Teddy, Tennis, Sir Elton and Uncle Phil

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Lately I've been playing more often, with sudden intensity and increased volume. At home. Sure, why not? It's amazing how much creative energy gets unleashed when your home PA system and guitar amplification enables you to play softly while occupying a large sonic footprint. Reminds of a musical Teddy Roosevelt, speaking softly but carrying a big stick.

Speaking of Teddy, isn't it curious that in certain circles, his legacy is that of a pioneer environmentalist while others tend to vilify him in spite of his landmark achievements in preserving American treasures? He launched the National Park system with Yosemite and Yellowstone National Parks among others, along with 150 national forests and many national monuments. Yet Teddy was also keen on hunting and delighted in shooting wildlife in abundance throughout American, Africa and anywhere else he traveled. I find myself torn between giving him a pass, for this was a widely glorified activity and an essential part of our pioneer heritage, on the one hand, and on the other, feeling like his legacy was deservedly tarnished by his penchant for slaughtering beautiful wild animals on a grand scale.
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Last night, I had the pleasure of witnessing several of the greatest tennis players in history---Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, plus Maria Sharapova and Victoria Anakova---at the splendid new venue known as Matthew Knight Arena, right here in my hometown: Eugene, Oregon. We thank Phil Knight for his largess because without his enormous contributions, this arena would not have been built. The breathtaking skills of all four, plus John McEnroe, were on full display, and in this exhibition, they also had the opportunity to let their personalities shine. And contrary to my expectations, framed by media events, they had plenty to offer in terms of personality and verve. Roger Federer in particular exhibited a quick wit and an exceptionally nimble mind.

Speaking of the Matt Knight Arena, two weeks ago we saw Elton John and his amazing band perform there. Thankfully, his percussionist John Mahon played on my first record, "When The Big Picture Fades", and through his kindness we were able to visit with the band before the show and to see their performance from the third row. Elton's performance exceeded my high expectations. He played for three hours, energetically and poignantly, tirelessly and flawlessly, and I ask you, how often can this be said of any musical performance? Thank you Phil Knight, for creating this remarkable new venue, equal to the most superb arenas in the world, in my hometown, then for arranging for such talent (tennis phenoms included) to perform here. To receive the collateral benefit of your giving character should humble us all in Eugene. But Eugene is a funny town that way. More on that later. I love this place, but it suffers from an abundance of strange and inexplicable quirks. Which will be a fine topic for another post, and which is the inspiration for my new song entitled "Our Town Needs Therapy". I've reserved a slot for this tune on my next release. In the meantime, thank you Uncle Phil!

I'm Back---Happy New Year

This is my first post in months. So much has happened I hardly know where to start. The biggest thing that happened---a serious, nearly life changing bicycle accident---offers me a terrific excuse for ignoring my blog. I will provide a detailed account of my near-death bike wreck another time. I could easily turn to other excuses for abandoning my loyal blog followers, but they pale in comparison to that one. For now though, I'm ready to celebrate 2011.

Resolutions? I've got plenty. A few of them may stick. For one, I plan to devote more time to Americana Dan. And to music. And to building stuff. Oh yea, I guess I should say that my commitment to building stuff probably explains more about my absence from this venue, and from music, than does my near-death bike wreck (NDBW for short).

What does it say about me that I have plenty of time consuming passions? That I'm flighty? That I'm scattered? That my affections are transient? Nah, I just like to do lots of stuff. And I'm one of those people who tends to get obsessive about my interests. Plus when it comes to construction projects, there's a lot to obsess about. More about this topic later---I have a lot to tell.

Other things that have happened since my last post? Well, my favorite football team---the University of Oregon Ducks---is playing for the BCS National Championship next Monday. You could say this is a dream come true, except most folks my age who became Duck fans in the 70's never dared to dream that this could come true. I don't know a single person from that era who ever stated in their most drunken moments that they thought the Ducks would someday compete for the NCAA National Championship in football.

I've taken a few trips, performed on several memorable occasions, learned that when bicycling downhill it is important to know how to use your brakes, witnessed transcendent musical talent---the greatest bass player ever, Victor Wooten---everyone should make it a point to see him play sometime, and in general, enjoyed my life as much as one could subsequent to an NDBW.

It's hard to know what 2011 may bring. I have high hopes that I will nurture this blog with more diligence than in 2010. That I will reach a point at which building even more stuff seems pointless. That I will record a new collection of songs. That the Ducks will win the BCS National Championship, defeating the mighty Auburn Tigers led by Heisman Trophy winner Cam Newton. And that I will ride a bicycle once again, safely this time.

Improvisation

I have developed a knack for musical improvisation. Plenty of musicians are skilled at improv, some prefer creating lead parts on the fly. That's not the kind of improvisation I'm talking about. Instead of injecting unrehearsed musical passages into a tune, I like to make up entire songs---both music and lyrics (the hard part) that way. At times, the results have been extremely gratifying with my sole regret being that the moment was not recorded. That's one thing about my improv numbers---they are all complete one-offs. I can't repeat them if I try.

My typical improv numbers tend to sneak up on the audience. I might start by playing a few familiar tunes, then throw in some of my original material. Somewhere along the way, I'll pound out a chord sequence that sounds familiar to the audience but they can't quite trace it to a particular song. Then I'll start singing a melody using lyrics that involve details of the place we're in or events that have transpired over the course of our evening.

