Hard Times

So let's see...These are things I learned today.

President Obama had one O.B.L, um, eliminated. Hooray! Go Team! U.S.A! And yet, the guy still can't catch a break. Things like, "Oh, it's a conspiracy; the guy's not really dead; Trump needs to authenticate the remains; we were too polite; why bother with a Muslim burial; they wouldn't do that for us; but he was unarmed; only because Bush laid the foundation."

Sheesh.

Kellogg's, maker of your beloved Tony the Tiger cereal, Pop Tarts, and other high fat/sugar/calorie snickety snacks that are mysteriously marketed toward our, gasp, children, has announced that they are raising the prices on said delectables because the profits were not as high as they had expected.

Not as high as they had expected.

So what they're saying is that, yes a profit was made (undoubtedly substantial), but it just wasn't enough. Which means that you, Mr. Sucker, will make up for it. Understand?

Sheesh, again.

About an hour ago, on Western Ave, I was sitting at a stop light, waiting for it to become a go light. The light changed from red to green, and the guy in front of me wasn't moving. So I honked, as I am wont to do. No movement. Another honk. Still nothing. Now the light has changed back to red. This gives me the opportunity to go around this chucklehead. As I pull in front of him, I notice he's slumped over. Yow! I put on my blinkers, get out of my car, cell phone in hand, and go over to the guy's window. I yell, "Hey." He jumps, startled.

Yep. Asleep.

Got me to thinking. Is this guy drunk, high, stoned, stupid, crazy?

Or just tired? After all, in these times of economic, political, and social stress, where we are all suspicious, we're worried about how we're gonna make it, worried whether or not our jobs (or gigs) will be safe, worried that we might have to pay for something that benefits someone else, and pissed that the big corporations appear to be moving right along, singing their little song. By the way, does anyone still fill up at BP these days? Just wondering.

So it goes...

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Catch my latest endeavor, The Bucktown Allstars, every Wednesday, from 10pm-1230am at the Bucktown Pub. 1658 W. Cortland in Chicago. Joining me are Shelby Pollard, Jay Moynihan, Brian Burke, and a slew of Chicago's best blues talent. Come by some time. It's free. What could be better than that?

Another Blue Monday

Another Monday night at Buddy Guy's Legends.

The Blue Monday Jam session, don't you know. And as usual, there was a slew of characters that showed up. Holly "Thee" Maxwell was giving lessons on how she don't need no instant breakfast, done up with a huge blonde wig, a bright red (and big) bra that doubled as a shirt (?), black capri's, and a blue doo-rag.

Paul "Harmonica" Hanover was there.

Buddy himself was there, holding court at the bar with all sorts of well-wishers, autograph seekers, and hangers-on. He had said that he had just flown in from Denver from a gig he had the night before.

His arms must have been very tired. Hopefully his guitar was not destroyed by the airline.

As usual, he did not take the stage at any point in the night.

Tommy McCracken, the black Elvis, was a no-show. It's been a while since I've seen Tommy and his unforgettable vocal stylings (and unprecedented dance moves) on "Have You Ever Seen a One-Eyed Woman Cry?" I know that he's been out and about doing some things, most recently at the Slippery Noodle in Indianapolis (thanks to fellow drummer Robert Pasenko for the news- I'm guessing you did those gigs with him.) I'd like to see him again sooner rather than later. He makes the night interesting, to say the least.

Not too many surprises last night, as you have surely figured out by now.

What was a surprise though, was that the dashingly handsome and exuberant drummer known as Yours Truly (it's me, it's me!) took the stage at the end of the night as the front-man and vocalist.

That's right: I sang. Sure, I had played drums earlier in the evening with a less than memorable quintet (maybe it was a quartet, who knows at this point, a hazy day later.) I enjoyed it and all, but it didn't really scratch the itch. So I decided to ask Brother John Kattke, our gracious host, if I could sing one to finish the night. It was, after all, about 130am, and letting me get up there to howl wasn't going to cost anyone their job (although you would think that that was a possibility 'cuz you usually shouldn't let the drummer sing unless it's Levon Helm or Karen Carpenter.)

I've always wanted to be the front guy, because I like to ham it up (just in case you hadn't noticed.) I also really enjoy singing, and know the words to more tunes than, seemingly, most people.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: You gotta learn songs.

I'm not a good singer, by any means. But I am a good performer, I bring the right amount of attitude, and I have no fear of the audience. Plus, it was 130am, so...

