. A search of hillside cemeteries in eastern Kentucky would turn up plenty of ancestors, their names and dates chiseled in stone. His grandfather’s stone had been placed not too many years before, and he had been there for the funeral. Pa was a coal miner who had reluctantly made his way to Michigan to work for the auto industry when times got hard, but when he retired he and Ma finally gave in to the pull of the Appalachians and moved back to the foothills, where he spent his last years. Maybe this explained the draw that the Pilgrim constantly felt for mountainous, rural areas – and why he decided to make the pilgrimage to Rosine.

When I left old Kentucky
Linda kissed me and she cried
I told her that I would not linger
I’d be back by and by
I’m a-goin’ back to old Kentucky
There to meet my Linda Lou
I’m goin’ back to old Kentucky
Where the skies are always blue

The Pilgrim made good time, though the clouds had come back in force and it was dreary weather. Spatters of rain began to fall as he neared the Kentucky border, but were soon left behind in Tennessee. Somewhere around Bowling Green, he checked the atlas, exited I-65 and turned onto the William H. Natcher Parkway, heading towards Owensboro. A toll road, as it turned out, but otherwise quite uneventful. The crows and the buzzards were having a good eating day, what with the possums, raccoons, rabbits, and other dead critters along the roadside. After splitting 90 cents between two toll stops, and smiling and waving at the grumpy worker in the non-exact change lane (she wasn’t getting much business), he stopped at a tourist information site in the median of the parkway. A helpful woman wearing a maroon apron handed him pamphlets on Ohio County (Rosine, Beaver Dam, and Hartford), antiques, and Kentucky music events. She asked, “You know how to get to Rosine, then?” He said yes’m, he sure did, thanked her for her assistance, used the restroom, and got back on the road. The wind had started to blow a little colder, and the foliage was grey. He rubbed his hands together while the truck warmed back up. Spring had officially arrived two days before, but Mother Nature had apparently forgotten to tell western Kentucky.

He exited the Parkway at the town of Beaver Dam. Five miles later he turned off of Main Street, and followed the signs toward Rosine. He imagined a little coffee shop or café in the heart of town, where he would eat home-cooked vittles, meet some locals and spend an hour or two listening to stories of the Monroe boys and their exploits. Maybe he’d hear about the time brother Charlie went north to Ashland to find work in the coal refineries, or the barn dances that Bill and Uncle Pen used to play.

Oh, people would come from far away and dance all night ‘til the break of day
The caller would holler “Do-Si-Do” and you knew Uncle Pen was ready to go
Late in the evening, about sundown high on the hill above the town
Uncle Pen played the fiddle, Lord, how it’d ring you could hear it talk, you could hear it sing

Twenty minutes east of Beaver Dam, however, he sneezed and opened his eyes just in time to see the “Thank you for visiting Rosine!” sign. There’s not actually a “See ya” sign, but there are two “Welcome” signs, one at each end of town, about 300 yards apart: “Welcome to Rosine, The Home of Blue Grass Music.” It seemed to be very a small town, with a general store, a community playground, railroad tracks, and more churches than cars. A weathered sign on the barn next to the general store/post office/barbershop promised a bluegrass jamboree every Friday night. There were some trucks in the gravel parking lot at the store when he went by the first time, but they were gone by the time he had turned around and pulled up to the weathered front stoop. Just as well; he hadn’t realized how small Rosine was – the locals probably weren’t as keen on tourists as he had originally thought. A little nervous, he mounted the steps and turned the handle on the old wooden door. He heard the bells jingle, signaling his entrance as he stepped inside, and he felt immediately home.