A good improv number accomplishes a number of universally desirable things. First, there is usually a humorous component, so the audience often will start laughing. But more than that, audience members suddenly feel more connected to each other, so the song serves as a unifying event. Occasionally I'll manage to create a chorus that captures the vibe of the evening so well that before long, everyone is singing.

I don't know many musicians willing to attempt full improv numbers in live performances. I was afraid to do it for the longest time and would only attempt improv songs in the company of friends. Before long though, I gained enough confidence in my ability to create spontaneous songs which pass for finished pieces that I started to include an improv or two in public performances. It's a bit of a high wire act---one never knows when the mind might fail to deliver lyrics that sound coherent enough to pass for a real song. When that happens, the performer faces a dilemma. Your choices: stop the song or keep going with really lame lyrics or a break in the lyrical delivery. Either way, you have suffered failure. Luckily, at least in my experience to date, this fate has pretty much eluded me.

In a recent trip, I was performing short sets almost every night. As an aside, have you noticed that the word "emboldened" came into frequent usage during the recent Bush administration. Bush and Cheney never lost an opportunity to instill fear in the American people by telling them that every Democratic proposal would serve to embolden the terrorists. Well, I became emboldened to increase my usage of improvisational songs during my trip. And the results were overwhelmingly positive.

During one performance, I only had access to a piano rather than my customary guitar, and although I'm a pretty mediocre pianist, I managed to play four improv tunes in a row with excellent results. No doubt about it, I was thoroughly emboldened.

I'm thinking of doing an experiment in which I make up songs all day and into the night for a week and recording the results. When I'm writing a song, sometimes the process of trying to find just the right word or phrase is laborious and unrewarding. Many top songwriters say that their best songs have come in a flash. Maybe it is possible to create better songs without the angst. Like the modern art pieces which involve the dubious technique of throwing paint on the canvas, perhaps meaningful songs can be created in a similar manner. I need to give this a try.

Booking Time in the Studio

I'm ready to get back to the recording studio. It's been three years since releasing "Party of One" and despite the many distractions in my life, I've managed to cobble together enough new material to justify the return trip. This is exciting stuff for me. Here's the plan:
1. Make rough working recordings of my new songs and send them down to Gary White, my producer and longtime friend, so that we can brainstorm about how best to present each song.
2. Set a work schedule that will include booking time in an LA recording studio.
3. Arrive a day or two before our sessions begin to work through pre-production issues.
4. Complete the basic tracking sessions and head back to Eugene.
5. Work with Bill Barnett at Gung Ho Studio in Eugene to complete the vocal work and mix the songs.

After that, it's a simple matter of getting the songs mastered, arranging for the artwork and manufacture of the cd's, and voila! My third full-length recording project will be complete. This is no small achievement for me and I will be very pleased once its done. It's a lot of work, some parts of the process are tedious. But some parts are great fun. It is hard to describe the special pleasure which occurs in the studio at the moment a tune you have written suddenly transforms into a fully formed, radio-ready song. Some songs never quite get there, but when an arrangement begins to click, it's like magic in real time.

One of my favorite musicians, Richard Thompson, performed in Eugene last week and his current bass player, Taras Prodaniuk, has become a good friend after working with me on my first two records. Talented and gracious, Taras seemed genuinely enthusiastic about working with me on this new project. Before working with Thompson, Taras worked for years with Lucinda Williams, and before that, Dwight Yoakum. His musical sensibilities seem beautifully suited for the sort of compositions I tend to write.

Spring is coming, and somehow it seems perfect that my new recording project is being launched now. Chances are good that I will call the new record "Seize the Day", making the song I wrote recently in Jamaica (for more on that, read my blog post of December 19) the title cut. In making this new record, I guess you could say I'm following my own advice.

Super Sunday Arrives Again

When did Super Bowl Sunday become a national holiday? Certainly not in 1967 when the dorky sounding Super Bowl was born. I mean come on, the AFL was second rate back then. To the surprise of no one, the Packers won big. I was just a kid, but I still remember the post-game press conference with Vince Lombardi being goaded into admitting that AFL champion Kansas City Chiefs couldn't compete in the NFL.
I suppose the 4th of July celebration in 1777 didn't amount to much either.
But give us Americans a reason to celebrate and by God we'll take it. The best holidays involve widespread drinking starting early in the day. And in a dreary month like February, who doesn't want that?
As I write these important thoughts, I haven't had my first one yet, but hey, it's only 9:30 in the morning. I'll get started soon enough.
The real turning point for the Super Bowl, as we all know, came in 1969 when Joe Namath's brash prediction of victory for his New York Jets came true. In that instant, the AFL established its legitimacy and boy did we start paying attention. The television ratings ascended, corporations dished out crazy money for ads and in a few short years, the Super Bowl became an American institution. Never mind that most of the games were blowouts. The game was secondary to the function of the Super Bowl: giving America an excuse to drink like crazy.
As the NFL has evolved into an increasingly corporate entity, their leadership sometimes slips and refers to the games as their "product". Nothing like turning a national pastime into another kind of widget.
This year we get The Who at halftime. But you knew that already, having been exposed to the relentless pregame build-up for two weeks.
Speaking of The Who, did you know that the NFL is claiming a trademark on the expression "Who Dat". Seriously. They have been serving cease and desist orders on New Orleans t-shirt shops selling shirts with the express "Who Dat", claiming that they're infringing on the NFL's exclusive right to market New Orleans Saints (and every other teams) stuff. As an attorney, I know a stretch when I see one, and it doesn't take an attorney to identify the distinctive aroma of such pathetic bullshit.
Not that I consider the NFL an evil empire---the fact is, they raise money for many worthy causes and they generate a very entertaining, uh, product. I really hope this years game between the Saints (the perennial loser Saints!) and the Colts is a doozie. And that I'm still awake at the end.

