Question? Answer.

Step into my personal Wayback Machine.  Year: 1981  Month: June

FRIDAY, 2:30 PM 
"What would you like to write about?"  The editor, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Anything, really.  What do you want me to write about?"  Me, eyeing suspiciously back.
"Well, we do get just about everybody playing here, you know.  Either the tour is on their way to Cali and has to stop in Colorado.  Or coming from the left coast.  A logistics thing, you know.  And everybody loves playing here.  But you know that."  He's now glancing at my resume.
I want to tell him 'No, I really don't know.  I have no clue.'  But I didn't offer that information.  I had just landed in The Rockies a few months back and answered an ad for an entertainment writer.  I wanted to be a music critic, whatever that consisted of.  I shift my weight uneasily from one foot to the other, standing awkwardly in the middle of a noisy, congested newsroom.
"I see you come from Minnesota.  Pretty crappy weather.  But the Twin Cities attract considerable talent."  He still glances at my resume, flipping to my portfolio.
"I've only done freelance work for my local newspaper and a few music rags.  Pretty much on a volunteer basis.  Get a pass to the show, write up the review.  You know."  I'm trying to sound like him now.  I hope he knows what a freelancer goes through.  A mere pittance is tossed your way if your story is published.  If it fits into the publications' objective.  If it doesn't require too much editing.  If it's interesting.  If it's factual.  A boatload of 'ifs'.
"And you're from high binge Minnesota?  Where's that?"
"Hib. Een.  Northern Minnesota."
"Oh, Dylan country."  A rosy glow now illuminates his pasty pate.  "How is he these days?"
"I, I really don't know."  Wince.  "I haven't seen him lately."  A weak grin splashes my face.  I shift back onto the other foot.
The editor, Sam, looks at me in a totally different light, as if this connection will assure quality writing and profound insights into the musical world.
"Rock.  Roll.  Jazz.  Blues.  Folk.  We try to cover it all here in Boulder."  He neatly tucks my resume and published stories back into its folder.  "Audience Magazine has been informing the Front Range for over ten years now, you know."  He looks at me with brown, beady eyes.  "Tim Weisberg is playing our Boulder Theater this Saturday."  Today is Friday.  "We'll comp you one ticket.  We need a concise review, no more than 750 words and no less than 400.  Do you shoot?"
"Not really.  My camera is a little old," I lied.  I didn't even own one.
"No biggie.  We all know what Tim looks like.  We might even have a recent file pic, you know."  He eyes me again.  "Deadline is Monday.  Noon.  See you then."
I then hear myself ask "Should I get an interview?"  "You're on your own on that one."  Sam extends his hand and I clasp this soft, pudgy appendage with my bony, now-clammy one.  I then hear me say "Thanks.  I appreciate it."

SATURDAY, 1:30 PM
Mr. Weisberg was somewhat of a musical black hole to me.  I did remember his LP with Dan Fogelberg, "Twin Sons of Different Mothers" ('78), a tepid and limp recording with the hit single "The Power of Gold".  That track wasn't too bad but the rest was a snooze fest.  The late-night TV test pattern was more invigorating.  But surely, he had more to give.  I went to a local record store and started nosing around the pop/rock/light/airy/dreamy/sappy section.  Jackson Browne.  Loggins and Messina.  Bread.  America.  I asked the proprietor if he knew of any Weisberg's livelier albums and he gave me a stunned look.  "Ya, I think he jammed with The Raspberries.  Very eclectic."  Big Ha Ha.
And then it hit me like a sack of Strawberry Alarm Clocks.  I need to interview him to cover up for the boring show he's about to flay me with.  Yes, a very deep, profound and revealing insight to a true troubadour of our times.  An iconic and sincere instrumentalist with his, ah, what does he play, oh ya, the flute.  His endearing melodies melt the hearts of maidens and brings ogres to their knees.  Or something like that.

SATURDAY, 7:30 - 10 PM
But, this part you won't believe because I didn't believe it either:  He totally destroyed the place.  Set Boulder on fire with a set of unbridled power and musicianship.  The songs I knew nothing of.  His band, the same.  What album(s) he played from, ditto.  He pranced and danced and sulked and swayed across the stage effortlessly with a gleaming flute in his hands.  And he rocked.  He made his amped and reverbed flute snarl and bite.  Then he had two (two?) at once, a small one and a larger one.  Then he stomped down on an effects pedal, squalling with wah-wah and distortion.  Yowza.  All wireless.  He made Ian Anderson (Tull) sound tame.  At least for this night.