As I go down to that river Jordan, just to bathe my weary soul
If I could touch just the hem of His garment, I believe that it would make me whole
I am a pilgrim and a stranger, traveling through this wearisome land
And I’ve got a home in that yonder city, good Lord, and it’s not made by hand

The store was much more than it appeared from the outside. The first thing he noticed was the hardwood floor that had seen some use and was desperately in need of refinishing. To his left along the wall stood three bottled-drink coolers, and a row of shelving that ran half the length of the long room, displaying bread and spaghetti sauce and barbecue supplies. The shelves were mirrored by more racks in the center of the room with cookies and canned goods. Along the right wall were the cash register and various sundries. Immediately to his right was an entry way into a faded blue room that had a couple of tables with plastic flowered tablecloths. As he walked through the store looking at the dry goods (what are wet goods, anyway?) he noted a sign promising “Air Conditioned Eating” and a menu above the cash register – they apparently served lunch: ham sandwich, chicken salad sandwich, turkey sandwich, $2.75, chips 50c, all sandwiches served with pickle, etc. Halfway into the building, the room opened up. A few more tables with mismatched tablecloths, every one with a glass ashtray, and in the back, INSTRUMENTS! A stand-up bass lying on the floor on its side – he could see the grooves in the fingerboard from years of use; a shiny chrome banjo in a stand on top of a glass case containing strings and picks and other gear; a rack with a brand new Kentucky mandolin, a dobro, and three or four guitars of various makes and vintages. There were other signs that this place was “home” to more than just a few folks. The traffic picked up and dropped off while the Pilgrim stood looking, remembering other general stores in other towns, some still in use. The owner, a fellow everyone called George, greeted the regulars from a table in the center of the room.

The Pilgrim approached the only employee in the store, an older woman that, at 9:15 am, appeared as if she had already worked a full day, and asked if they served breakfast. George had called her Doris. “Why sure,” she said, “step around the corner. The breakfast menu’s on the wall.”

And sure enough, it was. A small counter separated the tables from the cooking area. The tables were set with picnic-ware in plastic wrappers and plastic salt and pepper shakers. More glass ashtrays. If nothing else, he thought, he could have a smoke in a warm place. And it appeared as if he’d found breakfast. Doris, it turned out, was also the waitress and cook. She was dressed in blue jeans and a flannel blouse, but put on an apron and politely asked, “What’ll you have?” The Pilgrim asked for two eggs, two slices of bacon, and after a pause, added the biscuits and gravy breakfast. Over medium. “Do you want coffee with that?” she asked. The coffee smelled fresh and he said yes. He noticed she was already pouring. “Refills on coffee are free, Hon.” He started wondering if she was a mind-reader, when there was another question, this time hesitant. “Did, uh… did you want one biscuit or two with your gravy?” He smiled and suggested that he probably looked like a two biscuits and gravy kind of guy – and then she smiled, too. “Yep, you do look like a two biscuits and gravy kind of guy.” They both laughed.

He went out to the truck to get his cigarettes and noticed that the wind had stopped blowing. By the time he got back to the table the coffee was the perfect temperature. Between the eggs, biscuits, coffee refills, and other customers, Doris told the Pilgrim about the Memorial Day weekend festival when the town celebrates Bill’s birthday, and suggested that he come to the next one. They talked about the musicians that perform at the event, and she proudly noted that tourists come from all over the country and across the Pacific, Australia even. She pointed out the church where Bill Monroe’s funeral was held. “The cemetery is just down this street,” she said, pointing north, “and the monument is very nice. In fact, Mr. Monroe’s relatives are also buried there, and you can look around at the headstones to find them. His uncle Pendelton Vandiver’s isn’t located near the rest, on account of his passing so long before, but you can find it if you look for the fiddle on the marker.” Uncle Pen had taken-in nine year-old William after his mother passed away.