Elvis At 75: The King In Perspective

The King is dead. Long live the King. Dead since 1977, life seems eternal for Elvis Presley in western pop culture. Two days ago, he would have celebrated his 75th birthday. Chances are you've heard all about it. "Elvis Presley, that rare breed of talent that comes along maybe three times a century...." At the risk of blasphemy, I find myself wondering what all the fuss is really about.

Let's start by acknowledging that Elvis was a groundbreaking performer who electrified and galvanized a hungry, bored, white American audience starting in 1956. He infused rock 'n roll songs with a style and energy not previously seen. His hip movements alone created such a stir that worried parents sought legislation to censor the King, adding to the legend. Aside from The Beatles, I can't think of another musical act that has seized the attention of teenage America which such sudden, pandemic enthusiasm.

For several years, we couldn't get enough of it. The King's fame survived a two year hiatus in the military and launched a successful acting career despite Elvis' limited talents as a thespian (here, I am defining success strictly on a box-office basis; the movies ranged in quality from mediocre to wretched). Once his four or five years as a chart-topping singer passed, he still managed an occasional second tier hit. Thanks to Las Vegas and two much publicized television specials, he managed to parlay his earlier fame into a state of tremendous financial security. And somehow, in spite of weight gain, a conspicuous tendency toward personal overindulgence and obscenely garish wardrobe choices, his hold over a large, loyal audience has continued to this day with no end in sight.

Why does the memory of Elvis have such staying power? As an artist, he never wrote a hit song (it is widely acknowledged that on the 8 songs where he is listed as co-writer, he made no contributions). His guitar skills were so modest that early in his career, he ditched the instrument. Even his breakout performances of rock songs such as "Hound Dog" are clearly derivative of performances by black artists that went unnoticed by white America. And young Elvis' incendiary performance style has nothing on Cab Calloway's wildest musical histrionics from the 30's.

But that's just it. In Elvis, America was exposed to something new, exciting and slightly terrifying---a white man playing black music without inhibition. And since so few had heard such music, and boy were we ready for something new, history was made. So to the musical geniuses that followed (Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis and many more, guys who actually could write songs, play instruments, offer dazzling performances and expand the genre), as great as they all were, at the end of the day, Elvis stands alone as a cultural icon.

Of course we overlook his personal shortcomings. Most musicians have enough baggage to make a politician blush. But focusing strictly on Elvis' musical contributions, and comparing them with those of his contemporaries, is it unfair of me to suggest that his legacy is disproportionate to his body of work? Does it seem just that this performer is widely described as a talent so transcendent as to come along but three times in a century? For those who subscribe to this view, I respectfully beg to differ.

A short list of those whose contributions to music since the time of Elvis who, in my book, deserve equal or better recognition for their contributions to our musical heritage:
1. Bob Dylan
2. John Lennon
3. Paul McCartney
4. Bruce Springsteen
5. Jagger/Richards
6. U2
7. Buddy Holly
8. Jimi Hendrix
9. Clapton in all forms (solo, Cream, Derek & the Dominoes, etc)
10. Bob Marley
11. Paul Simon
12. Ray Charles
13. Fats Domino
14. Michael Jackson

You could even make a case that Elvis is not the most musically worthy or talented guy by the name of Elvis, because damn, Elvis Costello is outstanding! I could go on. I'll stop. I rest my case. May the King rest in peace.

Musical Progress---Thank You Jamaica

I've been waiting patiently for a musical resurgence. In earlier posts, I talked about "all the obstacles in my way" and it's no coincidence that I'm channeling lyrics from a classic reggae tune here since I just got back from Jamaica, which is where the resurgence occurred.
How did it start? I think it was on the beach when a trickle of lyrics and the nucleus of a song idea popped into my brain. Before long, an exciting new song was taking shape. "Seize the Day" is the title. It's a tune that's long on adult inspiration and positive values, just the sort of topic that swirls around my subconscious a lot these days as I come to terms with the notion of embracing my new age group. Most of my favorite songs include universal messages. "Seize the Day" is all about the universal. And it's built around a soulful guitar passage which kicks off the tune and repeats at the end of each refrain. I like songs that do that too.
Is that all I needed for my resurgence? Nope. I needed more, and I got it. Several performance opportunities came my way, and in the process, many new friendships were formed and a slew of perfect strangers embraced my musical with genuine enthusiasm. Three nights in Jamaica I held center stage and all three nights were magical and memorable.
Then, just a day before we needed to head home, another song popped into my head. And unlike typical song ideas which rarely result in a fully formed song, and when they do, it usually takes weeks or months for the song to evolve into a finished piece, this song was that rare kind which was essentially complete in twenty minutes. In my experience, the songs that come quickly are often the best.
Suddenly, I am committed to recording a new set of songs in 2010. I was slow to realize that there would be a beautiful rhythm to this since my first cd was released in 2004 and my second in 2007. That would make me one of those folks who puts out a new collection of songs once every three years. That notion holds a lot of appeal for me. And suddenly, it seems eminently do-able.
It's as if my patience with music, and my frustrations over the fact that the role of music has recently retreated from my life somewhat, has suddenly been answered in the best way possible. For that, and for many other reasons, I am wishing myself right now, and all of you too, the best of season's greetings and a Happy Happy Happy New Year---may 2010 rock for all of us!