So, I had to immediately change my storyline.  He wasn't this softee.  He wasn't a bore.  He was a wild man.  And I suddenly had my story.  And I still needed to interview him.  Ask him who the hell is he, really.  What is his next LP.  Who's in the band.  What's the tour like.  But I had to get that interview.  I sprang into action with no credentials nor experience nor skill nor idea of what I was doing.  I found myself talking to a big dude by the side of the stage, telling him "I'm a writer for Audience Magazine.  I need an interview with Weisberg."  Him motioning me to another big dude.  Him telling me that nothing backstage but maybe tomorrow I can come to his hotel and interview, what was that mag, Audience, sure, tomorrow.  Noonish.

Yes.  I'm in.

SUNDAY, 11:00 AM
Tomorrow came quicker than I anticipated.  I made the 50-minute drive from Littleton to Boulder with some interview questions and imaginary responses keeping me company.  I arrived at the historic Boulderado Hotel with an air of excitement and trepidation.  As I approached the front desk, there was some commotion in the hallway.  A tall, lanky man with cutoffs and sweat-soaked tank top, hair wet, tennis shoes scuffed.  I immediately recognized him as his entourage escorted him up the stairs.  Weisberg.  I almost thought of going after him with pen and paper in hand, yelling questions that I needed answering.  But they were gone.  Sheepishly, I hung out.  Walking around the lobby, wondering how I could introduce myself without being a nuisance.  After 45 minutes, I asked the stodgy front desk guy if that was indeed Tim Weisberg.  "Tim Iceberg?  Who's that?"

SUNDAY, NOON
I rambled around the Pearl Street Mall, a hip, outdoor, four block, pedestrian retail center, on a crazy, sun-soaked day, thinking about my next move.  Walking past posters of bands and events attached to light poles, I just happened to see one for a celebrity/charity volleyball tournament.  And who was one of the celebs?  You guessed it: Weisberg.  It was running until two today just outside the flatirons of Boulder.  I could lurk around the hotel and spring out of the bushes.  Naw, that wouldn't be cool to get thrown in jail.  I had a story to write.  I had an interview to land, somehow.  And I had to pretend to be professional about this.  I saw a display of Audience Mag, my mag rag, and grabbed one.  This was my calling card, my badge of honor, my employer.  And I was back at the Boulderado confronting a younger, less-stodgy fellow.  Laying the paper in front of him, I told him I write for this particular piece of informative entertainment and I would like to talk with a certain Tim Weisberg.  For a very important story.  Firm.  Direct.  Professional.  "Who?  Tim Iceberg?"

SUNDAY, 2:30 PM
Sitting in the bar, waiting for Iceberg, uh, Weisberg, I felt like a writer.  Wasn't I supposed to get drunk and churn out magnificent renderings of life?  Wasn't I supposed to demand a stronger drink and then storm out, cursing everybody in my path?  I twirled the cubes of my Coke with a red plastic sword, Maraschino cherry impaled.  Yes, I might have to say 'darn' a few times and demand another cherry.  I might scowl a bit.  I drizzled back to the front desk, where, could you believe it, who was there?  Weisberg.  I almost tripped at him (too much caffeine and sugar), regained my composure and presented myself.  Sunburned, hair sagging, sand attached to his ears, he invited me up to his room.  We could talk for just a few minutes as he showered and changed for a dinner engagement.  I froze.  My cherry quivered inside my stomach.  That's OK, I said, I could talk to you later.  No time, he said.  So,  I followed him up the old, quaint, mildewed carpeted stairs, trying to squeeze in as many questions as I could.  He couldn't (or didn't want to) hear me.  Too much ear sand, I guess.  Once inside his room, he immediately shed his shirt and started with his cutoffs, when, I, temples throbbing (way too much caffeine), legs wobbling (not enough food), decided I had to put money in the parking meter and I would be back in a flash, maybe after you showered. 

By the time I had collected myself, it was too late.  Weisberg was gone.  Drats.  Doggone it.  Darn.  I even said the F word: fiddlesticks.  I was downtrodden and defeated.  Why hadn't I hung around and got some quotes?  Just a couple.  Like "My wife of 22 years is.........." or "My three kids love........"  or "I play the flute because..........."  I admit, I was scared.  My first big opportunity, lost.  But wait.  I had another braindrizzle.  How about a phone interview?  Huh?  Sounds good to me.

SUNDAY, 8:30 PM
"Tim here."
 "Hey, Mr. Weisberg.  It's Mark from Audience Magazine.  Sorry about earlier today.  I left you a message at the front desk.  Oh, you didn't get it?  I had an emergency.  Ya, my mom.  Thanks, she's OK now.  I was just wondering, with your busy schedule and my, my emergencies and all, how about answering some questions over the phone.  Oh, you're ready to leave for the airport.  Oh, we could maybe talk at the airport?  Uh huh.  You'll have some time, OK.  You just have to change out of your tux, where?  At the airport?  Uh huh.  In the airport bathroom?  I see.  Not enough time to talk anywhere else.  OK.  I'll see you then."