You can fill in the blanks.

I actually did a better than respectable job. The tune I chose was B.B. King's version of "Let the Good Times Roll". It's a standard up-tempo swing-shuffle with a few breaks in the last verse, for those of you that have never had an audience with the King. Nothing over the top or difficult to be sure.

I also don't sound at all like B.B. King, to be sure.

But it was rockin'. My man Bret Dale was on the lead guitar, Doug Corcoran was on keys, and Dave Russell was the drummer. As for the bass player and the second guitar man, I have no idea who they were. That's the beauty of the Monday Jam at Legends. You just don't know who you'll be teamed up with (like I said, the group I was with earlier in the night kinda stunk.) But these guys were solid and paid attention to all my cues and antics and everything they were supposed to be doing.

It was fun. It was ridiculous. It was exhilarating.

Another reminder of the joys of being a musician.

So it goes...

Music on the Move- Madrid?

In my musician's life as the (always trying to be) consummate professional, the gigs I have allow me to travel all over the world.

All of you regular readers surely know this (and are no doubt sick of hearing about it, too.)

Sometimes, the trips (within the States, usually) are boring and less-than-glorious, usually because our accommodations are in the middle of Nowhere, ID, with nary a sign of, well, anything (except for maybe the Sam's Club parking lot right outside my window at the Super 8.) Promoters will generally put the band up in the cheapest (and least expensive) place that's possible. It's almost always many miles outside of the town we're actually working in. And since we are relying on the gig for all of our ground transportation (forget your public options- there are none), we essentially end up stuck at the hotel doing nada.

Not exactly the best way to get geared up for a show (if you've ever wondered just how so many musicians can end up as alcoholics and drug addicts, well...)

Sometimes, though, it's completely amazing and mind blowing. Usually it's an overseas trip. That's where I have the most fun, European countries in particular. We almost always stay in the center of whatever town we're in, there's plenty to do, and there's plenty of public transportation (very inexpensive, too.)

So whenever I cross the sea, I'm usually thinking about what it would be like to live there. It's very different over there than it is here, and there are so many things that are appealing to my sensibilities.

Mainly, it's the fact that Europeans are so much more relaxed than Americans, working to live, rather than living to work (note to the powers-that-be: universal health care, and not insurance, is a key reason for that enviable attitude towards life.)

Here, in Chicago, I've got it pretty good, I must admit. I get to play with Lonnie Brooks, one of the last of the great Chicago blues men. He's the one that always takes me on the road. It's going on 8 years now, and I've played around 500 shows with him. I also get to play with BMR4, one of the best, most working jazz groups that you'll find almost anywhere. Not only are the guys in this group top-notch, but they're also my friends, which is who we all really want to play with anyways.

Chicago has a lot to offer a musician. There's a lot of work here for us.

This city also does everything that it can to make life very inconvenient for it's citizens, whether it's taxes (highest in the nation), scandalous corruption, parking meter fees that have quadrupled, or simply winter.

Just as an aside, the guy on the radio right now is ripping the city apart, talking about selling naming rights for everything under the sun, as Chicago desperately needs cash as a result of dismal city management:

"Rename the expressways. The Planetarium. The Aquarium."

"The Oxy-Clean Aquarium in honor of the late Billy Mays. It's easy to get to, plenty of parking (since nobody wants to pay the damn meters), and just off of that famous road, IKEA's Lake Shore Drive.)

So what would it be like, then, living overseas? For a guy like me, I mean. Could I actually do it over there? A certain girl in my life sure seems to think it's easy.

I tend to think it's easier said than done.

But then again...

I've been to Spain twice, now, within the last 3 months. It's an impressive country, to say the least. Inland or on the Mediterranean coast, the country is beautiful. You can go everywhere by train or bus without it costing a fortune. They're quick, they're very clean, and they're always on time. There's no screwing around, there.

Madrid is undoubtedly my favorite city. It's not as international, as European, as Barcelona is. It's not as expensive either (Barcelona is on par with London in terms of cost of Living, meaning sky high.) No, Madrid is very much a Spanish city. I was really impressed with the people, the food (oh, the food, yum,) the architecture, everything.

Businesses (almost all of them) close between 2pm and 5pm for siesta. People are very relaxed and seemingly happy with life.

Personal freedoms seem to not be constantly and incessantly legislated (the United States of No).

Cops seem to not come off as jack-booted thugs.

You can still smoke in bars.

Loved it.

Maybe this is the place.