It Was Neither the Best Nor Worst of Times

Charles Dickens wrote it 150 years ago. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." It must have seemed true when he said it, just as it has often seemed true throughout the course of our lives. Why? The answer must relate to the glass half empty/half full conundrum. Which isn't really so much a conundrum as it is a metaphor about the power of perspective.
In any given moment, we see terrible possibilities for mankind and with good reason. These "glass half empty" thoughts lend powerful support to the notion that it is truly the worst of times. But then something inevitably happens to reinforce the opposite point of view. Whenever I hear Louis Armstrong's "It's A Wonderful World", for example, or "Imagine", my mental state transforms. Instantly, I am full of hope, a veritable fountain of good will. Welcome to the best of times.
Perhaps it is because we only experience life in the present. There is a drama queen within us all, and the average inner drama queen wants to make you think about the worst and best of all possibilities all the time. Actually, I think there are two inner drama queens within us, and they engage in a constant battle with one another. The good DQ wants you to think these are damn sure the very very best of times while the bad DQ wants to freak you out with worry.
The other day, my stepson encountered a man carrying a sign which read "THE END IS NEAR!" He asked the man a profound question: "And why does that bother you so much?" Which proves that one man's worst of times can be another's best of times---it's all a matter of perspective.
"A Tale of Two Cities" was released by Charles Dickens in 37 weekly installments in 1859. The final installment was released on November 25, 1859 which is nearly 150 years ago today. According to one source, 200 million copies were sold in English, more than any other book printed in the English language.
The opening line is so memorable and has been repeated with such frequency that many forget the equally good lines which follow.


"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way."

I imagine that during World War II, it must have felt like the worst of times. And when the war ended, it must have felt like the best of times. During the Bush administration, it seemed like the worst of times and yet, I had some of my best life experiences during those eight years. We should accept that it is neither the worst nor best of times at any given moment. That perspective seems, to me, as both a healthy and truthful outlook. It calls upon us to reflect upon history more carefully, always a good thing. It requires us to identify the many positive, helpful things and people we are surrounded by that we often take for granted.
Thank you Mr. Dickens. You continue to enlighten us, long after your departure. Such is the power of words well chosen and ideas well articulated.

Weekly or Monthly?

How much is too much? How little is too little? The frequency of my postings is on a slide. No, a free fall is more like it. I'd like to think that with fewer postings comes increased quality of content. But I know that isn't true.

Here's the deal. My blog retreat can be directly traced to an explosion in the time I'm spending in this all-consuming activity of green development. My approach to this undertaking is definitely hands on. To use poker vernacular, I guess you'd say I'm all in. And the risks are terrifying. If I wasn't so confident that I was doing a good thing for our community and that ultimately, the fruits of my labor will reward me in a reasonable way, I would just say no.

This activity doesn't tolerate a half hearted approach. To overlook key details is to invite failure. I feel that I've worked too long and too hard to expose myself to a negative outcome in this new endeavor.

My commitment to overseeing my building projects, both from the standpoint of time and risk, is too large to allow time for other things I'd like to do. As a result, I'm performing less, blogging less, traveling less, running less, and the list goes on. But I'm willing to make these sacrifices because what I'm doing, for the most part, seems worth it. I sure don't enjoy explaining this to folks who ask when my next gig is. Still, I'm touched by the number of inquiries I've received.

To them and to you, now hear this: soon my projects will be done. And when they are completed, I plan to resist any urge I may feel to do more. That's when I'll resume my favorite activities like performing, writing new songs, record, travel and tour, and who knows what else. In the meantime, I appreciate your indulgence as this blog shifts into a once-a-month sort of affair.

Blog Sabbatical Ends--Read All About It

It's over. My blog sabbatical, that is. I'm not sure who that Mica guy in the picture is, but the "He's Back" sign says it all. My apologies, dear readers, for failing to announce my sabbatical in advance. I've long admired college professors for their ability to take sabbaticals. I decided to indulge myself. Or maybe I just got lazy or too busy with other stuff or found myself running out of topics worthy of your time and attention. Whatever the case, I'm draping my MIA period with a cloak of respectability by calling it a blog sabbatical. If my absence has let anyone down, hopefully this distinguished sounding excuse will make amends. I apologize. There, I said it.