The wind is blowing cross the mountains, and out on the valley way below
It sweeps the grave of my darling, when I die that’s where I want to go
Lord send the angels for my darling, and take her to that home on high
I’ll wait my time out here on earth, love, and come to you when I die

The Pilgrim learned that on Friday afternoons in the summertime, the gravel lot in front of the store fills up with bluegrass pickers of all ages and experience levels. It becomes a place to meet old friends or make new friends, learn new songs or old ones, and soak up the music and fellowship that defines bluegrass and Rosine, Kentucky. There’s a show afterwards in the barn next door, and since the lot is always full, the barn always overflows. The store stays open late Fridays and sells cold drinks and coffee. The clouds were clearing, and the lunch crowd that had started as a trickle suddenly became a steady stream of diners. The Pilgrim’s hostess was back behind the counter. He thanked her for everything, paid for his breakfast, and headed out into the afternoon. Back in the truck, he retraced his route home, and with the sun now beaming down he was glad that he had remembered to check for his sunglasses.

I am a poor wayfarin’ stranger, traveling through this world of woe
And there’s no sickness, toil or danger, in that bright land to which I go
I’m going there to see my father, I’m going there, no more to roam
I’m going over Jordan – I’m going over home

The Pilgrim rose early, showered, dressed, shaved, and headed to work – which was usual because it was Monday. He reminisced about the trip two days before, and discovered that he had no regrets about not seeing the gravesite or monument. Sometimes a general store with “Air Conditioned Eating” is all we are really looking for, but maybe we don’t discover it until the coffee cools. He’d think about that more on his next pilgrimage – but today was a Monday, like every other Monday, and was reserved for working, if nothing else.

New Engelhardt ES-9

Jeff — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 02:42:36 +0000

I worried that when I got to ETSU I’d have a little trouble picking up gigs without a real upright bass. My Eminence is great, has a super sound with the new Full Circle pickup and bridge I got from Bob Gollihur… but has to be plugged in. I can’t do any parking-lot picking with it, or any other impromptu jam without an amplifier. I’ve been really dwelling on this, and watching Craigslist closely for anything in a 300 mile radius that I could afford. Then this showed up on Gruhn Guitars inventory page. And yesterday I grabbed Jason and Logan, and ran down to Nashville. I had 4 stores on my list to check, but I used this instrument and price as my baseline. We made it to one store before I decided just to go to Gruhn and see it. Okay, GET it. :)

+++

My new upright bass is an Engelhardt ES-9. The “S” stands for “Swingmaster” and it was originally designed for big band combos. It gets used often in rockabilly and swing band music because it has a big sound, PLUS the blonde color makes it look less traditional and more hip. They also have a slighly slimmer neck than basses designed for orchestral playing, which I TOTALLY love.

Engelhardt makes entry-level plywood (versus carved) instruments, and the ES is their top model. Lots of bluegrassers play them–they actually bought the Kay factory after that luthiery went out of business. Old Kay basses are coveted by bluegrass players for their durability (think hauling them from festival to festival, in all kinds of weather–the plywood generally holds up better than carved) and boomy sound. And Engelhardt picked up the banner when they took over and copied the design and construction of the old Kays.

Still solid, Engel’s are still kind of expensive (to my mind), but all cheaper basses are often referred to as “Bass-Shaped Objects” on the online forums. :) Engel’s are sort of the minimum respectable instrument among the upright bass crowd, and they are available new online from some of the more respected upright bass dealers. The ES-9 best-price online is usually about $1600 for new, plus shipping. The one caveat is that EVERYONE says they need some attention from a reputable repairman after they leave the factory. Without a new bridge, a planed fingerboard, replacement nut, a new and properly placed soundpost, and a few other hardware upgrades, they will never be as great as they can be. A good setup is simply a must.

A new setup runs between $500 and $700. So a new entry-level bass that is considered “able” to do the job runs about $2200 after all is said and done.

This bass just arrived at Gruhn’s Guitars a week ago from an individual seller (same thing happened with my Eminence bass–it had just arrived on consignment and was priced to move, but I got there first :) And they had it priced at $1000. It’s a 2006, but in BRAND NEW condition. No setup, however. I talked them down a bit after identifying some issues with it (they JUST got it in, and I’ve learned over the years of drooling on their instruments they generally don’t lower prices unless something hasn’t sold for a while, so I didn’t push too hard), and immediately took the bass to Williams Fine Violins, which is where the boys and I actually started our shopping excursion. Dustin Williams is THE guy in Nashville if you want your violin family instrument set up properly.