I had been told ( I was asking around before I had left Chicago) that Madrid is not really a music town. It was a late-night town, to be sure, but not so much for live music. DJ's and dance clubs were the thing, with live shows going (gone) by the wayside.

That turned out to be not the case. In fact, I went out every single night I was there and saw a show. It seems that you'll find the live shows between 11pm and 1am, and then the clubs become DJ spinning night clubs.

Seemingly the best of both worlds.

One night it was a big band at a place called Bar Co., where hash smoking is overlooked, but being barefoot is not. Another night it was blues at a club called Junco. The group (Juan Bourbon, Juan Scotch, and Juan Beer- seriously) was a very traditional 4-piece, fronted by a harp (harmonica) player, nailing all the tunes from the likes of Junior Wells and Sunnyland Slim note for note (Europeans actually tend to learn songs from the records, I've come to learn, very much like the Japanese blues players.)

I saw flamenco music at a small taverna in the wee hours of the morning, the audience consisting of me and my ex-pat (white) friends and a group of around 25 hairy Spanish Gypsies (I looked the part, though, ahem.) There were 2 men singing and one other playing guitar. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that this music was nothing more than Spanish blues. There was a repeating form in the music and the words were obviously improvised. The players were fierce and passionate. Truly, this was one of the most unique concerts I'd ever seen. And it wasn't even a concert. It was very informal (of course it was, it was 3am!)

All of the performances I saw were very well attended, and I was out and about during the week, not the weekend. People were obviously very much into seeing live music.

I also found a "roots and grooves" jam session at a cool place called La Boca del Lobo (the mouth of the wolf- sweet.) I gotta say, it was on par with the jam sessions that I go to at Buddy Guy's Legends, albeit with the European perspective of the blues. There were a lot of players that had shown up, and for the most part, they were all pretty good. Certainly better than serviceable. Plus, there was not a whole lot of attitude oozing from musicians that you are apt to find at Buddy's.

I got to play a lot that night. After all, I was the only American there, and from Chicago, no less. The Spaniards were as excited to have me there as I was just being. Needless to say, I am fortunate to be able to carry a certain mystique with me, being in that "drummer from Chicago" category.

Big fish in a small pond, you know?

It was actually a very diverse group of folks and not just Spaniards. I met a bass player from Argentina and a singer/guitar player that came from Paris (she was real good.) We all had James Brown and Albert Collins in common, so we were able to have a real good time together.

We talked about the scene in Madrid over cocktails bought for me by the host of the jam ("That was in-cred-eeeeeee-bul.")

They, of course, were wondering about what work was like in the U.S.

So it goes...

Short Burst Series- Health Care

Most musicians, as you know (since my audience seems to be primarily musicians) have very poor, if any, health insurance. For those of us who have seemingly good (enough) fortune, myself included, to be able to buy insurance, well, I guess we're "lucky".

Kinda like the politicians that are making the tough decisions for us: Lucky.

Lucky to have a job at all, that is, since something like 50% (give or take) of the populace doesn't seem to bother to vote. (I used to not understand that at all, but when the betrayal from our so-called-leaders is so rampant, the notion just seems that much less unfathomable.)

These chuckleheads have the nerve to tout the greatest health care in the world here in the trusty U.S. of A, where freedom and civil rights are fleeting more and more with each passing day (weapons check points at the Taste (Waste) of Chicago anyone?)

"A single payer system will be a disaster," is what we are being told.

Try telling that to the 45 million or so Americans that have no coverage (and no, being able to go to the E.R. at County, excuse me, Stroger Hospital, does not count as sufficient.)

That being said, any pol who votes against any real health care reform should be forced to give up their own, precious, single payer, socialist-by-design health policy and be forced to fend for themselves: buy your own policy, and be taxed on it (that's right, since I pay myself, the money used to pay the bill is after-tax dough.)

The best health care in the world carries no meaning if the majority of the population can't access it.

So it goes...

Work Hard, Play Hard

Well, life with (Lonnie) Brooks has brought me over the pond and back.

That's the Atlantic Ocean, for those of you that have yet to have that first cup of coffee.

The tour was a blast. Spain is a glorious country, and Madrid is high on the list of places to live in the (near) future. It's very relaxed and low-key, there are a lot of musicians, and seemingly many places to play.

Plus beer is cheaper than Coca-Cola.