Theoretically, sabbaticals allow one time to conduct research, make progress on new projects while unencumbered by the routine demands of employment and emerge from this period refreshed and reinvigorated. My sabbatical experience fell somewhat short of accomplishing these lofty ideals, but there were some good times. I literally climbed a mountaintop, a near vertical granite spire in the Canadian Rockies, to be precise. Yup, the one in the picture. I played music, entertaining folks from far and wide. But mostly, I toiled in fulfillment of my daily responsibilities back home in Eugene.

Am I refreshed? Uh, not really. But I stand prepared to make this commitment to you (not a promise, just a soft, fluffy "commitment", and a rather feeble one at that). My commitment is this: once again, I will provide blog content on a semi-regular basis starting now. Yes, you can read it all here, well-crafted prose drenched with meaningful literary content, rich with irony and sarcasm, self-aggrandizing blather about our life (ok, MY life) and times. Why bother reading the New York Times or the Washington Post op-ed pages when you can just read this instead. OK, I can't equal Garrison Keillor, but the rest of those guys, they've got nothing on me, especially now that I'm reinvigorated and refreshed. Look out Thomas Freidman and Charles Krugman, and especially those arrogant, self-important ones, guys like Charles Krauthammer and George Will. Now that I'm back, like phoenix rising from the ashes, you, my friends, are toast.

Birther Blather

Will the real Republicans please stand up? Who are the real Republicans these days anyway? Certainly the Birthers number themselves as Republicans but many in the party are reluctant to claim them. And it's easy to understand why given that the Birthers claim that Obama was born in Kenya is supported by no evidence whatsoever.

It is satisfying at some level to see that the Republican ranks include at least some folks who appreciate how foolish one looks when they go public with something as outlandish as the Birthers do.

Maybe what happened in the 2000 election warped their brains permanently. Emboldened by Bush's success in being declared president after losing the general election and having his brother steal the critical Florida electoral vote, the Birthers must figure that every election is theirs for the taking. In their minds, I guess electoral success depends so little on actual voting and so much on gaming the system. Unless of course you are a Republican who actually won an election, in which case, no further inquiry is needed, a la 2004, in which the Democrats showed considerable discretion in not making a big fuss about the peculiar goings on in Ohio.

If the Birthers had any power, they would be truly dangerous. Oh, wait, some Birthers DO have power. Heaven help us.

Shame on mainstream media, Lou Dobbs comes to mind, for dignifying this non-story with coverage. Even the crazies at Fox thought better of it.

Consider how such controversies might be avoided in the future, from a Birther perspective. Apparently having a birth certificate coupled with a media announcement of a birth is insufficient to establish proof of birth in America. Better take away those Birther passports to safeguard against the possibiliy that they might be illegal immigrants.

I suggest that parents who aspire for their children to be future presidents arrange for live births to be videotaped, witnessed by at least two unbiased properly certified verifying witnesses and a lawyer or two.

What a great country this is. Between the Birthers and the screamers who like to disrupt community meetings so that we can't conduct public discussions about universal health care, it's clear that freedom still rings around here, but the problem is that the sound is generally inferior to that of silence.

Apple Changes Everything

Apples have always had a special appeal. Early on, it was the fruit. Going way back, in fact, wasn't Adam's inability to resist the apple closely related, in some obscure way, to his inability to refrain from dipping early humankinds ink into the well of Eve, or something like that? Shame on apples.

When The Beatles formed their record label, they called it Apple Records. Unfortunately, things didn't work out so well for the fledgling label. Turns out that in the record business, having the most popular band in the world is no substitute for having, well, I'm not sure what. Apple's A&R people signed James Taylor, for one, but they lacked the business acumen to make the enterprise profitable.

The Beatles spent plenty to make the Apple Store in London the coolest retail establishment on the planet, but that wasn't enough to keep things afloat, bottom line-wise. The Beatles were damn poor businessmen, and like most pop superstars, their financial fortunes were compromised by self-serving managers.

Despite insider exploitation, the swollen Beatles pie was sufficiently engorged to insure that everyone had enough to get by, and oddly, when Paul casually remarked to his friend Michael Jackson about the financial benefits of investing in publication rights and MJ took the advice, Paul was angered by Jackson's decision to act on his advice. Now, strangely, whoever prevails in the blood feud over Jackson's estate will own the publication royalties for most of the Lennon-McCartney musical library, an asset worth billions over time.

Now, back to Apple. Well, the record label has been dead for decades. But Steve Jobs' Apple grows stronger every year. And what started as a computer company now generates unbelievable profits from music.

Consider the strange journey of the apple. Among the fruit, vegetable, poultry and meat products on our planet, throw in the seafood, vegan and dessert food groups too, nobody can touch Apple. How weird is that?

As an Oregonian, I feel a special connection to apples. Some of the world's finest are grown in Oregon. And I feel a powerful connection to The Beatles, my favorite band of all time. And to Adam because, after all, who can't relate to his urgings to bite the apple, if you know what I mean. At the moment, I'm listening the Beatles Radio on iTunes, courtesy of Apple and I'm loving it.


Red on the outside. White on the inside. Full of sweet, juicy fruit. Beautiful to behold. Symbolic of so much of the best of our peculiar world, but like all superior things, partly flawed and in some ways perhaps more appealing because of it. Bless the apple.

Jo Feds Is Dead

It was a swingin' hot spot. For over twenty years, Jo Feds was a major part of the music scene in Eugene. Now it's doors are closed, another victim of our sputtering economy. Around here, folks mourn the passage of Jo Feds.

