Don’t Fret

After a two day trip to Mexico Thursday and Friday to attend a sixty seven minute meeting, which was made much more of a bad idea by getting in a cab with a driver who not only spoke zero English, but also knew next to nothing about the roads of the city where the meeting was being held (Celaya), I was ready to relax this weekend. And what better way to relax than by restoring a musical instrument?

Looking better (?) already.

The instrument was already apart, so today I just made up my mind to work on the finish: I sanded the hell out of the thing. I’m keeping the “Silvertone” logo and the model number on the top of the neck, but everything else is going to be painted over. I patched holes, repaired a split, and sanded, sanded, sanded. Then I went to work on the fret board.

Sanded sunburst. This was definitely done as a "real" guitar.

In the DIY industry, they have a mantra of “measure twice, cut once”. Well, I declare that the mantra of the musical instrument restorer is “Google it first, then give it a try”. My fatal mistake here was trying to sand the fret board with the fret wires still in place. I did an adequate job of it with my Dremel, carefully working between the wires and taking the paint and scuff marks off, but it didn't look right. I did that because I couldn't figure out how to remove the fret wires. After botching it, though, I realized the only way to fix my mistake would be to sand the neck sans wires.

Fret free sanding sans frets ahead.

And of course, Google has videos and wikihows, and fifty different shades of websites for “how to remove fret wires”, and when I went back to it, the fret wires came right out. I could have saved myself about a half hour and made a much easier job of things if I had just Googled first. Naturally, I bent the hell out of a few of the wires when I took them out, too, plus I don’t like the gold color for the motif I have in mind. I've already ordered a set of pre-radiused wires from China. They should be here in 20 days.That will give me plenty of time to sand some more, restore the wood, and paint my motif, which will be based on some guitarist’s song. I’m thinking of calling my guitar “Kenny” and putting “Chitlins Con Carne” (note the hint of Mexico) as the music that will adorn the paint job. We’ll see.

Anyway, the frets are gone, I’m none the worse for wear and the guitar restoration continues. No need to fret, at all.

Now what?

This past week, the Mrs. S and I participated in an estate auction. There was a nice authentic German doll that she wanted, and there was an Ibanez mandolin in the mix as well. The lot next to the mandolin was an unloved-looking Sears Silvertone acoustic guitar. When I went and looked at everything, the doll looked okay, the guitar looked kind of junk, and the mandolin looked great. We decided to see where the values went before we bid.

That doesn't look that bad for $46, does it?

Without telling you the story of the decidedly unexciting auction, we won the mandolin, the doll, and the guitar, all for what seemed good prices. The doll is porcelain and mohair but has a crack on its face. Still, it is cute and the cotton dress is in good shape. It is secure on a metal stand. Not bad for $6. Likewise the mandolin was bought for nearly $400 new, came in a case, and was virtually new, as the previous owner didn't know how to play it. (Neither do I, but so what?) The Silvertone guitar was beat, so I decided to take it apart to clean it up.

The color is gone, and, yuck!

Well, the more I looked at it, the more I realized, this guitar is just not worth saving. Even after washing with warm water and Dawn and scrubbing everything with a toothbrush (I know), the color is all faded, the wood is cracked and the paint job is a mess. It could be cleaned up and made spiffy again, but after the square grand piano turned into a bar project, I’m thinking I’m going to jump right to the artistic project and make the guitar playable, but make it something special, not an old Silvertone.

Parts are all there, so I can make it playable again.

I've already started looking for ideas. Suffice to say, it involves a lot of spray paint, glitter, and jazz imagery. I even have some mother of pearl from the piano that I can put into the fret board.

Even after a scrub down with dish liquid and warm water (it's my guitar, so too bad if you don't like my cleaning methods), it doesn't look all that ... jazzy.

Yeah. I've got myself into something. Stay tuned. (Heh-heh. Stay “tuned”. I think I've got my new catch phrase.)