The trip was also a lot of work, as overseas tours usually are. There are flights to catch, customs officials to deal with (the U.S., by the way takes the cake in terms of jack-booted thugs. No shoe removal necessary in Barajas International), mediocre sound guys and gear to "work" with, and promoters to please (one more song? sure. why not? we've only been on stage for 2 hours and it's 90 degrees outside. dinner's still not for another hour you say?)

Sleep is usually at a premium (5 am pick-ups in the hotel lobby are the norm.)

That being said, coming back is always a culture shock. Not only does it suck to have to come back from fantasy land, but it's gross and disgusting having to change your clothes in a bathroom stall in some crappy bar.

Like I said, it's work.

I recently got an email from a fellow pro and scribe, Steve Hashimoto, one of the best bass players in town. Perhaps you know him. He writes the weekly "News from the Trenches", his own little platform for rants and raves and songs and praises (and looking for gigs like the rest of us.) I wanted to share this with all of you who might be working while I'm playing:

"...perhaps a reason why people see what we musicians do as play rather than work is that we make music for pleasure, or for no payment, as often, if not more, than we do for compensation. To paraphrase, “You don’t see plumbers having jam sessions”, a concept that I found highly amusing. Which, of course, begs the question, why don’t musicians (or all artists, for that matter) get paid BETTER than any other trade, or skill? We artists, whether in the fields of music, visual arts, literary arts, dance or acting, generally work constantly to improve our skills, practicing, rehearsing, experimenting, working on new techniques, honing old ones, and yet people get all bent out of shape when we try to charge what a plumber or doctor or electrician charges for a comparable amount of billable time. As usual, my belief is that it all comes down to culture and education – if all of America’s schools, whatever level, were a bit more forceful about teaching the sheer work ethic involved in the arts, maybe we’d have less artists (scared away), but better respect for those who stick it out. Because I do think that America, for all of its cultural shortcomings, does respect hard work. And maybe this is as good a reason as any to call what we do work– it is, after all, work, and hard work, and maybe we do ourselves a disservice by trying to pass it off as being easy, as it being something that just “comes” to us, mystically."

Well said, Steve.

We keep on keeping on.

So it goes...

On the Road w/ Lonnie Brooks

The seemingly never ending Lonnie Brooks tour has taken us back to the glorious European "destinacion" of Spain. The first show was a festival in the northern town of Getxo.

One of my faves.

Sadly, Koko Taylor was supposed to be on the bill (also one of my all time faves.) We really missed her.

Luckily, the powers that be were able to put together an exceptional fill-in bill. I say fill-in because you can't replace the Queen.

In her royal absence, it took three people to fill her spot: E.C. Scott, a powerful West-Coast singer, along with the incomprable Henry Butler on piano, and Kenny Neal playing guitar, harp, and singing. Both of those guys are from down in Louisiana, New Orleans and Baton Rouge respectively.

Of course the Blues Machine was still the backing band, with Shun Kikuta and Mike Wheeler on guitars, "Pooky Styx" on drums, and the rock-solid Melvin Smith holding down the bass chair. I gotta say, these fellas really rose to the occasion for the show. They were clearly down and perhaps a bit lost because their blues mama was not there.

Shun and Melvin, especially. They were with her for what seems like ages.

We had to miss her funeral because of the tour, something that we weren't exactly happy about. But, somehow, we all knew (and know) that she would have it no other way.

That being said, the festival was extraordinary. It was 2 nights, with Brooks and Co. headlining the first, and the Blues Machine on the second. Both nights were packed and rowdy (5000 strong per night, and Getxo is a small town, really) and ready for some great music that is so very well appreciated in the Old World (the U.S. could really stand to take a page out of that handbook- Europeans really love live, American music).

Particularly the blues.

Lonnie killed 'em the first night. The show was a marathon, nearly 3 hours ("I've got blisters on my fingers"- J.Lennon.) He put that voodoo spell on the people like always, his Gibson screaming and his voice in fine form. We even pulled out a few tunes that hadn't been played in quite a while, Voodoo Daddy in particular. Kenny joined us onstage for the last few tunes, "All My Money Back", "Inflation", and the crowd pleasing "Something You Got."

The last few tunes lasted about an hour past our scheduled time. So it goes when you're playing an audience for the Queen.

("What are you guys, the Grateful Dead or something?")

The second night was more of the same. Koko's band came out and played 3 cuts before E.C took the stage to sing a few. Henry was next to front the band, followed by Kenny.

Rockin' good time. People were freaking out, erupting in a wash of sound that could only be described as thunderous.