I sank back into my couch and poured another Coke.  I'm out of cherries.  Maybe they'll have some at the airport.

HAIR: Chapter One

Over the past weekend, along with other glazed, glassy-eyed consumers, I wandered the aisles of a department store, perusing this knack-knick, this coat, this candle, when I happened upon a display of DVDs, hundreds, perhaps thousands, but more realistically, dozens, scattered, with no discernible system of order, all at a bargain, and if you know anything about me, that I am somewhat frugal, thrifty, some say cheap, but I just love a deal, whatever that is, CDs, DVDs, SUVs, RVs, WMDs, ASAPs, RSVPs or bananas, the thrill of paying less than MSRP, has always been a kick, a joy of finding something of value at a ridiculously low price, almost euphoric in the knowledge of saving money, of scoring, which I know is borderline psychotic, but hey, that's who I am and I'm not changing now, as I crouch down, because the DVDs are towards the bottom of a chintzy metal rack, bulging under the weight of savings, knees creaking, hamstrings stretching, I, childlike, poke through a plethora of movie titles, bunches of Christmas movies destined for the garage sale, like "Elf" (Will Ferrell), "Sesame Street Does the Holidays" (Kermit, Big Bird), "Four Christmases" (Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon), all varieties of religious flicks and whoa and behold, some actual movies I'd like to have in my collection, such as the director's cut of "Blade Runner" (Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer), "House of Flying Daggers" (Ziyi Zhang, Andy Lau) and, drum roll please, "Hair" (Treat Williams, John Savage), at prices to die for, at least to this cheapskate, I mean savvy buyer, the one that leaped out, caught my eyeballs, transformed my day of bargain-hunting, chilled my spine was this musical "Hair".

Now I know I'm being a bit dramatic and downright possessed, but I needed this movie.  I'll probably watch it a couple of times in my lifetime, but boy, what a steal.  Also over this particular weekend, The Wife, Ren and myself took in the movie "Tangled", a tweaking of Rapunzel.  Thoroughly enjoyed it.  Though not at a bargain price.  [Insert grumbling noise here]  The show was about hair.  And some other heart-warming message of love, kidnapping, boy-meets-girl, yadda yadda.  But really it was about hair.  Lots of it.  And then, same weekend, quite busy I may add, I read an article about the selling of Russian hair.  In a "poverty-ridden town", "log cabins and fallow fields", Mosal'sk, in central Russia, has one precious commodity: human hair.  Much of it is naturally blond.  Because of the hair extension rage, blond hair is easier to dye to match a woman's hair color.  Really though, do blonds have more fun playing with someone else's hair?  This prized commodity, "the blond harvest", has helped poor towns in Russia become a hair-raising community.  Hair-brained idea?  A 16-inch blond braid gets $50.  I guess, hair with split ends gets double?  Just a guess.

This story, however, is about My Hair.

The very personal history of My Hair began when I was cast out into a cold, unforgiving, dry world, with nothing but long, flowing, golden locks wrapped around my trembling body, protecting me, shielding my pink and blue and slimy and bloody pudgy, squishy self, from latexed hands, glaring lights, deep, scary voices and rear-end abuse.  The shears were immediately brought out.  Shiny.  Cold.  My first haircut was about to begin.  And me, a few scant seconds old.  Talk about cruel, anti-hair, masked, gowned giants taking advantage of a mere, helpless hairy baby.  That horrible sound still resonates within me today.  The slicing, slick metallic SssNip.  The final clip.  Matter spewing out of these long tendrils of tresses.  Everything went blank.  I was told later, much later, that nary a hair on my wee person was harmed.  That I was pronounced healthy.  And that shearing, disrespectful, awful sound was the cutting of the umbilical cord and not the  downy-soft, slightly wavy, shimmering of My Hair.  I was relieved.  But that horrendous experience left me forever leery of sharpened prongs of metal.  Leery of that nauseating, clipping sound.  Leery of latex.

Soon, I was the talk of the town, as there wasn't much to talk about besides the weather, Mrs. Lundquist's boil, the lancing of said boil and Doc Hansen receiving a face full of boiled puss.  My spongy limbs, my miniscule appendages (please, don't get dirty on me), my great big head lolling about.  But that head, My Head, was not swiveling fro and to like a bobblehead because of weak and undeveloped neck muscles.  Nay.  It was but the sheer (if shear, insert winces here) magnitude and weight of My glowing, splendid, bulk of Hair.  My Hair.  Down to the dimples in my buttocks was this mane of incredible magic.  This "Ah, look at His Hair" or this "My gosh, His Hair is beautiful" or this "What is he?  Some kinda freak?"  That last quote was from my Uncle Joe, he of baldness at age 16.

