Epiphany

With All Hallow's Eve past and Thanksgiving approaching, I had an epiphany. No, nothing to do with the holiday commemorating the manifestation of Christ to the Magi. I use the term referring to a sudden revelation or insight.

Throughout my life, I have had several epiphanies, but the latest came closest to a religious experience. The explanation for the latest occurrence requires some background.

Growing up as a Roman Catholic, my bible reading came from the canonical text. I did not experience the King James Version until my teens. This beautifully written bible was impetus to my study of the authorship of the sacred text.

The old testament was written in Hebrew, the new testament in Aramaic, the language spoken by Jesus. Those were translated into Greek. Multiple gospels were written, most learned through oral tradition and transcribed later from memory. As the early church developed its bureaucracy, the need to codify and homogenize the bible grew. Several councils met to determine what to include and what to omit. Greek translated into Latin, translated into other languages aided by the printing press created an amalgam of the holy word.

By the 17th century, King James VI & I...more confusion...the King James of bible renown was VI of England and Ireland becoming James I when Scotland united with the other two creating Great Britain. So when Jimmie six-and-one requested a new translation a multitude of bibles existed. Groups of scholars studied texts in many languages, translated and retranslated them into English over a seven year period to produce the King James Bible.

As I studied the origins of the bible, the Apocrypha and other variatons, a flummoxed fog descended. I could not comprehend people who espoused a literal belief in the bible. Which translation was the actual word of God?

Back to my epiphany. The world gets crazier and crazier each year. I used to chalk it up to my increased grumpiness begat from the aging process. But now I realize why the world seems increasingly insane. The creation story of man in the bible is literal. Despite the abridged history of my personal study of bible translations above, I now believe there were one Adam and one Eve.

We all spring from the same ancestors. Mankind is inbred. Throughout the millennia, repeated procreation among the family of man corrupted our species into a vile, violent breed. Ergo, each and every one of us are genetically impaired. All our attempts at creating a better, more peaceful world has been in vain.

Looking at both the ancient and modern history of this planet, it seems so obvious. As ever - BB

“But I'm Crazy. I swear to God I am.” - J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

1959

In June of 1959, I turned five years old; in September I began kindergarten. Those few details highlight that year in my memory. However, recently I came across a documentary done in 2009 entitled 1959: The Year that Changed Jazz. The film describes four albums released that year. My amazement came from the fact that each album is among my personal favorites. Yet I never realized they all were made in the same year.

Those albums were Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, Time Out by Dave Brubeck, Mingus Ah Um by Charles Mingus and The Shape of Jazz to Come by Ornette Coleman. I originally purchased each of these in vinyl and poured over the liner notes as I always did. I still can't believe that I never took notice of the albums' release dates.

For clarity's sake, I didn't obtain said records at the time of release. While I enjoy giving the impression that while my counterparts innocently played with slinkys and jacks, I was in my room surrounded by Beat Generation writings, wearing a beret and grooving over the latest in cutting edge Jazz. That is not the case. Over a decade would pass until my exploration into Jazz began.

Time Out uses different time signatures on each track. The album was extremely experimental. Critics claimed it would be only listened to in music schools. It was an album for academics, but  would never be accepted by a Jazz audience, let alone become a cross over into the pop market. They were wrong. Take Five from Brubeck's Time Out may be one of the most recognized Jazz numbers. The album was the first Jazz record to sell over a million copies, and Take Five  is still the best selling Jazz single in history. Incredible considering the album's concept and initial reviews.


Kind of Blue marked the shift from hard bop to a music based
entirely on modalities. As opposed to the critics' apprehension of Brubeck's 1959 offering, Miles' album was heralded as one of the best and most significant Jazz recordings. Davis went on to become an iconic musician known for changing his style and embracing new concepts. This album is still ranked among his best.


Charlie Mingus was known for his volatile temper and his mastery of the bass. A prodigy,  he played bass for many jazz legends. Mingus Ah Um highlighted his composition genius. The entire record is excellent, but his elegy to sax player, Lester Young is a personal favorite of mine. They say a song can be deemed a classic if it can transcend its genre. The acoustic guitar version of the elegy, Good Bye Porkpie Hat, by John Renbourn and Bert Jansch validates that belief. The song was given lyrics by both Joni Mitchell and Rahsaan Roland Kirk on their respective albums.