Then came the goods. The band started "Wang Dang Doodle", Koko's signature cut (read: bread and butter.) E.C and Henry came back out to join in on the action. So did Lonnie. So did the rest of the Brooks crew, yours truly included. We were all onstage singing and playing together. The crowd was in the palm of our hands and was not going anywhere. We got the whole place singing the chorus, almost like a mantra:

"All night long, all night long. We gonna pinch a Wang Dang Doodle all night long."

Every great gig comes to an end eventually. Sometimes mercifully. Sometimes happily.

Sometimes you don't want it to stop.

"All night long."

Luckily, we've got another stop. Benidorm, in the southern part of the country, is the next show. We'll do it all again, one more time, knowing that it could be the last time we all do something like this together as one voice.

All for the queen.

So it goes...

The Queen

Koko Taylor.

Really, you don't have to say much more than that.

She shares the table with the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, and Willie Dixon. All of them were of the greatest generation (in my opinion) of bluesmen.

Yes, I know she was a woman. That's what makes her a true original.

She was the blues.

Me, I'm just contributing to her eulogy.

I could go into her historical details: coming from Memphis to Chicago in the '50's, being "discovered" by Willie Dixon at a Howlin' Wolf club date, etc. But I won't. Everyone else has, so there's no need.

Aside from being the "Queen of the Blues", she was a good woman, and someone I considered as a friend. In all of my years on the road with Lonnie Brooks, we've done a lot of gigs with Koko and the Blues Machine (her band.) Both Koko and Lonnie are Alligator (Records) artists, so naturally, the two acts were packaged together regularly. Next week, in fact, we were to go overseas to Spain together.

Now it's just us.

One of the best memories I have of Koko is from 2003. Both Koko and Lonnie were on the roster of the Legendary Rhythm and Blues Cruise, a floating blues festival in the middle of the Caribbean. There were probably a dozen or so acts lined up, all of them A-listers.

Koko was the draw, though. She was the Queen, and it was HER gig, no questions asked.

And she exercised her royalty, without doing a damn thing.

You see, we were all flying together out of Chicago to Florida, Ft. Lauderdale, I think. It was winter, so the weather was typically crappy. And our flight out of O'Hare was typically delayed. The delay was so long, in fact, that it got to the point where we realized that we'd never make it to the boat in time for the scheduled departure.

For those of you that have been on any kind of a cruise, then you know that if you miss the boat, so to speak, you're basically out of luck. It's not gonna wait for you.

Anyways, all of the powers that be are running around and basically freaking out. "Oh, my God, what are we going to do? We have to get to that boat. This is an outrage. It's our jobs, here!"

Etc., etc.

Tempers were a bit flaring and hostile, airline workers were getting yelled at, phone calls were being made. You could say there was a bit of stress in the air.

Koko just sat there quietly. She seemed to not worry about anything and she certainly was not giving anybody and earful of anything.

Dignity.

To make an already long story short, we were able to fly out, but not to Ft. Lauderdale. We flew into (I think, anyways) Miami and then had to be driven to the boat. It was, needless to say, a big production. And there was still uncertainty as to whether or not we'd make it to the ship.

Koko, of course, showed no signs of sweating it.

And, as I'm sure you've obviously surmised, we made it.

The boat had waited for us. Really, though, it waited for her. After all, she was the Queen. Blues royalty.

The rest of us? We were simply part of her entourage. We ended up being something like 4 hours late for the scheduled departure. In fact, Lonnie was scheduled to perform the first night of the cruise, and we were forced to sett up and sound check and then doing our show before we even got to our cabins and could unpack and have a drink or a smoke or something to eat or do whatever. It was a flurry of activity.

Koko didn't have to work the first night, and she could have taken the time to rest for her performance the next night. But she was at our show, anyways, hanging out with with us and all of the bands and musicians.

Class.

She seemed to have a particular attachment to Pinetop Perkins, another old blues man (Muddy Waters' piano player for years and years.) They spent a lot of time together on that cruise, basically sitting and holding court for everyone that wanted even the briefest of interviews.

They held each others hands frequently, I'd noticed.

Koko's passing marks the end (just about, anyways) of the great blues migration to the north from the south. She was pretty much the last of that ilk. I can only hope and pray that her legacy will be carried on and that the music that she helped to develop will live on and stay strong.

So it goes...

Don't Forget to Play

Sometimes, in my spewing and espousing of all things wrong with the music bid-ness, I sometimes forget to talk about the good things that make up this wacky career choice I've (we've) made.

