The Lindsays
A musical journal recounting the travels of a one-armed paper hanger. Plus, a little Irish music news on the side. Created by Susan Gedutis Lindsay of The Lindsays—a husband-and-wife acoustic duo, with Stephen on guitar/vocals and Susan on flute, whistle, and sax. Music inspired by the Irish tradition but colored by rock, jazz and folk. Susan is an independent music writer, educator, and author of See You at the Hall: Boston's Golden Era of Irish Music and Dance.
Updated: 1 hour 58 min ago
Day 29 of Year 2: The Counting Recommences
Here is a way to make the mundane spectacular: Get up early, sit on your bike seat, and catch the sunrise. So lovely I had to share.
This weekend, my friend commented on my blog. "You're not writing anymore. You're journaling." Agreed. "But," I said, "I figure you can write about the mundane in a way that makes it interesting. At least that's why I'm trying to do... " She shrugged.
OKAY I GET IT. Start writing about something, for goodness sake. Be funny, will you????
And so, I decided to start counting again, and get back to the original reason for this blog: Self-torture. It's Day 29 of Year 2 of Musical Practice, and guess what? This month has not been a good one for practicing. Plenty of gigging. Plenty of CD making. Plenty of CD design discussions and photo shoots. Plenty of research into CD duplication options. Plenty of farm trips and way too much zucchini. And lots of swimming in lakes. I even started a new book. But practice? Feh!
If you'll excuse me now, I must get down to the practice room. We have a CD release to start practicing for.
This weekend, my friend commented on my blog. "You're not writing anymore. You're journaling." Agreed. "But," I said, "I figure you can write about the mundane in a way that makes it interesting. At least that's why I'm trying to do... " She shrugged.
OKAY I GET IT. Start writing about something, for goodness sake. Be funny, will you????
And so, I decided to start counting again, and get back to the original reason for this blog: Self-torture. It's Day 29 of Year 2 of Musical Practice, and guess what? This month has not been a good one for practicing. Plenty of gigging. Plenty of CD making. Plenty of CD design discussions and photo shoots. Plenty of research into CD duplication options. Plenty of farm trips and way too much zucchini. And lots of swimming in lakes. I even started a new book. But practice? Feh!
If you'll excuse me now, I must get down to the practice room. We have a CD release to start practicing for.
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Still Sleeping
It's 10:35 a.m. and Soul Fry is sleeping. Musician's child. We are thankful.
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There Is No Chatham-by-the-Sea
Last night - much fun! The Lindsays played at the Manchester-by-the-Sea of Cape Cod, which we locals call "Chatham." (We're so cool down here that we don't even have to point out that we're near the ocean. I mean, we're the Cape, for God's sake. Chatham "by the Sea"? Mon Dieu! Tres gauche.)
This time, we were joined by Sean Farias on acoustic upright bass... ooh la la, such a great sound. And the sound of clapping from a big bunch of Chatham vacationers: You can't beat it.
A great night, and we're looking forward to having Sean join us for some gigs in future. Even though Sean is on our upcoming CD, this was actually the first time we'd ever played with him. On the CD, he came in on recommendation of a friend, as a "studio guy," to record his bass tracks on his own, after we'd already done the guitar. Last night, we got to meet him for the second time ever, and then play at the same time. Way more fun.
Irish music + acoustic bass: Sign us up. Whenever possible. Like when he's not already playing jazz, Balkan, or Indian music.
My people, I think we've got a new sound coming your way. Catch Sean with us on August 24 at our annual Church of the Pilgrimage show in Plymouth, Mass.!
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Playing for Kids and Starting a Book
Sometimes your own band and your own CD just aren't enough. Sometimes you just have to start a book.
Soul Mama spent last night on the North Shore, playing with children's artists Leeny and Tamara in a gazebo in downtown Manchester-by-the-Sea, a lovely mountain town. Just kidding; the town is not in the mountains. It's actually in rural farmland in the midwest.
The sun set over the white pleasure boats while Leeny and Tamara and their band rocked a large crowd of energetic Little People. I know Leeny from having worked with her at Berklee Press, and she is already a walking standup routine, but to add music? My little girl and her friends love Leeny's two albums, the first with Steve, Leeny and Steve, and the second Sharing the Same Stars. Great music, but to see her live with kids doing her best Phil Donahue meets Seinfeld meets Fozzie Bear (ok, nothing like Fozzie Bear but I can't think of any children's comedians) then singing like Janis Joplin meets Freddie Mercury meets Frank Zappa (she will NOT approve), my friends, we got ourselves a stah heeyah.
Good times.
Meanwhile, Soul Fry was with Daddy taking her first step dance lesson, and as much as I love to play music, I gotta tell ya, it was with great regret that I pulled the packed jeep out of the driveway. It doesn't help when the leaving was preceded by a crying "MommyIdon'twantyoutoleave!!!!" moment.
But when I finally arrived home after a fun gig and dinner courtesy of Leeny and her hubby Nick, I got to see photos of Soul Fry in her dancing leotard. Dad took pics at class, which you may see if you care to visit my new blog, which I am about to start in two minutes: Irish Step Confidential. This blog by the way is the beginning of a new book about the Irish step dancing life in America, due out from University Press of New England in 2012 or so. Mind you, it's due in January and I'm just starting (can we do a group "gulp?") Expect that at some point soon, activity will diminish on this blog and pick up on that one... I'll keep you posted. I haven't been talking about it because I couldn't bear not having started it... but... the blog begins now. (Don't rush; I'm not there yet.)