The History of Jazz: History lesson, listening guide, and music manual

It took me a damn long time to read this book, the first of Ted Gioia’s many books about jazz and music that I have bothered to push through myself. The author is a very demanding writer, too, with an extensive vocabulary, exceptionally sharp insights, and an eye for linkages and foreshadowing that few other authors and observers of jazz would be able to duplicate (although I will keep trying). I sort of hated this book because it is so dense. It has narrow margins top and bottom, left and right, and few breaks and headings between long, compactly organized chapters, so that even when you think to yourself, oh, just three more pages, you find yourself reading for another fifteen minutes. Jazz doesn't strike most people as a subject that deserves this scholarly thoroughness given by Mr. Gioia, but after working through this book, I was amazed that I hadn't ran across such a book before this.

 

This is a damn good book

The book really has a three pronged approach. Of course, it is a history book. As such it follows the chronology of its subject matter faithfully, but what the author excels at is giving a taste of where the present or past will lead, as well as why and how it will get there. Then, when you reach the new material, the new artists, the new performers and the new types of jazz, you have a very real understanding of what happened, what had to happen, and who made it happen. I've often thought that a timeline showing the various artists’ relationships to one another – who played with who, when, and for how long – would be one of the most constructive tools to understanding jazz (I even went so far as to begin constructing my own), and Mr. Gioia’s book comes quite close to being a literal (if not visual) timeline very much along those lines. But it doesn't stop there.

This book also is – almost even more than a history book – a listening guide. Of course, and you can’t understand any history of music without knowing the players, the songs, the albums, the performances, the venues, not to mention the life and culture of the times, to gain a full understanding of the music, but the author also throws in minutiae like the producers and the hall owners, hangers on, and other jazz satellites. Mr. Gioia excels in this regards and gives the reader plenty of guidance on the recordings that will make the music, and its history, come to life. Thanks to the Penguin Guide to Jazz Recordings, I have assembled a modicum of historic jazz recordings, so I appreciated the author’s guidance on what to listen to, given the historical context that he provides. He even provides a unique “Discography” as an appendix, which more concisely outlines the most historic recordings, and the book’s index provides enough insight and references to make it also workable as a “highlight guide”.

Even after covering the music in depth, Mr. Gioia doesn't forget the musicians. I can’t think of a single musician that he may have excluded or a major story that may have been edited out. And unlike other authors, he doesn't gloss over the seedier aspects of jazz and its culture. The good the bad and the ugly are covered with enough philosophical awareness to make the history real without overplaying the sordid aspects. After all, the history of jazz is full of racism, drug use, and burn-brightly-and-burn-out-quickly musicians, but those aren't

the things that define jazz to its practitioners and fans. This book is about understanding the music and the musicians, not just its history. Even as I was reaching the end of the book, no sooner would I think of an artist or contributor whose name I hadn't read in the book yet, than Mr. Gioia would eventually touch on them. Even on the second last page, I was thinking “well, still no mention of African jazz” than Mr. Gioia covered Abdullah Ibrahim and his work. Truly, this is as thorough a history of jazz, right up to modern times, that any reader could want.

As with so many other things I've covered in Late to Jazz, my only regret about this book is, my realization of it was a little late. It’s no fun to play “catch up”, but it’s less fun than missing out altogether. So I congratulate myself on reading this book, finally, almost as much as I congratulate Mr. GIoia on writing it. This is a great educational book, and an interesting, fun, insightful read.

At least they didn't call it "Kind of Kind of Blue"

Until just a few months ago, I’d never heard of Mostly Other People Do The Killing. As of right now, still the only thing I know about them is they recorded an exact copy of Miles Davis’s album, Kind of Blue.

If you don’t know anything about Kind of Blue, Google it now and come back when you are finished.

The cover of one of the most iconic jazz recordings of all time. No exaggeration to say it changed not just jazz, not just music, but changed the way people thought about making and listening to music.

So, why would a band want to make a copy of an album, note-for-note, second-for-second? You can Google MOPDTK and Blue and come back, if you want, but I don’t think you will find the answer in any of the interviews and articles that have been written about this “controversial” and “audacious” musical work.

Similarly, hard not to mistake this cover for something else, either, although a friend from school did have something remarkably similar for his Facebook cover photo for a while.