Like how cool music really is. It's fun, it's exciting, and it's full of emotion and feelings (am I talking about music here?) It's also what we (I) do, so in some sense, there is no choice.

Read: Societal Misfits.

One of the blogs that I follow, MusicianWages.com, reminded me of something that can easily be forgotten as I spend my free time doing things that aren't musical: "...nothing is as important as getting out there and doing what you do: playing."

Never mind the fact that only .65% of the population makes it's living as a musician in Nashville (it tops the list, according to the most recent U.S. census.) Or that Lawrence, KS (2nd on the list) is at .31% (a distant 2nd it seems.)

Chicago, by the way, doesn't even crack the top 10.

With that in mind, (guess the cynic leaked out a bit), read the article by drummer Craig Pilo.

And play.

So it goes...

Semi- Live Blogging: On the Road w/ Mississippi Heat

The final stop on the tour was Allentown, PA, headlining the Mayfair Festival of the Arts.

And, yes, Allentown is also the name of a Billy Joel song.

The Heat rolled into town Sunday afternoon, after enjoying a welcome day off, ready for the 90 minutes of face-melting.

We only had to do 60 minutes, though, so that was a bonus (less work for the same bread- the American way.) Apparently, the schedulers didn't take into account the time it takes to change over the stage from one group to the next. I gotta say, for a festival of that size (it was big, believe me) it was very poorly organized.

Since everyone working there was a volunteer, I guess the old saying "you get what you pay for" rang very true. It seemed that all of the workers really didn't know what was going on, where the various stages were, or who was in charge of what.

Even the cops directing traffic were clueless (big surprise there.)

Despite the minimal organizational short-comings, the set was awesome. It was really nice to have the big stage that I like so much. The clubs are fun, don't get me wrong, with the intimacy and all. But the festival stages are the best. I get my own monitor mix (more kick, please,) everything has a big sound, big lighting, and smoke machines are the norm.

Gotta love the smoke machines.

The show started with an uptempo, instrumental shuffle. Pierre took the head of the tune, blowing his harp (that's a harmonica for those of you who don't know) loud and proud. Carl was on, as always, tearing into his Gibson with reckless abandon, and bass-man Steve Howard was holding the pocket like a new pair of Levi's.

We played two up front before we called up (relatively new) vocalist, Rhonda Preston. She's a small woman with a big voice. She's probably not 100 lbs. wet. But she's strong. We brought her up on Dirty Deal, the first track off the Glad You're Mine CD. It's a swinging shuffle with a nice hook, and an interesting ending (a sus chord, for all the music geeks out there.) We followed with the rockin' Handyman (RIP George Baze) before slowing it down a little bit with some "down in the alley" blues. The set finished with the boogie fan-favorite Johnny Boy to raucous applause and a standing ovation (no encore, no time allotted.)

All in all, a great show, and a fitting end to a fun tour. Despite life in the van (we drove home through the night directly after the gig,) this was a fun group to spend the weekend with. And believe me, the most important thing to have in a touring band is good vibes between the members. Everyone out on the road can play, make no mistake. But can they all get along?

Hopefully they'll call again. I'm into it.

So it goes...

Semi- Live Blogging: On the Road w/ Mississippi Heat

Madam's Organ in Washington, D.C., is, the blues capital in the nation's capital.

I made that up, by the way.

The drive from Williamsburg was quick and easy. We even had time for breakfast, compliments of the leader, Pierre Lacocque (gracias.)

"Washington DC has always been rich with Blues, R&B and Jazz and Madam's Organ Blues Bar is the place to find it! Madam's Organ is an authentic Soul Food Restaurant & Blues Bar located in Adams Morgan, DC! ALL LIVE MUSIC - SEVEN NIGHTS A WEEK!"

This is the quote on their Facebook page. They build (and bill) themselves as the place to be. In fact, someone that works at the club said that the strip that the Madam works (made that one up too,) will be filled with about 10,000 people tonight.

A typical Friday night, I suppose. We shall see what we shall see.

Well, anyone who's been here knows that D.C. is kinda crappy. Homeless people camping out (living) in front of the White House and all.

Traffic is horrible, too. It took us almost 30 minutes to drive the 2 miles from the club (set up early. Sweet.) to the band house.

Band house?

That's right folks, yours truly is not only back in the van, but back in the band house. It's not nearly as cool as the Slippery Noodle's pad, but it could be (and has been) worse.

