Black Gold

Just received my vinyl of Richie Havens' "Something Else Again", from 1968. Reading Greil Marcus' book on the Basement Tapes. Just how good was the rock music from that era? Man; I can only imagine dropping the needle on this lp (or a vast many others) on my hi-fi system in my apartment with some friends around, crashing on the floor and letting the music (and some of God's organic assistance) take me to another place. Obviously, those are the windmills music lovers still tilt after. When was the last time I had a party just to listen to an album? I may have only done it once, which was for the Allman Brothers Band's latest, which was about 2003, when I was still in Fresno. A dear old friend has shared many a story of throwing on an album (onto a quadrophonic system, no less!) with friends and turning up the volume. I've never heard this Richie Havens album until now. It's astounding. Of course, it sounds dated. It should; it was released in 1968, a year before his legendary performance at Woodstock. I can only imagine how people, including his friends in Greenwich Village, took this one. It's leaps and bounds ahead of his first album "Mixed Bag", a personal favorite of mine. Enough folk, enough rock, enough psychedelia, enough percussion and polyrhythm. This is one great record. I love listening to so much of the music from that era on vinyl. It's nearly a sin to listen to it digitally, until one wants to be mobile, of course. It works best late at night for me to dig my vinyl collection. My little living room with the furniture I love; a sanctum sanctorum of sorts. I crawl onto one end of my couch with a book or my beloved New Yorker and on go the records. For the last year, it's been nothing but Joan Baez or Judy Collins or Richie. Occasionally it will be something even from the '70s but that's pushing it. When the morning breaks, I'll put on Brahms or Grieg or a baroque fugue if I'm up early enough. Vinyl doesn't work in mid-day; too busy and no time to concentrate. It's as if the music and medium have aged enough that when it comes time to listen, it becomes an act of worship, of contemplation; communion. With the past. Ever try to listen to something from the dying days of vinyl, the 1980s? Right. Now with the resurgence of records, I've often wondered just how it must feel to only be able to listen to Bruce or the Truckers or T&S in my living room at ten at night instead of in my car or outside or kitchen. Wouldn't mind finding some Arlo and even some Bakersfield country for my ol' record player. Given where I live, the lp discoveries only come in the form of eBay or garage sales, neither very promising.
Excuse me, I need to turn the record over...

Birds of a Feather and The Whole Truth and Nothing But...

It's concert week, boys and girls! Wednesday is the Black Crowes' summer romp through northern California and a precursor to the band's wintertime run. The Crowes have announced that finalizing the tours will be an "indefinite hiatus", which means, if anything, I will have more money in my pockets for the next couple of years. All I want is much of the new album from last summer, the best release of 2009 - Before the Frost...Until the Freeze. I wasn't blogging at the time of this release, which is unfortunate for the Black Crowes. This has been the best release on the music scene for a long time. To hear many of the songs live (only caught four last December) would be a treat.

The only album that rivals Before the Frost is, of course, the eponymous debut from T&S. They'll be opening for the Crowes Wednesday at Saratoga's Mountain Winery and headlining their own show the night after in the city. The first show will probably be similar to their previous outings, heavily pushing most of the album with a sorty-minute set. Thursday's club gig will hopefully see a couple of more songs than their Santa Cruz gig, and putting the show around an hour and a half in length. Even more the better, but just to catch them up close will be a treat. My friend and I will catch Wednesday's show behind the parking lot, concessionares boothes and the local Starbucks - the tickets are pretty danged pricey and we'll be in the back-back. That's fine by me. It'll also balance the next night, which will inspire me to write a nice piece about this week.

So, here's to the beginning of the end, so to speak, for the Black Crowes. If they ever reunite, I'll be there. If the band decides in the interim that remaining apart is the best, the band's history and contribution to the history of rock and roll is firmly intact. Perennially touring, always evolving and never seeking the status quo or the middle of the road, the Black Crowes charted their own path and brought along countless thousands of music lovers along for an amazing ride. Here's to Wednesday.

Walt, Harvey and Today

I can only imagine (always being so self-conscious and of course narcissistic) how this post will turn out and what others (who do read this, but why?) may think. I just completed C.K. Williams' On Whitman, the textual analysis of the loafer's "Leaves of Grass". My eyes were opened to the fact that he and many, many others prefer Whitman's first 1855 editions of the poems and reject the later editions. My only exposure to Walt is through the death-bed edition and my journey to Camden, New Jersey and a visit to Walt's haunts. I will be reading the 1855 edition before school resumes and compare the two versions.