For the most part life was grand.  Lovingly and tenderly, Mom would brush my hair, count the strokes (thus, getting me started on counting) and sing.  Yes, sing.  About My Hair.  About how radiant, like the sun.  About how the angels delivered a miracle.

And then, disaster struck.  I remember it was warm out, this being May and the snow had finally melted.  Spring was springing up everywhere.  I think it also encouraged My Locks to spring forth and create joy in the house.  Joy in the streets.  Just another day in the bassinet.  Just another warm bath with bubbles of soap popping or was that me?  Whatever, it was so relaxing.  And then the brush.  Once.  Twice.  Thrice and so on.  I closed my eyes, reveling in security and peacefulness.  And then horror.  I open my eyes, as I felt something foreign floating, caressing my still-spongy arm.  I glanced over.  And there.  And there.  Everywhere.  Here there.  Aft and stern.  Front and back.  My Hair.  Swirling.  Clinging to my body.  Strings of gold fastened to my neck and shoulders.  I looked up at Mom.  Hoping a metallic, shiny instrument was not in her hands.  Hoping she hadn't brushed too many numbers that I was learning.  Hoping it was just a daymare.  "Oh my, all your hair.  Look Marco Polo, your hair."  She held up her dripping hands.  Hair.  My Hair.  Draped around her hands like some recently skinned mammal was hair.  My Hair.  Everything went blank.  Again. 

This really isn't me and My Hair.  This was the cheapest model I could find.

Wanna Play?

Controversial.  Annoying.  Quirky.  Creepy.  Sleazy.  Corny.  Whatever you may (or may not) think of Paul Rubenfeld, aka Paul Reubens, aka Pee-wee Herman, one thing is certain: either you love him or you hate him.  Either his brand of kid/adult humor is humorless or his brand of kitsch/classic comedy is hilarious.  You have to admit that he has caught our attention.  He has been involved in a couple of less-than-flattering incidents which took its toll on him personally, professionally but not creatively.  Now, Reubens is poised to take his playhouse to Broadway, November 11, '10.  I, for one, am thrilled that he's back performing as one of the most original, entertaining and weird characters to come around for some time.  But that's just me.

Originally designed as comedy for adults, Reubens turned Pee-wee into an ambassador for racial diversity and focused on children's entertainment.  He wanted to be a positive role model and present a moral show, reminding adults of past comedies, like Howdy Doody and H. R. Pufnstuf.  Pee-wee's Playhouse, Saturday mornings (CBS) from '86-'90, was a total bizarre half-hour.  From characters real (Lawrence Fishburne as Cowboy Curtis), puppet (Randy, freckled bad-boy) or almost semi-real (Jambi, mysterious genie in-a-box with no body), this was a strange romp through themes of forgiveness, gratitude, friendship and sharing.

  A lifelong thespian, Reubens had performance in his blood early.  He loved the circus.  He loved "I Love Lucy".  Performing improv comedy with The Groundlings (Will Ferrell, Lorraine Newman, Jon Lovitz, Conan O'Brien) in the '70s, Pee-wee was invented and expanded in '81 for HBO as The Pee-wee Herman Show.  It was a big hit.  Performing on small stages across the states, he gathered momentum for the '85 movie "Pee-wee's Big Adventure".  Picked up for TV, Playhouse settled in, with kids and parents having some laughs.  I often wondered, had I been a kid watching, would I be laughing.  Often, it was outlandish.  The King of Cartoons would introduce old cartoons.  And I mean old.  Vintage stuff like Mickey Mouse's first feature.  A puppet globe with geographic facts.  A pterodactyl that is timid with real feelings.  And the ringleader, Pee-wee, introducing friends into his colorful house with man/child mannerisms.  A mystical, mythical Puppetland exists outside the playhouse where characters come and go, but the viewer never does.  Is it not safe out there?  It seems safe and friendly inside, as if the outside world is a scary place.  Maybe, Pee-wee was a little leery of that real world.  As, maybe, Reubens was leery of his real world.

Reubens has had some memorable, small roles in Cheech and Chong's "Next Movie ('80), "The Blues Brothers" ('80), as Spleen in "Mystery Men" ('99) and a pivotal role in "Blow"('01). Voice-overs, late night TV appearances and even "Murphy Brown", he has been consistently with us since those early years in improv.  His talent can't be denied.  Whether you agree with his past, he is in the present and future.  Hopefully, people will be entertained by a true comedian.  "I feel that it's full circle in that I can come back around to a really good place where I was.  As opposed to having my career end on this really sour note."  Overall, an entertainer exists only in his/her ability to engage us.  To make us believe in that character.  Pee-wee Herman is back.  Paul Reubens has never left.