So it goes...

Semi- Live Blogging: On the Road w/ Mississippi Heat

Well, today is the first day of a three-day east coast tour with the renowned Chicago Blues band, Mississippi Heat.

This band has been a fixture on the Chicago Blues scene for nearly 20 years. Led by harmonica player Pierre Lacocque, there have been many names and faces that have shared the stage with the group, both as subs and regulars.

This weekend, I'm one of those names AND faces (thanks, Diff.) This is my first time playing with the band. I've been called by Pierre several times over the years (usually later than last minute,) and this is the first time I've been able to say yes.

Very exciting.

Right now, we're in Williamsburg, VA. I'm in the hotel room listening to the tunes that MIGHT be played. I've got 5 CD's and little time.

But the blues is the blues. It should be a piece of cake.

I'll be leaving in 2 hours for the first show, and I'll keep you updated all weekend.

So it goes...

Life (and Racism) in Music- Takin' it to the Streets

A long time ago, in what, at this point, seems like another lifetime (it actually was), I was a street musician.

One of the best summers of my life.

I was 19 years old (with ways just like a baby child) and in college. I had no money. I had no real gig. I had no real experience. I was underage (although I'd been working the clubs since I was 18).

I wasn't really that good yet, either.

Just like everybody, in the beginning.

I knew this guy who was (is) a saxophone player. Beau Barry is (was) his name. We had a mutual friend who was a blues singer, L.C. Walker (RIP), and had done a few cheap-0 gigs together, as was the case most of the time in those days.

Meaning cheap-o gigs.

Beau supplemented his career (supported it, really) by performing on the street (sure beats selling drugs. Or junk bonds.) Or at Wrigley Field. Or in the subway on the platform. Essentially, he would go wherever there was likely to be large groups of people. That makes, uh, sense, right?

(It sure beats selling drugs. Or junk bonds.)

Large groups of people.

At some point in our relationship, he suggested I join him. He said that it was very good for your chops. Lot's of playing.

Pretty decent dough (you haven't lived till you've brought home $200 worth of quarters) too.

However, ahem ahem, it would take roughly 4-6 hours to make that kind of coin (get it? Coin? I slay me sometimes.) Also, it was a sax/drums duo, so it was very unusual. No bass. No chordal instruments. New territory for both of us, frankly.

In order to play for 4-6 hours, you need a lot of stamina, perseverance, and patience. You also need material. Any working musician knows that a large repertoire requires a lot of practicing and learning. Since we were playing 4-6 hours, and doing the cheap-o gigs, that didn't leave much time for practicing. Meaning on our own time in a room by ourselves. So where do you practice?

While you're on the street, working, of course.

Look, a street musician's audience is mostly transient. Kind of like a prostitute (but without the nasty diseases.) They walk up to you, they may or may not stop to listen, they may or may not drop a ducket in the bucket. Sometimes (and for Beau and me it was often, because we kicked ass, after a while) people would eagerly gather around and we'd have an actual crowd. That was always a ton of fun. People of all ages, races, religions, creeds, and colors. Exactly what you would expect in a major, supposedly international, city (that's really where this is going. Patience.)

The people, however, DO move on sooner, rather than later.

Even when they dig it.

The point is that there is a point where you run out of material. So what do you do? You play tunes many times a day. You play it over and over, tweaking and refining it. The musical freedom you are allowed on the street is like nowhere else. No band leader, no club owner, no booking agency to pay off, nothing like that. You're not even asked to draw your audience.

The ultimate DIY (read: the American Way.)

And it's music, the one true international language. If people like it, they pay. Or not. It's not a requirement. If people don't like it, they don't pay. Or maybe they do anyways (like I said, the American Way.)

We kept playing our limited-yet-growing material over and over. We're better off for having done that.

We were also required, as street performers still are, to purchase a license (the city ALWAYS gets her cut). So the city, one would assume, considers this a legitimate line of work, right?

Yeah, right.

In the Sun-Times last week, Chicago Alderman Brendan Reilly (42nd) introduced an ordinance in the City Council to curtail the already very-limited freedom of street musicians. He's claimed that, "Street performer noise comes up at literally every condo association I address."

"Imagine a boom-boom-boom for six hours outside your window. If you're trying to work, it sounds as if they're playing their instruments in your office. And it's tremendously disruptive . . . on residents."

Condo associations.

Trust fund babies.

Credit card hippies.

Investment bankers.