Of course, this didn't stop me from buying, listening to, and weighing in on the album on Amazon. Here’s what I wrote: 

Compelling in so many ways 

After first reading about this remake of the great Miles Davis album in the Wall Street Journal, I was partly scared and partly excited to hear what MOPDTK could do with the music from the album. There were just so many questions I had. Would it be indistinguishable from the original? Would it be nothing at all like the original? Would I even be able to listen to it? And, most importantly, why in the heck would a band go through all that trouble to make a note-for-note copy of the greatest jazz album of all time? The mind boggled. 

Then, maybe a month later and still before I’d gotten around to purchasing the recording, there was another article in the Wall Street Journal, this time calling the recording “controversial” and “audacious”. Really? I mean, yes, I’m still confused by the intent and purpose and the artistic value of the project, but does that make it a “controversy”? There was nothing to do but buy the thing and sit down and listen to it.

And all I can say is, this is, no matter how you cut it, an amazing piece of music, an amazing work of musicianship, and I am utterly in awe of the people who conceived and executed this work. And I must also admit that I am struggling to put into words what I thought about the whole thing. It is, first and foremost, a faithful, note for note, second for second, copy of the original album. The playing is clear and precise, and the recording is faithful to the original, in depth, tone, and overall reproduction. It swings, but it swings in a predictable, previously pioneered way. The first few times listening to it, you hear everything you are expecting to hear, so it is very difficult to put your finger on what it is different. But there’s something else there, or rather, something else missing. The “presence” of Mile Davis and Bill Evans and John Coltrane is absent (if that’s even possible). What’s left? Just the music. And the music is as interesting and as attractive and as absorbing as it has always been. The back of my brain kept saying, it’s not real, but the front of my brain kept saying, damn I love this music! I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I suddenly felt like Miles and his band had somehow transcended time and space, but I felt like I owed a debt of gratitude to Moppa Elliott, Jon Irabagon, and the other band members for achieving what is, to me, a nearly impossible feat. As a student of music, I’ve more than a few times been required to transcribe a piece of music as part of my study, and I can think of no more odious and difficult task. That multiple members of a band would spend ten years or so transcribing in meticulous detail an entire album is, as I’ve said already, mind boggling. That they achieved it at all is stunning. That they achieved it with such clarity and accuracy and musicality is nothing short of a miracle.

Purists will doubt the intent and the result of this album, probably for ever. Arguments for and against the pretext are likely to continue. Miles fans may have their hackles raised and it is obvious that not all jazz fans will appreciate this work. Regrettably, I feel a lot of people just won’t “get it”. Personally, I don’t think there is anything to “get”. This is a tremendous work, a monumental musical achievement, and its very existence hails the value of the original, heightens the enjoyment of both versions, and makes the brain work overtime in its euphoria and enjoyment. It may not be the single most compelling musical work ever recorded, but it’s worth as many stars as anyone will let you give, which in Amazon’s case is 5.

There’s more to this story, but I need some time to think about it. I am going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

Hanging in NOLA – Making Friends – Part Trois

 One of the best things about traveling to New Orleans is that you don’t really need a plan to have fun in the city. Mrs. S and I had a vague clue to eat good, enjoy staying at a first class hotel right in the French Quarter, and catch some music if nothing else was going on. In between all that, we visited a voodoo shop, bought me a hat, bought her some clothes, bought some French artisan utensils at a French artisan utensil shop, got lost in the casino, and took pictures of the entire city. Still, just letting those things happen to us resulted in some unusual experiences.

About to get down.

Like on the way to the voodoo shop. There was a line down the block of about 150 people to get into Preservation Hall. Not really known for its big name performers, and it being our first night and us still unsure of what music we were going to hear while we were there, I decided to find out what was going on. I walked to the front of the line, smiled at the scared looking ticket seller organizer guy and said, “Quite a crowd. Who’s playing tonight?” The guy got a look of consternation on his face (for some reason) and tried to brighten up and be enthusiastic, though he obviously was hoping we’d go away. Then he forced a smile and answered me, and I don’t remember what he said, exactly, but if I paraphrase what he said, it would go like this, “Well, we've got Eddie Whatsisname, who’s a famous  some-kind-of-musician locally, and he’ll be joined by Johnny Notspecial, and A Bunch of Nobodies.” I frowned, looked him straight in the eye and said, “Never heard of any of ‘em,” and me and Mrs. S walked off. Of course, Mrs. S goes, “What did he say?” And I had to answer, well I’m not sure, but it sounded like Eddie Whatsisname, joined by Johnny Notspecial, and the A Bunch of Nobodies. Anyway, I’m not paying what they’re charging to stand in a crowded hall with a bunch of tourists to hear unfamous musicians slug out some tunes. We can do that anywhere. Mrs. S laughed at my assessment and we continued waltzing away from P. Hall.