I saved the most controversial for last, The Shape of Jazz to Come. Some hailed it as the most innovative Jazz since Be-Bop. Others opined that it was nothing but atonal noise. By the time I became aware of this album in my late teens, I was already a fan of the experimental music and theatrics of Sun-Ra. His unique sound prepared me for Ornette's unconventional, off-beat music. This album shows the bravery and genius of Ornette Coleman and his quartet. Their dedication to play music they wanted regardless of popularity or critical distain is laudable.

Since watching the documentary, I have listened to all four of the albums. The fact that all of these came out the same year amazes me. 1959 means so much more to me now than just the year I started kindergarten. As ever - BB

"By and large, jazz has always been like the kind of a man you wouldn’t want your daughter to associate with." - Duke Ellington

The Prism

Particles of light travel at different speeds. A beam of light through a prism refract these various wavelengths producing the colors of the spectrum. As white light appears to be a single beam to the naked eye, so do I.  Others see only a single being that they perceive as Bill, the person. Through introspection, I see the prism-like fraction of my psyche. Allow me to illuminate.

Using words from Rod Serling's, The Twilight Zone, prepare to enter the "dimension of imagination." My life shined through an existence prism shows the following beams:

The Monk - yes hard as it is for some to comprehend, the monastic life appeals to me. Not a priest mind you, but a friar dedicated to reflection and knowledge. The idea of quiet meditation and hours poring over classical tomes appeals to my contemplative side.

The Librarian - basically a offshoot of the monk, spending days in a quiet building stocked with books filled with the literature, ideas and art accumulated through the ages compels me.

The Libertine - seemingly the antithesis of the previous two life beams, part of me truly desires to flaunt all conventions, mores and restraints upon which society has shackled us. This stream springs from the poetry of Baudelaire and Rimbaud, the writings of the Beats, Hunter S. Thompson and Oscar Zeta Acosta. Part deranging of senses to achieve enlightenment and part the exhilaration of ingesting poisons to allow one's self  to uninhibitedly let loose and raise hell.


The Dandy - over the years, I have developed a personal style of well-tailored suits, french-cuffed dress shirts, silk ties and polished oxfords. I truly enjoy "putting on the Ritz."

The Derelict - again, a yin/yang relationship to the above. I find allure in the underside of society, the world of thieves, junkies, prostitutes and drunks. I remember the feeling of fear mixed with exhilaration the first time I walked into a seedy, dangerous bar.  To fit in and mingle with ease required a tattered, disheveled appearance.  I spent many hours in disreputable establishments seeking pearls of wisdom among decrepit oysters.

Other bands of personality separated by the "existence prism" include the jock, the musician, the writer, the ladies man, the loyal friend, the procrastinator and the ruffian.

To continue the classic TV allusion, jumping from The Twilight Zone to The Outer Limits, "We now return control of your television set to you. " As ever - BB

"The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love, suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences." - Arthur Rimbaud

Happy New Year

I must admit that I have been very remiss in 2016 when it comes to my blog. I can elaborate on mitigating circumstances, but will refrain from making this an apologia. Though from the same Latin root as apology, an apologia is not a regretful acknowledgment of an offense or failure. It is a statement of defense for one's position or statement.

While I'm not one to make resolutions at the dawn of a new year, in 2017 I will pledge to shower you with more of my extemporaneous musings and doggerel.  Rereading that sentence, I am not sure if it is a resolution or a threat.

Speaking of resolutions, the practice of making them at the beginning of a new year dates back to ancient Mesopotamia. At the dawn of another year (March in the Babylonian calendar), people would renew their oath of allegiance to the emperor and resolve to serve the empire better.

Another of my favorite traditions is greeting the new year with
fireworks. This also hearkens back to ancient times. Early Americans embraced the idea of explosions on December 31. My favorite story comes from the late-1800's in Colorado. Miners in Denver on New Year's Eve did not have fireworks, but did have quite a large amount of dynamite. Why not! The ensuing explosions caused several large craters on the main street and some damage to nearby buildings. I'm sure it was worth it...pyrotechnics are so much fun!