I love Walt Whitman. His poetry has changed my life, fulfilled it. His song of living and loving life has made me do my best to do the same. I named a child after him. I visited his gravesite. I teach him, even when I shouldn't (what's a history teacher spending time on "Leaves"?). I have not read a thorough biography of the man and wonder if I even need to (yet I'm well read on Bruce, Dylan, Woody and others). Let his words speak for him; let his words define him and help me with my own definings. Every time I open his song, I explore more of myself and want to break out of my shell to learn more of others. Thank you for loafing and inviting and assuming, WW.

The Chronicle published a photograph taken thirty-two years ago this last Friday. One of many, it's simply a man in a t shirt in a car in a parade. And yet, I can't help but smile and reflect upon the short public life of Harvey Milk. I've written about him many a time before and yet to mark his participation in the Pride Parade and what it has meant for so many is vitally important.

Which brings about today. It's Pride Weekend in the city and I know many people who have traveled to participate. I wish I could visit and take my kids to see, if anything, the parade down Market Street. I'm not quite sure I need to see the bondage outfits and the flamboyant entrants; what I wish to see are the countless faces of those who wish to be there, to see and recognize the communal value of the others who have attended for the same reasons. For many, it must be exhilarating; for others, sheer terror. The small but raucous parade and festivity in the Tower District of Fresno turned my attention nearly a decade ago and when I caught wind of people I knew attending it (ESPECIALLY my fellow church-goers), I was thrilled. As I came around in my thinking and values, I saw a deep and important beauty in not the parade, necessarily but the intent behind the parade. Acceptance. Love. Understanding. A sense of peace. For that, I wish I could have gone, to see it, to share in it.

Today marks the fortieth anniversary of the Pride Parade. Quite a history. With that, one can understand why I'm drawn to it, sure. Maybe next year? Maybe never, but I don't need to travel to the city to smile and hope and keep good thoughts for those that do make it.

Luv 'N Haight

My three children had their first experience in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco this afternoon. It was a smashing success. The car ride there was a bit precarious, with younglings screaming and crying and parents arguing and parking a frightful stress. Once out of the Suburban Assault Vehicle, however, we made our way down the street, past wonderful freak shops and into a great pizza joint. The kids sat on their barstools, inhaled their slices and soaked in the people and surroundings. They just loved it. I loved it. Why wouldn't we have? Having children makes one grow conservative, even if just fearing for how your child reacts to experience. No stares, no off-the-wall comments, no running out into the sidewalk or into the laps of strangers, just wide-eyed pizza eating and comments of "I already know that, Dad" when I told my oldest that the members of the Grateful Dead used to live in a house in the neighborhood.

What were we doing down there? The brood traveled to Golden Gate Park to reunite with one of my oldest, dearest friends from college [see postings from June 2005, 2006] and her family. We met the first night of moving in, September, 1991. She and I and two other of her roommates have remained very close, even with physical and personal distance separating us at times. Our visit was brief; just three hours in the childrens' park near the carousel so our kids could play but we caught up and reconnected like it was just last week since our last visit.
I used to bug this poor girl (yes, I know she is a woman but we were nearly children when we first met) and her rommates nearly daily. I hardly ever called; I just walked over to their apartment. I'd stay an hour or two and we would chat and visit like college students do. The funny thing is that the girls and I really had absolutely nothing in common except our friendship for one another. I believe that is what has kept us friends even having gone our separate ways these last fifteen years. We didn't share anything that faded with time; no hobby or music obsession or activity; just our trust with one another and true, true friendship. The day I moved away and said goodbye (I was the first to move out of our apartments) nearly killed me. Our reunions at each others' weddings were just treasures. Our planned reunion, the first in five years, is to take place next month. Gosh, I can't wait.

Silver Memory - I Want To Linger

(I am re-typing this post as the computer deleted it last night. Unfortunately, the mood and words are lost; I still want to leave something, though.)