Getting down.

On our last night, we were wandering around St. Louis Cathedral and out of nowhere, these three kids come up, lay down on the sidewalk and commence to stare up at the cathedral. I walked over and pretended to be looking at what they were looking at and the girl says, “No. You've got to lay down and look up from the ground.” So, I laid down next to her. She goes, “There, doesn't it feel like your feet are part of the church?” which, I had not thought about before she said that, but yes, they did. The tower made me feel vaguely dizzy. Also, I somehow ended up in the exact middle, directly below the clock in the clock tower, and I pointed this out. “Isn't it cool?” I said, yes, and so is my back on the cold stone, which make me wonder about what was spilled and who spit on this particular ground I’m lying on. She said, “Ah, don’t worry about that. Just look.” I pointed out this was not exactly my plan for how to spend the evening of my birthday, and since I was getting cold, I told them thanks and got up. The guy wished me happy birthday, and I wished them luck with their steeple viewing.

The view from down under the St. Louis Cathedral

It was a different sort of trip for us. I expect we shall do more trips like this in the future. This one was more fun than most.

Hanging in NOLA – Travel Log – Part Deux

There’s never a shortage of live music in New Orleans, however, finding the kind of live music or the artist that inspires you is not always easy. Thankfully, Mrs. S’s forte is figuring out what’s going on, finding what we are interested in, and then telling me so we can work on the logistics together. One of our favorite places to go is Snug Harbor, but the lineup for the three night we were there was not that attractive. Making things more difficult was the fact that we had reservations at three swanky places over the three nights, so logistics was going to be more of a challenge in any event. But Mrs. S found that Jason and Ellis Marsalis were performing at Irvin Mayfield’s Jazz Playhouse, just a stone’s throw from our hotel, and starting at 8PM on a night when we had a 5:30 dinner reservation just ten minutes or so down the road. She even put our name on the guest list and told them to keep something down front available for us.

Piano mediocrity meets piano greatness (again): Me and Ellis Marsalis

After a fantastic dinner at August, we made our way to the club, where to our dismay and trepidation, they were turning people away at the door. No worries. As two couples did their about face, I told the woman at the door that we were on the list, gave her our name, and she smiled brightly and said, “Right this way.” She showed us a cushy table with padded seats and generous area, but right in front of that was a tiny table barely large enough for two drinks and two chairs on either side. I asked if we could sit there and she said sure. And there we were again, in the best seats in the house: front row.

The view from behind our table: That's our table right in front of the piano there.

Turns out our table was also right next to the Messrs. Marsalis’ table, so I went ahead and shook the elder Marsalis’ hand and had our picture taken prior to the show. The show was a captivating program of Christmas music, with Jason on vibes and his father playing piano (obviously), though Jason of course got behind his trap set for their rousing version of Little Drummer Boy. I don’t know if it was part of the act or what, but every tune, Jason announced as if nobody in the place had heard Christmas music before. It was really kind of laughable to hear somebody , in a deadpan serious voice, go, “That was a tune called ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’. Now, here’s ‘Away in a Manger’.” Thanks, Jason. What was amazing was Jason would grab their CD, look at the back, call out a tune and a key signature, and Ellis would kick it off and away they went. Again, not sure it was part of the act, or what. The show was somewhat disrupted by a table of four in the front on the other side of the stage, who were yelling, laughing, and carrying on, and who had no idea who the Marsalis’s were. I wanted to tell them to shut up, but I figured if Jason wasn't bothered by them, neither would I be.

Drummer vibraphonist meets pianist vibraphonist (someday): Jason Marsalis and me.