 

-- Recent Listens --

In the digital age, sometimes we only listen to snippets of songs and base our purchases on that.  Unfortunately, we miss a lot of good stuff.  I still listen to CDs top to bottom, just like LPs.  Call me an Olde School Fool.

Manfred Mann
The Manfred Mann Album ('64)
My Little Red Book of Winners ('65)
Throw away their '64 hit single, "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" (which just plain sucks) and this double CD of their 1st and 3rd releases gives us early pop with some unexpected punch.  With an exceptional vocalist/harmonica man in Paul Jones and Mann's take on keys, these tunes are more sophisto than expected.

B.B. King
In London ('71)
Underrated.  Stalwart supporting cast.  Every song sounded as if they cut the track off.  I demand more than 38 minutes.  Where is the full show?  Until that happens, this disc is fulfilling.

Faces
A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse ('71)
Pre-Stones Ron Wood shines.  Post-Beck Rod Stewart swings.  Rollicking piano from Ian McLagen.  Only four total LPs.  This is #3.

Argent
Ring of Hands ('71)
Rod Argent (Zombies) has written a couple of classy hits: "Time of the Season" and "She's Not There".  Though no standouts, this album releases some uplifting prog and psychedelic rock.  Leading up to another Argent crack track: "Hold Your Head Up".

The Guess Who
Live At The Paramount ('72)
Seventeen minutes of "American Woman" is pure crotch rock.  This whole disc is great.  Cummings never sounded better.  Other flav-o-rites are "Pain Train"  and "Truckin' Off Across The Sky". 

Jaco Pastorius
Jaco Patorius ('76)
Weather Report.  Herbie Hancock.  Lenny White.  Jaco was the best bassist on the planet and left too early ('87).  Fretless electric.  Magnificent.

Ian Gillan Band
Scarabus ('77)
Defined as a jazz/rock band?  Though a bit eclectic with jittery rhythms and tight arrangements, Gillan summons his demons with patented screams and rockisms.  The extra live track, "My Baby Loves Me", is a trip.

Thin Lizzy
Black Rose: A Rock Legend ('79)
9th studio for Lynott.  Gary Moore has his 6-string signature stamped throughout.  Last great TL LP.  Too bad Phil and Rory Gallagher couldn't cook up for some Irish stew.

Frank Zappa
You Are What You Is ('81)
And not what you eat?  Songs like "Harder Than Your Husband" and "Dumb All Over" pretty much sum up FZ's take on American society: Modern Americans behave as if intelligence were some sort of hideous deformity.  Quote/Unquote.

Robin Trower
20th Century Blues ('94)
#14 for rotating Trower Band.  Still methinks the trio format works best for Procol Harum guitarmeister.  Explodes on most songs with sopping fuzz and curdling wah-wah. 

Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire
The Swimming Hour ('01)
Very cool and refreshing, especially after a dip.  Blending of several musical styles.  Bird was trained in the Suzuki Method.  Not Toyota.  Sounds of Donovan with violin and guitar edges, making this a bit complicated.  But fun.

Sex Mob
Dime Grind Palace ('03)
Slide trumpet from standout (and monster) Steven Bernstein.  Crazy.  Avant garde.  Jazz.  Own them all, your ears will never be the same.  Oh, and their name kinda gets you excited.

Stephen Stills
Man Alive! ('05)
Why did it take 14 years for SS to make this?  Vocals still intact.  Crushing and/or heartfelt guitars.  A little gospel.  A little reggae.  And a lotta great, intelligent music.  

Chuck Prophet
Let Freedom Ring ('09)
A knockout should end things.  "Sonny Liston's Blues" opens up for another frenzied/visceral/smooth/ragged adventure from CP.  # 11 from a performer I have witnessed 3X.  And hope to see again.
 
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Mojo ('10)
One hour of TP doesn't sound like a great situation to be in.  However, this blues drenched rocker kicks it.  Though sometimes falls back into "Damn The Torpedoes" era, this is refreshing.  Vocals, as usual, are the tough part.  Mike Campbell (guitar) totally steals the shoo.

There you have it.  Music journalists (of which I'm not) tend to scrutinize and analyze a bit much.  By being concise, I hope I didn't bore you with profound statements and insightful perspectives.  I usually don't have many of those anyway.

   

 

                                    

Opinion : California and Prop 19

Everybody has an opinion, like we all have a brain.  So, mine is of little significance or relevance except to myself.  But I shall share my viewpoints with you anyway.

Proposition 19 Proposes:

1)     Adults (21+) can carry up to an ounce of their own pot and related paraphernalia without fear of arrest by state and local authorities.