Sometimes musical venues close because they become passe, failing to change with the times. Jo Feds closure wasn't like that. Jo Feds had become venerable in a good way. Nationally, we are seeing an epidemic of restaurants and night clubs going dark. Bailout money isn't available for such folks, but maybe it should be.

I guess the problem is that night clubs don't pass the "too big to fail" test. We seldom stop to consider that the owners of musical venues are, in a way, curators of the arts. And when it's time to make cutbacks in personal spending, art is usually the first item on the chopping block, along with high-priced meals at fancy restaurants.

Such reductions in spending come at a steep cost to our communities. Beyond the unemployed waiters and cooks, as our palette of restaurants and clubs diminishes, local culture becomes increasingly bland. Collectively, we pay a higher price than we think when our nighttime entertainment choices disappear.

For me, personally, the closure of Jo Feds came one week before a Friday night gig I was scheduled to play there. Last year, another prominent Eugene night spot where I had performed many times, Luna Jazz Club, faded into history. I suppose I'm as guilty as the next guy of not doing enough to support such establishments. To lament the passage of musical venues which, after all, are businesses, while failing to adequately nurture them is to exalt sentimentality over pragmatism. Yet the loss of anything one cares about inevitably evokes an emotional response, so we are to be forgiven.

At the same time, there are lessons to be learned and they aren't hard to figure out. First, we should appreciate our favorite night spots more BEFORE they vanish from the scene. Second, our methods of appreciation should involve going there frequently and spending money, as much as we can afford. Jo Feds is dead, but not forgotten, and the best way to honor the memory of places we care about is to preserve the survivors.

One Hundred and Counting

Welcome to my 100th blog post. In accordance with journalistic tradition, I will exploit this moment with a brief retrospective in which I subtly congratulate myself for my oh so notable contributions to the blogosphere.

This blog was launched in October of 2007 with the modest ambition of providing those interested in my music with a means of learning more about the, uh hum, artist behind the music. I was advised to post something at least once a week and preferably at the same time each week. In this way, I was told, I would maximize my prospects for gaining a wider audience and thereby elevate my profile as a musician.

Pretty soon I found myself missing deadlines. Since I didn't have the budget to hire an editor to remind me, or threaten to fire me, I eventually became quite random in my posting activity. But that didn't stop me from making a genuine, earnest attempt to write about things that mattered to me and to write in a style which accurately reflects my inscrutable personality.

When I launched this blog, I had no idea where it would take me, and I'm not sure I cared. To be clear, I harbored no illusions that this blog would lead to anything. I was dubious about the advice I received that by blogging, new musical doors would open. And sure enough, I cannot say that this blog has led to anything tangible. But in the process of writing, I have found an outlet for my creative energy which I truly enjoy. OK, I'll admit that it's more thrilling to write songs I can record and perform than it is to write in this forum. But still, I cannot deny the sense that the body of work this blog represents means something to me. Strangely, and quite unexpectedly, this blog has become a sort of mirror I can hold up to myself.

If it means something to you too, then my satisfaction is multiplied exponentially. Over the course of these 100 posts, my greatest source of satisfaction is how the world has changed for the better with the replacement of an inept, dangerous president with Barack Obama. I also see that for me personally, my musical activities have subsided as the time demands of my green building projects have increased. While this saddens me somewhat, I find satisfaction in developing architecturally interesting, sustainable building projects which benefit neighborhoods and the community.

Music remains an important, vital part of my life. This month I am playing more shows than I have in months with several gigs around Oregon. I'm just completing a song entitled "Truth and Justice". In it, I elaborate on the nature of our judicial process based upon three decades of experience as a public defender. I have almost enough material for my third full length record and I'm in the early stages of planning trips to Europe, Australia and New Zealand which will include a series of performances. All of this brings me considerable satisfaction.

In short, I'm planning to stick around for a while. If you'll hang with me, I'll do my best to make it worth your while. Thanks to you all.

The Shifting Relevance of Blogs

When I started this blog in October of '07, the blogosphere was exploding. Along with social networking, blogs had become the next big thing. As I write this post, my ninety ninth, I can't help but wonder where things are heading.

Some say there are now too many blogs. Point taken. Like the fictional, laid-off career journalist with the Washington Post featured in Doonesberry, bloggers must face a discouraging reality. There is so much content out there, readership is hard to come by. Better get used to it.

Many bloggers use their blog as a means of keeping friends and family informed of their lives, right? Such diary blogs hold no interest, of course, to anyone unfamiliar with their creator.

Like unemployed actors working as waiters, unemployed journalists have taken to the blogosphere in droves. Where else can they ply their trade? The new media has no place for the traditional approach of slogging manuscripts around to publishers.

Luckily, as a person not dependent on the ability to turn written material into cash, I am not feeling the pressure. This probably explains why my contributions to this blog arrive randomly and unpredictably. Thanks for bearing with me. You ARE bearing with me, right?