Dustin told me that, although he would rather have sold me a bass himself (he normally carries Shen basses, which are actually hybrid instruments–plywood except for the top, which is carved, which also run about $1600, and which are starting to get a good reputation). But he didn’t have any entry-levels in stock, wouldn’t have any in for another 6 weeks at least–he actually thought I scored big time with this one. He checked it out, declared it worthy, and I left it with him for the upgrade work.

With the addition of a Full Circle pickup, it’s going to cost me $2200 all told for the bass plus the upgrade plus tax. So I ended up paying the average price for a great instrument in new condition (plus setup), plus I got the pickup and the bag that the bass came with (approximately $150) included in the price, plus I shopped locally and didn’t pay for shipping, plus I established a relationship with a local luthier, plus Jason and Logan and I had a good trip! Plus it’ll be ready in a week. :)

I. Couldn’t. Be. Happier.

Well I might be happier if I found an old old Kay in my price range. But I’ll take *this* happiness.

Further bonus: Dustin had a touring display of top of the line instruments from The Guarneri House of Grand Rapids, MI (all for sale), and we saw some really cool basses. One with a lion’s face on the headstock (similar to this one), and one that I picked played a little that cost $125,000. A hundred and twenty- five thousand dollars. That’s more than my house cost. It wasn’t *all that* though. My bass sounded as good WITHOUT the setup. Probably.

Be free,

Jeff

You Can’t Throw a Rock in this Town… Without Breaking Your Heart

Jeff — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 23:44:54 +0000

Lead Singer Damian Kulash met OK Go Bassist Todd Norwind at Interlochen. My brother Jason said, “Why doesn’t this surprise me?” In 2005 Damian posted the following blog outing musicians everywhere, and I had to share it. I imagine it’s a little harder to avoid dating a musician in Nashville than many other places, but if you live near the third coast, you know the truth of it…

Why You Shouldn’t Date A Musician

Ladies, there are a million well-known reasons why you shouldn’t date a musician. We’re self-obsessed, we’re flaky, we’re hot-tempered, we’re unreliable, and we’re always broke, so you’ll have to pay for everything. We’re imperious, impenetrable, and impractical, and, let’s face it ? we ain’t usually the cleanest of folk. Nonetheless, you keep falling for us. The only reason I can surmise is this: our faults are of exactly the type that get mistaken for virtues in the confusing tumult of love. Our brand of crazy is precisely the kind that can appear sexy under the weird lights of romance.

Let’s say you meet a cute guy, for instance. He’s a little cocky, but you say you like some confidence in a man. He’s a bit scatterbrained, but you think of it as creative. He’s manic, but you call it passion. Perhaps he could shampoo a little more often; you say you like ’em on the wild side. These charitable evaluations are the currency of love–they’re how you’re supposed to feel when you’re falling for someone–but ladies, I’m warning you: you’ve got to stay away from the musicians.

The real reason we’re unlovable has nothing to do with our big mouths or big egos. In fact, it’s not a matter of emotional compatibility at all; it’s a simple matter of practicality. We want precisely what you do not. You want a companion; we want to take our guitars and disappear into the gaping maw of the country. You want someone to eat meals with, someone to tell jokes to, someone to kiss. We want to be in a van somewhere between Minneapolis and Seattle, hopped up on Red Bull at four in the morning and speeding like hell to make it to the club by tomorrow afternoon. We run on endless newness, endless mania, and endless travel.