My Humble Opinion:  How about the feds?  I know they have more to worry about, but a few high-profile cases that they can broadcast will make the public even more fearful to display their goods.  And define 'related paraphernalia'.  Does that include a hookah or three-foot bong?  Or just a roach clip?

2)     The ability to tend a home garden up to 25 sq. feet and consume its grow in a 'nonpublic place', but not in parks, near schools or on the street.

My Humble Opinion:  Once again, define 'nonpublic place'.  Doesn't that mean 'private'?  So, parks, schools and the street are out.  I definitely think the school part is important, especially if it's grade and middle schools.  But if anybody with a decent sense of smell has walked even near a high school can attest, the smell is of tobacco.  Maybe masking pot?  Both are harmful to young lungs.  I think it will be extremely hard to enforce the size and quantity of gardens.  Neighborhood watch groups?  Isn't it the seeds that are required to start a garden?  And where are these seeds purchased?

3)      Leave it up to local governments to license businesses that want to allow onsite pot use by its patrons.

My Humble Opinion:  Another quagmire of rules, licensing transactions and bureaucratic BS.  Just like tobacco, smoke is smoke.  Vaporizers?  Edibles?  It is, of course, up to the individual to frequent these establishments or not.  Contact highs should also be addressed. 


4)     To authorize commercial cultivation and retail sales.
5)     To reap revenues through taxes and fees.

My Humble Opinion:  The last three items are all aimed at making money.  But will the local/state municipalities use it wisely?  How can these funds be used competently?  Education at all levels, job creation, etc.  Once again, how to divvy up the money will be tricky.


The current decriminalization of pot (in many states) is already in place.  I think that this is the level that it should stay at.  It seems more and more police are turning a blind eye on public usage, if no harm is being done to the citizens in general.  The safety of the public is essential in determining if pot use is OK.  All the medical pot laws are in disarray and need tightening up.  Passing Prop. 19 will only muddle this issue.  I don't know what it will take to make pot as easy to purchase as liquor.  It should, at some time become legal.  At this time, however, I am very skeptical as to its validity.  I would vote NO on Prop. 19.

NaCl or not NaCl? That is the Question

Himalayan Pink

As any normal (or abnormal) high school attendee can attest to, the Periodic Table of Elements was a thing of beauty, complexity, frustration, indifference, fatigue, anxiety, fun, pain or just plain annoying.  So we all (norms and abbys) should know the symbols Na and Cl, right?  In my case, I would think Na was part of ShaNaNa and Cl was cluster.  So, obviously (obvious as the hair in my nose) it means to cluster (a small group or bunch of something with Bowzer in it) the members of Sha Na Na and demand a new album.  "Not so fast," I'm told by a lurking smarty-pants named Laura.  "That's not what it means.  I really hope you aren't serious."  Serious as a heart attack, Miss-I-know-science-and-you-don't.  OK, it sounded stupid.  I'll take another stab at it.  As soon as you-know-who leaves the room.  I google NaCl.  Hmmm.  The combo of sodium and chloride forms salt.  Ah yes, it all comes crashing back to me.  The reason why I flunked Chemistry.  All those letters hodge-podged together with no real meaning.

So, on we go to the real story: salt.  No, not that crummy Angelina Jolie as Jane Bond spy movie that left a bitter, acidic flavor in my mouth with a hint of anchovy that required countless goblets of purified, desalinated spring water.  No, not that Salt.  But the food enhancer.  The Laurel to pepper's Hardy.  Edible salt is produced by evaporation of seawater or brine from sources like brine wells, salt lakes or sweaty glands (I made that last one up).  The history of salt is quite a long grinding story beginning, supposedly, in 6050 BC.  As in Chemistry, I had a hard time with History.  How on Earth (Geography) can we figure out how old the process of briquetage was, used first by the Neolithic people of the Precucutani culture (Social Studies), unearthed at an archeological site in Romania?  This process was extracting salt from salty spring water and the Cucu thrived because of it.  Why?  They needed something to put on their fries (Home Economics).  This was a dangerous alliance and after a spike in population (Statistics), the demise of these poor Cucus was imminent.  All they had was salty water.  And salty fries.  Here is my outrageous but worthy theory as to why these people died off:  their arteries hardened like the Bonneville Salt Flats. 

The religious aspects of salt are quite intriguing also.  Did you know:  In some ceremonies, bringing salt to a housewarming or wedding is essential.  I presume that most foods are tasteless and rice is too expensive.  Did you know:  In Japan, the Shinto religion uses salt as a ritual purification for Sumo wrestlers.  That must be where throwing salt over your shoulder for good luck comes from.  And a little salt in your opponent's eyes never hurts.  Did you know:  For the Wiccans, salt is their symbol of the element Earth and it's used to cleanse areas of harmful or negative energies.  I don't know about you fellow non-Wiccans, but the areas I clean usually don't require salt.  And the biggie:  Jesus, in the New Testament, referred to his followers as "salt of the Earth".  The Apostle Paul encouraged Christians to "let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt (Colossians 4:6).  Poor pepper was not even mentioned.