Certain experiences of childhood define who we are or who we think we are based on what we hold onto as adults. While I am cynical and often angry, I also am nostalgic, sentimental sap. Thus, yesterday's anniversary was not lost on me. To get to it, twenty-five years ago marked my fist time I traveled to Angwin, California, in wine country, for my first week of 4-H Camp. This camp is the greatest place on earth. I loved my time so much that summer (I was eleven) that I returned for the next six years as a camper and counselor (I rose up to being camp director my last year) and I visited for three following years after my involvement in 4-H. I came to love nature, a certain spiritual connection with creation. I fell in love with the new people I met, the music I was exposed to, with the 'foxhole' experience with friends that I only spent one week out of an entire year with and yet still felt so close with. I learned about love. I fell in it. I fell out of it. I heard "Stairway to Heaven" for the first time (in 1986, August 15th, to be exact). I felt 'cool' there, something I did not feel growing up in my home town. And here I am, a quarter-century later, still wishing for a tiny sliver of a chance to return to that one moment of my life when everything was so wonderful in that place and with those friends. God, I still love that place.

Another Ulcer (Semper Fi, Grandpa Taylor)

Did anyone else read about the FUBAR SNAFU regarding Arlington today?!?!?!?!? Find it on Reuters (that is, if things haven't been edited - check those lovely photos about the Israeli commandos and the Palestinian flotilla!). The article was just vague enough that my stomach curled - my grandfather is buried there. Are his remains really underneath the marble marker that claims to mark his interment (sp?)? On a completely different thread - does it REALLY matter? I mean, two hundred and ten pieces of someone that only genetically represent who the person was? C'mon.
That said, I'm concerned. My grandfather, and my father, and (comma in the incorrect place) me are all intertwined with this. Oscar Clarence Tayler, my paternal grandfather, was born in 1921 or thereabouts, depending on the particular "official" document one finds. 1922 seems to be the agreed-upon date. I met the man, apparently, twice, though I only have memories, albeit short but fond, of meeting him once, ca. 1980. (It's odd, as per my occupation, that I can not for the life of me, wrestle out of my family exact years for ANYTHING, including this one vacation to Virginia, where I met the man and his ____ wife (third? fourth?)).

Here's what I do know: O.C. Taylor (my, according to family and geographical-historical traditions, designated namesake) enlisted in the U.S. Navy (or Marines, I forget exactly) in February 1942, right after Pearl was hit and Americans felt Hell-bent about seeking revenge. Since the Internet already has all this information but those constructing the Matrix probably do not, I'll fudge things here and there just to keep some of you busy. Around this time, Oscar met (and assumedly fell in love with) a young woman of age yet ascertained; family lore has her at 16. Or 17. Maybe 18. Pushing "Lolita" age, though a couple of census records place her of legal age (darn!). At any rate, my grandfather and his wife of Italian heritage (was she an immigrant? - probably not but her parents probably sure as heck, if pre-WWI), married and produced my father. From family lore (here's what's so damned great about stories - the accuracy according to the historical record means nothing; history isn't important, it's the STORY), my grandfather was shipped to the European theather of combat (after basic and specified training, probably around the end of 1942) which would have either slapped him in the doldrums of England or the hell of the Italian campaign. There must have been some sort of leave for conjugal purposes as my father was conceived in the fall of 1943 (maybe before actual deployment overseas) and born in the late Spring of 1944. Again, according to family lore, my grandfather was involved in the Normandy invasion (Operation Overlord, commenced 6/6/44) and he finished his deployment in the European theater by the end of combat operations, May 1945 (conjectured). My maternal grandmother (whose name has itself evolved over time but has historical documentation limiting its alterations) suddenly, and for reasons unknown, disappeared from the story by 1945. What I do know, according to official reporting) is that O.C. Taylor was the recipient of at least SEVEN purple hearts for his involvement in World War II (he was also actively deployed during the Korean "conflict" but I have no proof he saw combat), making him eligible for internment in Arlington National Cemetery, an honor of the highest ranking for enlisted men in the armed forces of the United States during the 20th Century.
This month marks the 20th anniversary of his passing. He died of cancer, though I do not know of what kind. He was essentially estranged from my father for reasons that will stay personal but for this amateur historian, this aspect of the Taylor story is fascinating and haunting. Politically, I am as left as they get (until one meets my brother and then re-aligns the political spectrum) and yet I understand the need and desire to maintain a well-armed and funded national military. In high school, January 1991, I visited him (from what I know, the first and maybe ONLY family member to do so) and captured his gravestone in a photograph. Worth more than a thousand words based on the stories I have heard... and yet I am torn. What is a war hero? A father? A grandfather? While individual and collective memory continue to fascinate and amaze me, I still wrestle with the fact that this is family history. I always concentrate and worry about my family history and how, if at all, it fits into the larger national story that I have involved so much of my energy into. Do I worry about the news today that possibly, my grandfather's grave has been mismarked for two decades? Should I? Do I investigate? Take action? Continue the narrative thread that makes my family's story all that more important to me? Is it any more important or fitting that my grandfather's remains may or may not be included in another federal government imbroglio? Maybe it's simply the next chapter. All I know is that I think I am proud of my grandfather. I'm not sure I love/d him but surely I recognize him and absolutely love my father and for that, this story is one that I will surely follow. Or does it matter?