But wait, you say. The particular musician you are currently butterfly-stomached about doesn’t go on tour; he’s in high school, and his band has never played anything but house parties. He likes languid Sunday afternoons together even more than you do, and he’s the one who’s always perched and waiting at your locker. Rock n’ roll is just something he does for fun. Ladies, don’t be fooled! A shark in a cage is still a shark! The young Jekyll of your fancy may not know the Hyde inside him, but it’s there nonetheless.

The longer you spend with a musician, the more you will come to know the anxious discontentment at his core. If you are lucky, he will have great success, be swept off into the tempest of the music industry, and he will never bother you again. In most cases, though, you will find your heart tied to someone who is terminally unsatisfied–someone who cannot ever get what he wants from the world. He will toil endlessly and fruitlessly at song after song, idea after idea, show after show. The only thing that could possibly fulfill him is the same success that would ruin your relationship. And even then, he would want more. Like I said, he wants exactly what you do not.

On top of it all, you’re going to have lie to him, and maybe even to yourself. You’ll have to tell him his band is good. You and I both know it’s not true. Do you really want a boyfriend you have to lie to?

Listen, I know that creative people are sexy, and I know it’s easy to fall for people with talent. But ladies, there are plenty of talented writers and engineers and architects out there. I’m telling you, for your own good: stay away from the musicians.

Be free,

Jeff

Voting for Korby Lenker

Jeff — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 15:23:43 +0000

Music City Mayhem is a competition between some of Nashville’s best local talent. For an example of the caliber of these musicians, check out my friend Maureen Murphy who made it to finals last year.

The first round of voting is almost done, and today (3/15/2010) another friend and wonderful musician, Korby Lenker, is facing off against Steve Moakler. Steve’s got over 2000 Facebook fans. Steve’s music is pretty good and he’s actually a nice guy. Okay, I don’t really know Steve, but giving him the benefit of the doubt on all of that.

In fact, all of the artists competing have something special, and Nashville is better for the music and entertainment they provide.

However–Korby Lenker will move your soul. Whether singing, writing, or just talking, the world changes when Korby puts himself into it.

Go here to read Korby’s writing and listen to some of his other tunes. You won’t regret it.

Lightning 100 just opened the doors for voting on today’s match-up; it started at 10am and ends at midnight. Click here to vote.

Be free,

Jeff

ETSU to Offer Bluegrass Major

Jeff — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 14:20:30 +0000

Update 11/20/09: It’s a go! Johnson City Press reports that the Bluegrass Bachelors program is official.

Update 11/7/09: Director Raymond McLain is leaving ETSU to take a position at Moorehead State, to be nearer to family. Johnson City Press article here.

Update: They appear to be on course for 2010! I visited ETSU’s website recently and see that they’ve moved the minor into the Division of Appalachian Studies, and there is now a stub page for, Yes, the Bluegrass Major!

East Tennessee State University in Johnson City is in the process of implementing the nation’s first bluegrass major, which I think is totally the cat’s pajamas. Former graduates of ETSU’s bluegrass minor program include names you will recognize, like Kenny Chesney, Tim Stafford, Barry Bales, Adam Steffey, Jill Andrews, and Hunter Berry, and graduates are members of other groups like The Stevens Sisters, Reeltime Travelers, and Prairie Grass. See this article from April’s East Tennessean (the official newspaper of ETSU).

I am thrilled to hear about this program – I own a copy of a 2001 LP from The East Tennessee State University Bluegrass Band, and it’s pretty awesome. I reached out to Director McLain about the program this past January, and while he was very excited and encouraging, he was also cautious to advise:

“…At this point, the degree is still in the formative stage. Our pre-proposal has been approved by the Tennessee Board of Regents. But we must now get approval for our proposal at the university level, then by the TBR and by the Tennessee Higher Education Commission…”

John Lawless over at The Bluegrass Blog also spoke to the director, and captured the process in more detail: The Bluegrass Blog – ETSU Article

Drop me a line if you are an ETSU alumnus, a bluegrass minor alumnus, or know (or want to know) about this program, and I’ll keep you posted as I learn more!