Designer salt, as I call it, has been the rage in fancy-shmancy restaurants for sometime now.  Oooh, should I have Murray River Flake from Australia with my wallaby?  How about Aderwood Smoked Salt (Pacific Coast) on my smoked salmon?  Or Black Lava Kai (Hawaii) on my black bean and pineapple burrito?  This stuff sounds pricey, too.  Probably coming to a black market street corner near you.  "Yo babe.  I seez ya got some chicken in your shopping bag.  Youse need some Red Alae Kai to accent its flavor.  And it got some of dat iron oxide youse gals need.  Or how about some moist Fumee De Sel here.  It's a real bargain."

Recently, salt has been making some noise in the health arena.  High blood pressure.  Ulcers.  Cardiovascular disease.  We've heard it before and we'll probably hear it again.  The culprit is the processed foods and the high levels of sodium.  Even too much of designer salt isn't good for you.  What sounds better, though?  Hardening of the arteries from Morton's iodized table salt or Fleur De Sel sea salt?

"Salt is the only mineral we eat in its direct mineral form", says Mark Bitterman, author of  "Salted: A Manifesto On The World's Most Essential Mineral."  He is also a selmelier or salt master.  For me, it's back to the salt mine.  I'll be waiting for that new Sha Na Na album.

Global Salt Output 2005

A September To Remember

Three superb and illustrious guitarists came slinging through this dusty cowtown in the month of September with a cumulative life span of 189 years, which averages to be 63 per axeman.  [NOTE: I did this higher math problem so you didn't have to, you're welcome]    If you're in the advanced age group (I am) or the electric guitar appreciation group (I am) or just a music nut in general group (we should all be), you would have been freaked over for this trio.

Dave Mason (age: 64)
Sept. 4, '10
Taste of Colorado

Every year during the Labor Day weekend, The Taste of Colorado celebrates local/regional/national cuisine and free music.  To heck with the buffalo chips and falafel bites, let's hear some open-air jams.  Of course, the food circuit with music has much to be desired.  This year it was Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, contemporary swing of the 40s and 50s (sorry, didn't go); Bret Michaels, singer of Poison (sorry, wouldn't go if you paid me); The Four Tops, R&B writers/performers of "I Can't Help Myself" and "Reach Out, I'll Be There" (barely heard two songs, not so hot, Sugar Pie) and Dave Mason, British guitarist and writer of "Feelin' Alright" and "Only You Know and I Know" (ZOIKS!  Had to see him).


The name Dave Mason conjured up a fragmented trip down memory lane.  I knew he had helped form Traffic ('67), played acoustic guitar with Hendrix on "All Along The Watchtower" ('68), played on George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass" LP ('70) and formed his own band ('70).  What I didn't know:  DM played on the Stones' "Beggars Banquet" ('68), toured with Delaney and Bonnie ('69-'70), released an LP with Cass Elliot ('71) and was set to be the second guitarist for Derek and the Dominos, instead of Duane Allman.  Talk about rock royalty.  The Dave Mason Band put out some classic tunes on 10 releases until '87 and, other than playing on Fleetwood Mac's "Time", not much material besides live stuff starting in '99.  After six years in the making, the '08 "26 Letters-12 Notes" was a great comeback disc and put DM back on the musical map.  And he is ready to release another one this year, hopefully.

At the Taste, he stormed through some tight grooves off this much anticipated disc and it sounded like he didn't miss a beat.  His voice was still as distinctive as his solo days and the few stray Traffic tracks.  But it was his guitar that sung like a veteran.  Wielding a green Strat, sunburst Les Paul and 12-string Ovation, crisp, precise leads rang out to proclaim that he is way under the rock radar but maybe, just maybe, he wants a little more attention.  He said he had been asked by a fan on this tour to "play that Joe Cocker song.  And then I realized that I actually wrote that song".  He blasted into "Feelin' Alright" and the sparse, toothless, stringy gray-haired crowd rocked along.  This sun-shiny afternoon gig highlighted all the lowlights of this scary crowd, but everybody was quite peaceful.  A lot of them should have been in bed, though.  And his encore?  A searing, euphoric "All Along The Watchtower" that left little doubt that DM still can rock and roll.  One had to wonder:  Mason might be driving his way into a Traffic jam.