P.S. - for the record, I do know that my grandfather did enlist (regardless of official age and marital status) in February 1942. He served in combat situations throughout the war. He was awarded the Purple Heart (and who knows what else) seven times for his service during the Second World War - I have held at least two medals and at least three extant ribbons personally. His grave marker notes that he was also involved in the Korean War (at this point, possibly U.S.M.C. and maybe/maybe not combat situations). He was a lifer. He was born in Indiana but lived his adult life up and down the Atlantic seaboard. His relationship with his son notwithstanding, he and his wife sent cards to his grandsons in rural Brentwood, California, throughout much of the 1980s (I fondly remember a plush Garfield the cat nighttime plush toy that now rests beneath countless other stuffed animals in my own childrens' bedroom right now). He died in June 1990 and I visited his marker in January1991 (at the peak of the Persian Gulf War, when, as a young man, I was full of nationalistic and jingoistic fervor myself). Hopefully I stood above him, in a symbolic way that that visit or any visit to any grave may constitute some meaning (to the visitor, of course), and I continue to carry the stories and hopefully the history of his life and contribution to this nation's own story. What it means to my own history I am still determining but with today's news, I am again reminded of just how tenuous "history" really is.

Summer Breeze (Brr!!!!)

Is it technically summer in the 'Wood when the high is 88% and the low is the high 40s!!! Man, the breeze moving through my open kitchen door is downright cold! The kids are running in and out of the house with their toys and I'm stealing away this little slice of free time to reconnect.

School's out; has been for nearly a week. I missed graduation, my first since returning to my alma mater, and it was a bit odd to do so. My wife was also out of town for four days and the kids were completely thrown off-track. I nearly called CPS, the police and Craigslist last weekend. Would have waved shipping costs on three young children.

Scooped up tickets, albeit nosebleed cheapies, to catch Macca hit ATT Park next month. Another 'bucket list' performance which will be, well, Sir Paul.

More Truth & Salvage Co. Here and here. The boys are continuing to knock people's socks off. Countdown is three weeks until they open for the Crowes at Saratoga and hit the Cafe du Nord in the City. Will be seeing both. The album's still spinning continuously and getting better with each spin. This band is so good because it is a band I can believe in. These guys are guys I can believe in make music we all love.

Enjoying the first of my summer reads. That's the best about what I do. Curling up with a good book, music and whatelse makes for a relaxing if not engaging bit of summer. The 33 1/3 series of album analyses is always thought provoking and I completed the dissertation on Joni Mitchell's Court & Spark. Joni hit so many homeruns in her first decade, from her first folkie-cum-poet album to Hissing of the Summer Lawns. My three favorites are Blue, For the Roses and C&S. This book examines each of the songs on C&S and while not giving too much history about the early 70s LA music scene, the text paints the album as a magnifying glass into the life of one of music's greatest voices at that time. I don't think it's going to do much for my love of this album (nothing can, unless Joni comes and performs it in my living room) but a thoroughly fun read.
I'm nearly finished with New Yorker writer Adam Gopnik's collection of essays of life in New York City. I've rumininated many times here about my love affair with NYC and all of its myths. I'll never live there as I can't afford it and couldn't ever really make the switch from the 'burbs to the world's craziest city but reading all I can makes me love it all I can. Gopnik's essays about family life give insight that no film, piece of music or historical era can, that of the human qualities of the city.

It's time to put on night-time pull-ups and jammies, brush teeth, read stories and say prayers. Rugrats, off to bed!!!