My next blog post will mark a milestone for Americana Dan. Careful readers were tipped off in paragraph one of this post, oh, and the not too subtle 99th birthday cake photograph, to the upcoming momentous event. The new post will be number ONE HUNDRED!!! Getting into triple digits is, to me, a big deal. Sure, my late brother Steve, author of over 4000 (yes, four thousand) columns for the Chicago Sun Times and the Chicago Tribune would have no reason to be impressed, and probably you don't either. But hey, when I started this thing, I gave little thought to the possibility that I would remain committed to this undertaking for so long. I guess I must like the opportunity this forum presents for me to say whatever I want. Again, thank you all for checking in from time to time. I'll keep doing my best to make it worth your while.

"Songwriter Denies Harvard Killing"

"Songwriter Denies Harvard Killing"? What kind of headline is that? Well, there it was in this morning's newspaper---a headline implying that songwriters are a violent, murderous lot. Maybe the fact that I'm a songwriter heightens my sensitivity to this notion. Or could it be the songwriters are the new butlers, as in, "the butler did it!" Have songwriters become the default suspect of highest interest?

Imagine the police briefing. "Violent crime is on the rise. Round up the usual suspects. Yea, the songwriters. And don't forget the poets. We've got to rid the city of that scum. Nobody's safe with them around."

"Songwriter Denies Harvard Killing". Awfully suspicious that a songwriter was anywhere near Harvard. I mean songwriters aren't exactly known for having Ivy League educations.

Of course the songwriter denies it. Everybody accused of murder denies it. You want a more shocking headline? How about "Songwriter Admits Harvard Killing"? Songwriters might not be that well educated, but they're smart enough to follow their lawyers advice, even if they killed someone in the proverbial broad daylight in front of a busload of vigilant nuns

Got a cold case, a la Miami: CSI? I suggest you check the entertainment listings, see who had a gig in town that night. Remember the Talking Heads song "Psycho Killer"? Maybe David Byrne's lyrics are a window into the schizophrenic mind of your average songwriter.

Sure, songwriters look all innocent with their artsy clothes and gentle manner, especially the folkies. Nothing like a good disguise to lead the authorities off-track. Beware the songwriter. You never know what unspeakable acts of random violence were performed by the innocuous looking dude with the acoustic guitar.

The Days of Swine and Roses

Be afraid. Or not. It might kill you, but it probably won't, even if you catch it. Swine flu is upon us and I'm so uncertain what to think of it. So many news items play to our fears. After all, fear sells. But most of the time, our fears are unrealized, thank goodness.

Not long ago, the word "pandemic" was not part of my vocabulary. Now, it seems that next to WMD's (an acronym known only to a few before 9/11), pandemics are the biggest threat to mankind. So be afraid people.

How best to prepare for the swine pandemic? I'm surprised that fallout shelters aren't making a comeback. Because when the Big Pandemic hits, isolation is surely the key to your survival. Stock up on water and duct tape. Lots of duct tape. Because if you're in your fallout shelter and your companion blathers all the time, duct tape might save you from insanity.

While we're on the topic of things that might kill us, did you know that from time to time, the sun goes a little whacky? In 1859, a solar storm from our very own sun caused telegraph wires in the US and Europe to stop working. Somehow, this caused a number of fires.

Scientists now predict that in 2012, we may experience a similar solar storm but the results, they say, are certain to be catastrophic. Our satellite systems will stop functioning which, in turn, will disrupt global transportation and communication. Our world will be less safe, and you guessed it, lots of people will die.

So many things that can lead to the end of the world as we know it. I just love the REM song about that. Michael Stipe singings "It's the end of the world, as we know it, and I feel fine". Especially when the sun is shining and its beautiful outside, like it is right now in Oregon. Incidentally, ever notice how you feel a lot more safe and secure the less time you spend listening to Fox News?

Fear makes me sad. What has fear ever done for you? Mostly, fear succeeds in making people more aware that life offers too little hope and too much misery. This is one of mankind's biggest shortcomings compared to the animal world. Animals have keen fear instincts that kick in when it really matters. I loved learning that before tsunamis hit shore, the birds are long gone. They don't waste brainpower worrying about lethal forces that will almost certainly never strike. How unfortunate that human brains are so morosely preoccupied with far fetched impending death scenarios, yet so incapable of sensing mortal threats right before them.

Hope you don't catch the swine flu, but if you do, I'm telling you your prospects for survival are good. Very good.

James McMurtrey

Last night, James McMurtrey was in town. I hadn't seen him since the 90's and whenever I hear his stuff on the radio, I take notice. With a flat, deadpan delivery reminiscent of Lou Reed, McMurtrey grabs your attention with his highly literate, powerfully descriptive lyrics. Who else does that?

Sure, there are plenty of great lyricists, starting with Bob Dylan, of course. My short list would include John Hiatt, Paul Simon, Jackson Browne on a good day and for me, the newest member of this elite club is John Mayer who seems to have it all. But none of them can touch McMurtrey's unique take on life in America today.

James McMurtrey is the consummate American storyteller, a modern day Mark Twain. Part poetry, part satire, all heart. If he wrote regular weekly columns, I would read every word. But he doesn't, and perhaps that's good because it forces him to distill 100% of his creative genius into the lyrics of comparatively few songs.

When I saw McMurtrey in the 90's, he was just getting started. He played serviceable guitar, plenty adequate to support his tunes. Last night, he was a guitar powerhouse. At times, he sounded like Neil Young AND Crazyhorse. Accompanied by a bassist and a drummer, the threesome generated a quality of rock you seldom find with so few players. This was the Austin sound at its finest.