Jimmie Vaughan (age: 59)
Sept. 16. '10
Soiled Dove Underground

A couple of weeks prior to this show, I jokingly was saying Jimmie Ray Vaughan.  I know, not so funny.  But you know what?  JV's guitar playing wasn't a joke, either.  Sure, he's the bro of Stevie.  Sure, he's not a virtuoso player/performer.  Sure, he hasn't shook the rock/blues world.  But JV awarded the capacity crowd of 400 with a strong sense of who he is and what he can do with his white Strat.

I didn't care much for The Fabulous Thunderbirds (Tuff 'Enuff?).  Nor did I consider him worthy of paying attention to.  I think I shouldn't be so quick on turning my nose up at somebody who is, according to other world-renowned guitarists, an accomplished and outstanding string-man.  I hadn't even given him a chance.  Though his catalog is rather spare, I listened to some of his earlier blues tunes, "Strange Pleasure" ('94), "Out There" ('98) and "Do You Get The Blues? ('01) and I was impressed.  Not 'Oh my, I'm blown away' but rather 'Hey, that's tasty'.  JV is touring in support of his newest, "Plays Blues, Ballads and Favorites" and in this low-ceiling, half-moon club, with two saxes, bass and drums accompanying him on upbeat shuffles, his set was hot and sweaty.  Aside from a few tunes that slowed the night down when a "who's that old lady?" singer came out, he was all rock and blues.  Some of my friends didn't want to see him because, in their minds, he was riding on Stevie's coat tails.  Their loss.  JV squeezed every ounce of his guitar journey out on stage and even showed some cockiness by playing a two-minute lead with guitar behind his head.  A smile on his face the whole set meant his legacy is still alive and we were all fortunate to catch him.  He knows what this crazy world can do to you and your family at any moment.  He is making the most of it right here, right now.  Go see JV.  He's not SRV.  He's not Jimmie Ray.  He's just a skilled musician doing what he does best.  And that's no joke.


Johnny Winter (age: 66)
Sept. 30, '10
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom

What can I say about the #9 pick on my personal list of top electric guitarists?  For a living stringbender (yes, JW is still alive and well), he is #6, behind Beck, Clapton, Page, Blackmore and Santana.  And you know what?  If Page doesn't have the licks (he admits he doesn't), if Blackmore isn't willing to resurrect Purple (calling Hughes, Lord, Paice) and Santana continues to put out unoriginal stuff (at least in comparison to "Abraxas") , JW would be my #3 of living legends.  On this particular night, in a room that normally could contain 1,700 patrons, a mere 400+/- showed and that was just plain wrong.  Here was, in the flesh, the best, white blues specialist in any world.  And he did not disappoint.

To be honest, the songs weren't even the event.  JW was.  With black cowboy hat pulled just above his piercing eyes, black sleeveless "T" showing just how skinny his tatoo'd arms are, black jeans, black boots and black Lazer guitar, you would have thought of a very white Black Bart.  With a pigmentation problem.  But before we get to him, let me mention the opening song, before JW took the stage.  A snarling, biting guitarist of unknown origin, completely strafed the crowd with an explosion so raw, so menacing, it left my jaw hurting.  This monster's name is Paul Nelson, rhythm guitarist.  And savior.  He helped JW recover from first: his long-time swindling manager, second: his painkiller addiction, third: a 2005 carpal tunnel surgery on his left wrist and fourth: a 2006 broken hip.  Not only can Nelson blast paint off a plane with his riffs, he can be a nice guy.  His sonic opening song paved the way for JW to shuffle to center stage, take his seat, nod to his friend and then totally tear up the place with "Red House".  

This was strictly a blues show.  I had read that JW is only playing the blues and very little rock.  It didn't matter.  Each song and solo were crystal clear and relentless.  He attacked all six strings with ten long, lean, manicured fingers.  And having a thumb pick, strumming down and plucking up with bare fingers, meant a constant melange of activity.  Old songs like "Apple Tree" and "Used To Love Her, It's All Over Now" were spun into the Wintersphere.  Songs by Sonny Boy, Muddy, Albert Collins.  And JW.  Amidst the show, I tried to remember what songs were being played, but all I could do is watch, listen and feel.    


I was pleasantly surprised at the number of youngsters that crowded to the front, as the older farts sat (yawn) at tables behind us.  I got close enough to smell his breath, though fortunately other smells prevailed.  One gripe I did have was with all the cell phone and digital cameras going off in his face.  It was one flash/glow/light after another.  But it didn't have any affect on JW, his unwavering stare, his gruff-less vocals or his guitar slicing.  And when he pulled out the Gibson Firebird and slid off the last two songs and was then accompanied off the stage, then and only then did I take a breath.  "I'll be playing blues on the open road till the day I die."  White.  Hot.  Blue.

Overall, these two Texans and one Brit, in one month alone, satisfied my greed and hunger for guitar.  Don't ask these fellas for their AARP cards.  They are in the prime of their lives.