September 5, 2010. Sunday.
Situation: I work all day today, and afterwards I’m going to a Labor Day party. Mway will just have to wait till tomorrow for me to take her for a walk.
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One must imagine Sisyphus happy. (Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus)
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Which is not the case this year, Moi still being away on Red Cross duty. Before I went off to Dan’s end-of-the-summer party, held a week or so before his final operation for his cancer, I had to come home to take Mway for a walk, or rather just fetch stick in the back yard, as I didn’t feel like taking the time for a full walk. By the time I got to the party, it was starting to rain – which didn’t matter much, everyone huddling under tarps and dancing Woodstock-like to the musicians in the garage, most notably perhaps Barb Dennehy, who at the end of the night having to push her car out of a rain-soaked lawn, ended up, along with Dennis, drenched head to toe in mud. No one had set up a keyboard, but I did sing a few numbers, a busman’s holiday for me as I had already played four hours. This was at the trio’s usual Sunday gig, and which I might as well try to describe, for the benefit of no one in particular. This gig was initiated about eleven years ago by an “impressive young” guitarist who had hired Wade to play with him, a “spoiled doctor’s son” as Wade described him behind his back, who fashioned it as a “jazz workshop,” and after several months left for music school in Ohio, a little stunned to come back to town after a year to find the gig was no longer his. Any number of people may show up on any particular week, from novices who know a few blues licks and afterwards never sit in again to accomplished musicians who may even introduce new tunes to the trio. Quite a few good players under the age 18 have been taking advantage of this training ground (some coming as far as a 100 miles away), although the premises, nervous lately about the eyes of the liquor control board, has recently prohibited kids from participating until its lawyer looks fully into the legalities of the situation. Yesterday both Tanya and Keeren, who sat in with us on Wednesday, were there to sing a few standards. But a drummer who showed up yesterday, a buttoned-down-collar kind of guy who apparently has just moved to the area and was probably expecting “Real Book” fare (which he might have encountered on a different day), was perhaps a little surprised to find himself playing behind GT James, who when he was a 14-year-old blues wunderkind a few years back called himself Blind Peg Leg James until someone advised him otherwise but this spring will be learning a different style of playing when he begins classes at Berkelee, part of a freshmen class of something like 2,000 guitarists. Also on hand to play was harmonica player Bob Tell, who sports a large tattoo of an eye on the back of his 75-year-old bald head, perhaps to attract any woman under 50, his wife having severe Alzheimer’s for the past six years. And as happens every few weeks the Thompson brothers were there, Johnny doing a funky version of “Eleanor Rigby” and a lengthy soul ballad of his and PJ doing Jimi Hendrix stylings to “Summertime” and impersonations of Rodney Dangerfield. Outside on break PJ and I ran into Cole Fisher, who had moved here from Philly to avoid “a life of drugs,” acquired a dual degree in music and criminology, and was the original bassist on the gig until the “doctor’s son” fired him. Cole was in the parking lot apparently doing his Sunday job of cleaning a bank lobby or something like that. (I didn’t know PJ and Cole knew each other, but I’ve found that in any town or city all the musicians know each other). “I haven’t seen you since before you were shot,” Cole told PJ, “how many years ago was that now?” “About two or three years ago,” PJ said, “It was just a random shooting, man, a random shooting. Drive-by thing, you know. Me and Pick were just out on the street, looking at some new guitars he had in his car,” and went on to fill Cole in on the details of the incident that took the life of his friend and sent PJ himself to the hospital with life-threatening wounds.
That’s all I’m going to describe of my work for now (maybe when Moi gets back I’ll describe a night of the gig I have with her; she’s suppose to come back Friday, and our gig together is this Saturday, although I have a wedding with the trio, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to join her). I suppose the point I’ve been trying to make, for the benefit of no one in particular, is that the meaning of a job often goes beyond the actual job per se. Let’s say, for example, that one has the job of fetching a stick. I could have selected any number of occupations, but that one happens to come to mind. Fetching a stick in itself might not serve much of a purpose – let’s face it, running after a stick and then bringing it back to throw again again and again and again is inherently pretty meaningless -- but there may be social benefits to retrieving a stick beyond the sheer physical activity of doing so. It may provide exercise to those participating, may be good for those participators’ mental health, may help keep the weeds down, and so on. I don’t know if this comment will reach anyone’s eyes, but on the off chance that it might, I hope that no one in particular will give this matter some thought.
Just got back tonight from the same gig I describe above, Cole Fisher just happening to be subbing for Randy, latter off on some undisclosed enterprise. (At one time the Boy might have filled in -- can’t do since moving to NYC.) Cole’s fav reference for bass: Stanley Clarke. Accommodate by calling “500 Miles High.” Too high for Wade. Miyu, two years ago only 14, recently celebrated 18th, back on guitar. “So What” at 90 miles an hour. Bob Tell wore a paisley shirt perfectly coordinated with head tattoo. Tanya, dependent on Randy for a ride, not there. Instead Scotch Walker, Willie Nelson of the North, does “Just in Time.” Desmond Hanks could’ve joined in: instead there just with wife, recently dehospitalized after surgery on blood clot in leg. I have an inkling PJ will show up. Shaw ‘nuff in he comes last set. Same songs as before. Patter justifying barest pretense for “Summertime.” Afterward, learn both Cole and PJ, same age as me, have kids in their late thirties. Teen love. Plus PJ’s got a foster kid, 14, who’s adoptive father is dying of liver failure, wants to start calling PJ dad. I’m finishing up the Dogfish Head’s Bitches Brew while writing this. Can’t keep doing this: adding things after December 24, 2011. Gotta find some excuse to book out of here.
Despite what I say elsewhere, I thought it incumbent upon me to add this comment because of something Wade told me this past week. Usual gig this Sunday. I give Wade ride to and from. I behave well, don’t criticize him or his drumming, even though I know he’s begun doing a new gig called something like Play Along with Wade, in which he gets paid and invites other musicians to sit in with him, the “legendary drummer,” as he’s identified on a Facebook photo. Toward the end of the Sunday gig, I appreciate Wade yelling at two guitarists for cranking up their instruments too much. While we’re waiting for our food orders (I’m getting an extra order of garlic wings for Randy), Wade tells me Scotch revealed to him some disturbing things: that both of his kids died of drug-related deaths and that he has a grandson in jail for drugs and would like Wade to talk to him. But this is not what I wanted to mention. On our way home, Wade manages to stay awake. We talk about the eggs he’s been getting from our chickens, and, perhaps because I’d written about Euell Gibbons in my anti-documentary, I ask him if he knew much about the man when he lived in our area. “I told you before what Dan had to do one time,” Wade says. “I don’t remember, if you did,” I say. “One time he got a call and had to go over to find Euell, and he found him in a field where he had mutilated his balls.” “Wow. What did Dan do?” “He took him to the hospital.” “Maybe I do remember you telling me this before,” I say. “Only Dan and I know about this,” Wade concluded, “and now you know about it too.”
Re: Benefits of walking and fetching a stick – also probably produces endorphins, which I overlooked mentioning specifically before (perhaps because it’s so obvious in a certain no one in particular, less obvious in myself). (“Endorphin,” by the way, does not appear in any of the dictionaries in my office. Anyone who needs to look up the word will have to go online.)
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