The obligatory kiss at midnight comes from the gaelic/Scottish ritual of saining. As the new year approached houses and livestock were sprinkled with water as a form of consecration. Through the years, this transformed into a kiss between family and friends.

Another Scot Hogmanay tradition involves opening all the windows in the house to dissipate the bad "airs" of the old year. The woman of the house would walk around with a bottle of whiskey to help fight the chill of the fresh night's air.  Combine that with pyrotechnics and this man is a happy boy!

As January approaches, named for the double-faced Roman god, Janus, take time for reflection. He presided over transitions. From one year to the next, from war to peace, from conflict to resolution. Bid farewell to 2016 and look forward to 2017 with anticipation and hope despite the many inauspicious auguries many expect. As ever - BB

"Hope, Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,  Whispering 'it will be happier'...”  - Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Sing Me Back Home

First my apologies for being lax and lazy. Opening my blog for this entry, I realize it's been quite a while since I last put pen to paper. To be accurate, put digits on keyboard, but that sounds less literate and less alliterative.

The impetus for this blog was the passing of Merle Haggard. A death also spurred the last blog. That is weird. Time to find a new inspiration for my muse? Though I like the phrase "minion of the macabre muse", I should focus on more positive inspiration. My thoughts, now distracted, wander various paths. Get ye behind me deities of digression!

I've had mixed feelings about Merle since 1969. The Byrds, Grateful Dead, The Flying Burrito Brothers and others, introduced me to the wealth of songs from Haggard. In 1969, Okie from Muskogee hit the airways. The song scorned my generation.

Then I heard the stories about Haggard's distain towards those he referred to as "filthy, long-haired hippies." Roger McGuinn and Gram Parsons wanted him to produce  Sweetheart of the Rodeo; he refused. Others asked him to sing on their records, join a tour, but Merle ignored the young upstarts.

I was a big demonstration-goer back then. Whatever the cause, angry protesters could count on my support. I epitomized a scene from Brando's The Wild One: "Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against?"  Ans. "What have you got?"

New York City May 1970, about 200 construction workers attacked students protesting the Kent State shootings. Dubbed, the Hard Hat Riot, Nixon's Silent Majority, touted them as heroes. I experienced the same during many demonstrations. Spit, bottles, cans, assorted detritus were hurled in my direction. An Us vs. Them mentality ensued. I placed Merle Haggard in the Them camp.

Despite this, the beauty of his songs spoke to me. Over the next few years, Willie and Waylon joined Jerry Jeff in Austin, and the divisiveness lessened. The lines
between country and rock blurred. Music transcended political and sociological ideologies on both sides.

Unfortunately, hate and intolerance seem endemic to mankind. Today the same schism rears its ugly head. The terms liberal and conservative have replaced straights and freaks, but the animosity and prejudice remain the same. Hopefully, music will blur our partisan principles and one day we can join hands and sing Kumbaya, or at least Momma Tried.  As ever - BB

"Take me away and turn back the years. Sing me back home before I die." Merle Haggard, Sing Me Back Home

Surrealistic Remembrances

A key factor of life is death. I am not being maudlin, nor do I suffer from what a psychoanalyst would call existential death anxiety. Long ago I lost any dread of death. Why would one wish to live forever?  The beauty of each day is that it could be the last. That fact imparts life with its mystery and its joy.

I don't know if there exists an exact moment when this enlightenment came over me. However, I can pinpoint the time period and frame of mind. It began in 1972 ensconced in the sylvan setting of Siena College. I explored my inner space, faced my demons and my guardian angels realizing they were in essence the same - yin/yang, sturm und drang. LSD illuminates, but its radiance can be fraught with danger. At that time and place, naiveté and trust in my fellow adventurers kept the darkness at bay.

The awareness that the fabric of the universe enfolds all blossomed within me. I became an animist. Everything from the stars to the dust motes floating before my dilated pupils were one and the same. I had studied the oversoul of the Transcendentalists, the Vendanta of Hinduism, Roman Catholic eschatology, the absurdism of Camus, et. al. But these sterile academic endeavors were faint candles compared to the klieg light of realization that psychedelics gave.