Makes me want to spend a lot more time there. Every Wednesday night, when he's not on tour, McMurtrey plays The Continental Club in Austin. Seeing him at The Continental would be enough to justify the trip. If James comes to your hometown or someplace nearby, do not miss the chance to see him. And if you aren't familiar with his stuff, check him out.

Cigars and Mojitos: It's Cuba Time

For Cuba, change is arriving. The blockade is still in place, at least for now, but thanks to President Obama, US relations with Cuba are finally starting to thaw. Upon hearing news of the announcement, it took Raul Castro about 90 minutes to call Obama to express his gratitude and to suggest that they talk.

It's about time. Cuba stopped being a threat to the US decades ago. A succession of US presidents from both parties insisted on preserving the outdated status quo. Although the embargo lives in, it is clearly living on borrowed time.

What does this mean for America? Not much. We'll soon have legal access to Cuban cigars, something which means very little to me. And chances are that the rosters of major league baseball teams will start to include more Cuban players.

Mostly, this is huge news in Cuba. Once the embargo is lifted, Cuba's economic opportunities will rise. This is good and necessary for the long-suffering Cuban people. Their initial enthusiasm over Castro and the Revolution steadily eroded as they realized that the promises of Communism were mostly empty.

As noted in an earlier blog, Cubans have perhaps the most musical culture on the planet. Their rhythms and energy exude joy and a sense of community not found elsewhere. They move, dance and sing with a unique feeling. As more folks get exposure to Cuban music, and for that matter, other Cuban art forms, the world will appreciate what Cuba has to offer.

And isn't it interesting that Barack Obama is on good speaking terms with Hugo Chavez? Spring is here and I can't help but enjoy that fresh scent in the air, one I always associate with the promise of bright, new beginnings.

Maria and Me

We weren't close, that's for sure. Maria Mutola was the greatest female 800 meter runner of all time. When she moved from Mozambique to Eugene, Oregon (ok, it was Springfield, to be precise) at the age of 16, she was already famous in certain quarters. The reason for her teenage fame? Running. She went to the 1988 Olympics in the 800m run at the age of 15 representing Mozambique.

It was common enough in gymnastics for girls of that age to make the Olympics, but not in track and field. Even though her performance in the Seoul Olympics was remarkable only for her age, she was destined for greatness and everybody knew it.

A strange quirk of fate caused her to move to Eugene in 1990 where she attended Springfield High School whose track coach, Margo Jennings, was a friend. Soon Margo made the wise choice to have Maria work out with older, male runners with experience on the international circuit. Maria's talents were too much for her high school teammates. Margo turned to my running partner, Ed Spinney, a sub-four minute miler who had competed in Europe before becoming an attorney in Eugene. Ed worked in my office for almost a decade and I had the chance to run with Ed Spinney on a few thousand occasions. Although as a runner I was more enthusiastic than talented, in the process of running with Ed, I became a lot tougher and faster, but never nearly as fast as Ed.

This happenstance permitted me to meet Maria and train with her on occasion. There's something about running together for miles that breaks down barriers, and over time, I got to know her in spite of her shyness. I had no chance to keep up with her in shorter distances, but on longer training runs, I held my own.

In the years that followed, she won Olympic medals, including the gold medal in the 2000 Sydney Olympics. She won many world championships. She was the top-ranked 800 meter runner in the world for the better part of her 16 year career, and when she finally decided to retire from competitive running last summer, her accomplishments were so far beyond those of every other 800 meter runner in history that no rationale person could debate the issue.

Several times in the height of her career I had the chance to enjoy casual evenings with her and a few others over dinner at the home of her sometime trainer, Jack Scott. Although at that point, she was financially secure and internationally famous in track, her sense of self had not become inflated.

Maria's physique set her apart from others, with shoulders remarkably broad and rippling with muscle. Running foes tried to diminish her accomplishments by hinting at steroid use, pointing to her musculature as proof. They hadn't seen what I had---she was built that way at age 16, long before she would have had access to performance enhancing drugs.

The longevity of her career and the steadiness of her performances on the track were unparalleled. She ran every race as though arriving at the finish line first was her purpose for living. Such competitiveness, such passion for victory, is rare because the price one must pay in terms of physical suffering is considerable. Most people cannot will themselves to go there ever, and those who manage to summon the ultimate effort on occasion cannot achieve such effort with the consistency, the single-mindedness of purpose, that became Maria's trademark.

In high school, attempts to prevent her from competing at the high school level were made, successfully, and the memory of this and other scornful acts directed at this gifted child from Africa sickens me still. No doubt, such early encounters with people who tried to marginalize her helps to account for both her shyness and her tenacity.

I don't know what retirement holds for Maria, but I suspect she will give as much back to the people of Mozambique as possible. She is a hero there, Mozambique's only international sporting celebrity, and Maria is not one to ignore her roots, which explains why she moved from her comfortable existence in my community back to Africa. I consider myself quite fortunate to have met someone as remarkable as Maria Mutola. Thank you, Maria, for the memories of watching you in competition, and for the opportunity to know the equally splendid person behind the championship performances.