The night ended paying $20 for a $10 CD so we could get it signed and have some more photos taken with the Marsalises, so it ended up being a night worth remembering in a lot of different ways. Hopefully Mrs. S can keep her concert going radar up and running during future trips to the Big Easy.

Stories from New Orleans – Parts 1 and 4: Making Friends

The drive from Madison Alabama to New Orleans Louisiana takes anywhere from six to eight hours, depending on how many stops and how long they are. Although the trip is almost 100% highway, portions of it are on decidedly neglected highways. In addition to beat up, old, poorly maintained roads where you take your life in your hands if you go over 60 miles per hour, the state of Mississippi pretty much figures you’re a hillbilly and will pee in the woods anyway, so there are not many rest stops once you enter the state and until you leave the state. That is to say, if you travel to New Orleans from Madison, you will almost certainly end up stopping at the first rest stop in Louisiana, which is the very comfy, cozy, coffee serving New Orleans Welcome Center on I-10.

After Mrs S and I had taken care of business, she started thumbing through the racks of brochures, which, again, is a given. We've done it on every previous trip to New Orleans. I was wandering around, seeing what would catch my eye and I heard one of the greeters say, “Can I help you find something?” I was about 20 feet from the desk, so I didn't think she was talking to me. Then I heard, “Would you sign our guest book?” So, I looked over and sure enough, she was talking to me and the other greeter was watching. “Um, no, and yes,” I said, counting the answers to two questions on my fingers. As I signed the book, the greeter and I were chatting and I happened to mention we were staying at The Monteleone. “Oh, my son is manager of the Carousel Bar there.” I said I’d be happy to say hello to him, as I knew I was going to be spending some time in the bar, and she said, his name is Michael D__. (You can probably Google his name, but I’ll redact it here for privacy.) I repeated his name and she said, “Oh you’re pronunciation is perfect.” (It’s not a hard name, but lazy, non-French people would tend to pronounce this French family name differently.)

Me and one of my drinks. The photo bomber is the bar manager, Michael (keep reading).

On the last day of the trip, following dinner in the hotel, we finally made our way to the bar. I was looking forward to meeting Michael and using the two free drink coupons I got when we checked into the hotel and I told them I was celebrating my birthday with them. Of course, on Christmas Eve, the Carousel Bar was packed and people were jumping on seats as soon as anybody stood up, so Mrs. S and I found two seats in the equally packed lounge adjacent.

Our waitress came over and when she brought our two free drinks, I asked if I Michael was working that night. She said, oh yes, and I said, well, I’m sure he’s quite busy and he doesn't know me, but if he could spare a moment, I’d like to talk to him for a minute. And she said, no problem, and he did come over and I did talk to him. Very nice guy. I told him the story about promising his mom to say hello. We talked about his mom and about the action in the bar, and how many times I’d been to New Orleans, and then I apologized and told him thanks for talking with me and allowing me to make good on my promise to his mom to say hello to him. He said it was his pleasure. So I sit back down and order another drink, and our waitress informs me it’s on the house and so is Mrs. S’s next one. I said, wow, great, and what’s your name and she says, “Tuna.” I look at her and raise an eyebrow, “Tuna?” She smiles and says, yes, just like the fish. Okay, well then let me get a picture with you. And we did.

Me and Tuna.

As it was getting close to midnight, Santa Claus showed up. I’m not sure if it was before his rounds or after his rounds, but I hadn't been all that naughty this year, so he let me take a picture with him. I should have bought him a drink. When we went to sit back down, Tuna was serving guests across from our seats, putting her right between me and Mrs. S. I told Mrs. S to wait a minute or we’d trap our waitress, and then Tuna says, “You’re making a Tuna sandwich!” Funny.

I drew the line on lap sitting, but I was okay with having a picture with Santa, even though it was the first time in years.

And I’m not sure why I didn't take a commemorative photo with Michael, but he photo bombed one of Mrs. S’s other photos anyway, so it all worked out. That’s not all the friends I made while in New Orleans, but those are the ones I made at the start and the finish of the trip.

Don’t worry, there’s more stories (and surprise friends) to come.