The impetus for my latest reflection was the passing of Paul Kantner. My introduction to what was originally called the San Francisco Sound came from the Grateful Dead's first album. It was early 1967. My older sister was a Beatles fan. Being the typical little brother, I was looking for the most unBeatle band I could find. Before I heard a note, the album cover displaying these hirsute simians (an early reviewer's description of the band) captured my 12-year old imagination.

The next year, Life magazine had the Jefferson Airplane on the cover. Soon, the Dead, the Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service monopolized my hi-fi. At the same time, I came across Hells Angels - The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs. The author's name, Hunter Thompson, meant nothing to me then, but my worm had begun to turn. This led to The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, which led to On the Road. Like Alice, I had gone down the rabbit hole.

In August 1972, my parents had dropped me off in Loudonville, NY to begin my collegiate education. They never suspected that the music I was listening to, and the books I was reading were preparing me to venture through the looking glass.

In the years that followed, I cut my tethers to the straight world and strove to follow the words of Neal Cassady and live my life as art. It wasn't all fun and frolic. My parents feared I'd end up in prison or a psych-ward. In retrospect, my actions seem immature and reckless. Later I filled my heart with regret and shame over wasting time with hedonistic aggrandizement.

That has passed. I now realize every misturn, mistake and misadventure led me to where and who I am today. For good or ill, as Popeye opined "I yam who I yam!" as ever BB

“We are actually fourth dimensional beings in a third dimensional body inhabiting a second dimensional world!”  - Neal Cassady

Good Ol'Pickin'

Growing up I experienced the emergence of Rock & Roll. As I matured (probably not a good word to describe me, shall we say ripened), so did the music. By the time I reached my teens, more sophisticated electronics and improved amplification ushered in the era of loud. At a concert in 1968, I wove my way through a mass of people to get a close up view of Pete Townsend. This position allowed me a vantage point to see his hands in action. However, the location was in direct proximity to his Marshall stack. The high pitched buzzing in my right ear for the next three days did nothing to discourage my eagerness to experience loud, live music.

My physician father lectured, cajoled and ranted against my quest to permanently damage my hearing. Armed with youthful ignorance, I turned a deaf ear to his warnings.
(Insert classic literature aside here - "The goodness of a true pun is in a direct ratio to its intolerability" - Edgar Allen Poe)
Despite my best efforts, I somehow escaped aural degeneration. My love of high energy, high volume music notwithstanding, as I aged my attraction to acoustic music grew.

Some will blame the Great Folk Scare of the 60s. I admit early exposure to Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie, Ramblin' Jack Elliot, Pete Seeger, et.al., influenced me. But, the preeminent culprit was Jorma Kaukonen and the first Hot Tuna album. From the opening notes of Hesitation Blues, the acoustic hook sunk into my psyche.

So began my journey. With a mediocre Epiphone, I struggled to work my way through acoustic blues. Both solo and with other like-minded folks, I played coffee houses, parties and dives. The guitar upgraded to a Martin D-18, callouses formed on my finger tips and my technique improved. Albeit much slower than I desired. Eventually, the dire wolf of responsibility darkened my doorstep. This led to a real job and long hours with my nose to the ground and ear to the grindstone.

Though I gave up performing live, I continued my pursuit of the guitar; playing with myself for personal enjoyment. Get your minds out of the gutter. Boredom with strumming chords, began an exploration into finger-picking just to keep myself amused. Being a guitar autodidact, bad habits and personal idiosyncrasies plagued me.

I developed an individual style which I cannot explain.  All I can say is that my fingers seem to know what they are doing. I don't. If I try to slow it down and chart what strings I play with what finger and where, I get lost.  It's the closest I'll ever come to experiencing Zen.

While it's not for me to decide, for good or ill I began playing in front of live people again. (an allusion to my penchant for solitary nights playing guitar in graveyards) No matter how bad a day gets, or what insanity from the outside world intrudes, I always find solace picking away on my old six string. As ever - BB

"To stand up on a stage alone with an acoustic guitar requires bravery bordering on heroism. Bordering on insanity." Richard Thompson