Chicago is allegedly an international city. So they say, anyways. The Mayor has been selling us out to obtain the 2016 Olympics to solidify that fact (we'll be right up there with Lillehammer, Norway, no doubt.)

One of the things that defines an international city is a fairly large population. Meaning a lot of people.

Meaning a lot of noise.

If you want peace and quiet and space and alienation from the rest of society, then you move to the country.

Or the suburbs.

You DON'T move into a downtown condo on Michigan Ave. That makes you just as annoying as the people who move next door to the airport and then complain that there is too much air traffic.

The good Alderman also cites the "criminal element" of street performers, particularly and specifically, the "bucket boys."

You know who they are. The kids who play drums on plastic buckets. Kind of like a drum corps for a college football team. Just less formal. They're (for the most part, anyways) pretty good, too. Believe it or not, it is a talent and a skill to play the same rhythms with the same stick patterns (including the twirling of the sticks and other show-biz tricks) among a group of people.

Besides, with the domination of American Idol, and things like that in our society, how can any form of musical entertainment not be considered legit?

"There is a criminal element. Some crews use their performance merely as a distraction to lure unsuspecting tourists. And there are people in those crews who are tasked with reaching into people's shopping bags, purses or wallets to make off with their valuables," Reilly said, noting some drummers have "lengthy criminal records."

Ok, point taken. Sometimes the (often quality) performance is a ruse in order to accomplish a bigger scam.

Are you listening AIG? Or Enron? Or the Investment Banking Industry? Or Bernie Madoff? Or George W. Bush?

Or Mayor "I razed Meigs Field in the middle of night under the cover of darkness with no witnesses or the press. So what?" Daley and the rest of the Chicago City Council?

Did I mention that the Bucket Boys are generally young black kids?

So it goes...

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photo credit: Richard A. Chapman/Sun-Times

Who Writes the Songs?

I know a lot of songs.

Rock songs. Blues songs. Jazz tunes.

Hundreds of them.

I'm not talking about just sort of knowing the songs. I know them: I know the arrangements; I know the lyrics; I know the guitar licks and horn lines; I know when to take it to the bridge (if there's a bridge for it to be taken to.)

When you do work as a sideman, you gotta know tunes.

Some cats, when you call out a certain tune, they just say something like, "Yeah, I think I remember that one. What key is is in?" That's usually code for, "No, not really, but I'll give it a whirl because, you know, I've heard the song dozens and hundreds of times, but I've never really sat down and played it."

They might even actually have a copy of the song somewhere.

Then the song, generally, proceeds to get butchered.

Now when I say butchered, I don't mean like a full blown train wreck (although that still happens too, some times.) I mean that it's just not played right. And when you're not playing it right, that means that you're playing it wrong.
Born Under a Bad Sign (Albert King) is one of the most wrongly played blues tunes out there that I can think of. It's also a song that just about everybody "knows". When you call that tune, and someone asks what key, they actually mean it, oddly enough. There certainly won't be anything even close to a train wreck. But when it's (inevitably, usually) played incorrectly, the band is usually (inevitably) unaware.

Because they probably never really listened to Albert King's version of it. They've only heard the version(s) that are played live on stage night after night.

The song works, sure. It might have even been a stellar performance. But when you play a song wrong, it's still wrong.

Which still means not right.

The audience usually is unaware of these type of things, hardcore audiophiles notwithstanding (are there any, anymore? just asking.) Maybe that's how some cats justify not learning how to really play tunes correctly. Even when they've flubbed a song the night before, and they know it will be called again tonight, they generally don't seem to take the time to listen to the song.

Did I mention that musicians have big egos? Especially us pros. We don't like to be told how to play, yours truly included.

However, for those of you out there who are getting their feathers ruffled a little bit as you read this little nugget (guilty as charged, I suppose,) let me just remind you that there's this great new invention called the Internet. A quick search will allow you to listen to just about anything you want to hear right now without ever having to leave the house.

If not for the sake of personal pride, then know this: learning tunes will make your job as a player that much easier. It won't be as much work, so to speak (we're all used to not much work, eh?) You'll be able to have more fun, as a result, which is why we do this in the first place, really.

Is that why we do it?

When you really know the tunes, then you can really play. It frees you up and allows you to make full use of your vocabulary. Ultimately, it makes you a better player all around. You don't have the crutch (see excuse) of not having a copy of the tune.

Listen to it. Learn it.

A large repertoire is a life's work.

So it goes...