In the meantime: The Lindsays tonight at the gazebo in Chatham, folking the Cape with Irish music, special guest artist acoustic upright bass player Sean Farias. Free! Bring a lawn chair and bugspray.
Thus concludes today's episode of The Travels of the One-Armed Paper Hanger.
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Hearkening to the music of what happened.
Maybe it's the fact that I haven't had a cup of coffee since July 5. Maybe it's the distraction with the recent reignition of my old flame, cycling. Maybe it's burnout. Maybe it's summer. But I'm a writer who's feeling neither funny nor motivated. So, what you get instead is a bit of news, again. With a twist.
Perhaps it's the CD. The last three weeks have been consumed with finishing it, as you may have noticed. A couple days a week in the studio, long conversations over the top tube with Design Diva about cover design, and a coupla photo shoots. I guess we're taking this stuff seriously. It's a little like Christmas: We've been waiting all year. It's a fun time, we're excited about what we're about to be putting under your tree and in your stocking... but we'll be happy when it's over. Roll on, metaphorical Dec. 26.
I'm particularly thinking about Soul Fry. She's rolling with it, yes. But her mostly stay-at-home, part-time working mom is a little preoccupied. Yes, I'm am sitting next to her on the couch... but I'm on my laptop writing liner notes while she watches Peep and the Big Wide World. As mothers do, I'm feeling a tinge of guilt.
Remember the days when moms spent the whole day focused on their kids and their homes? Did they really do that, though? Were they sitting down all day playing Go Fish and Monopoly on the living room floor, or were they tossing crayons and construction paper on the kitchen table to keep the kiddies occupied while they put in their curlers and ironed Dad's shirts, all the while obsessing about that suggestively critical comment sister-in-law Alice made about her housekeeping skills at the last family party? I'm banking on the latter.
So, Soul Mama and Papa have got a little something going on. But, on the other hand, how cool is it that Soul Fry got to direct part of last night's photo shoot, carefully placing a winter scarf just-so across Dad's lap while he sat at our basement bar trying to look natural for the camera? We think it's kind of cool. Not cool enough for a scarf, mind you, but we left it in the photo, because, well... it was the music of what happened.
Design Diva, a mom herself, was the photographer, and she made every effort to get Soul Fry involved. Design Diva invited Soul Fry's input on poses. "How do you think Mommy and Daddy look best?"
Soul Fry's reply:
"I think they look best when they have their arms around each other."
The car stops. The driver grasps the wheel and stares straight ahead.
You know... every day we wonder about ourselves as parents because we aren't doing this the regular way. Then, out of the mouth of babes comes a surprise—and a hint that we just might be doing something right.
Perhaps it's the CD. The last three weeks have been consumed with finishing it, as you may have noticed. A couple days a week in the studio, long conversations over the top tube with Design Diva about cover design, and a coupla photo shoots. I guess we're taking this stuff seriously. It's a little like Christmas: We've been waiting all year. It's a fun time, we're excited about what we're about to be putting under your tree and in your stocking... but we'll be happy when it's over. Roll on, metaphorical Dec. 26.
I'm particularly thinking about Soul Fry. She's rolling with it, yes. But her mostly stay-at-home, part-time working mom is a little preoccupied. Yes, I'm am sitting next to her on the couch... but I'm on my laptop writing liner notes while she watches Peep and the Big Wide World. As mothers do, I'm feeling a tinge of guilt.
Remember the days when moms spent the whole day focused on their kids and their homes? Did they really do that, though? Were they sitting down all day playing Go Fish and Monopoly on the living room floor, or were they tossing crayons and construction paper on the kitchen table to keep the kiddies occupied while they put in their curlers and ironed Dad's shirts, all the while obsessing about that suggestively critical comment sister-in-law Alice made about her housekeeping skills at the last family party? I'm banking on the latter.
So, Soul Mama and Papa have got a little something going on. But, on the other hand, how cool is it that Soul Fry got to direct part of last night's photo shoot, carefully placing a winter scarf just-so across Dad's lap while he sat at our basement bar trying to look natural for the camera? We think it's kind of cool. Not cool enough for a scarf, mind you, but we left it in the photo, because, well... it was the music of what happened.
Design Diva, a mom herself, was the photographer, and she made every effort to get Soul Fry involved. Design Diva invited Soul Fry's input on poses. "How do you think Mommy and Daddy look best?"
Soul Fry's reply:
"I think they look best when they have their arms around each other."
The car stops. The driver grasps the wheel and stares straight ahead.
You know... every day we wonder about ourselves as parents because we aren't doing this the regular way. Then, out of the mouth of babes comes a surprise—and a hint that we just might be doing something right.
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Do you feel lucky? Well, do yah?
This is the time of year for dual weddings.
Late afternoon, The Lindsays hit the docks for a breezy Kelliher wedding by the sea, right at the dock in Falmouth Harbor. Glowing white yachts cruised back and forth on the cobalt sea, and we played the Butterfly. The bridesmaids wore variations on turquoise and purple, and the bride and groom filled a vase with flowers... tiger lilies, Gerber daisies, carnations, and cala lily. Beautiful, sublime, peaceful.
Then, Soul Mama turned up the volume, and raced off to Yarmouth for a real-deal Irish wedding at the Sons of Erin, filling in on whistle and sax with the band Inchicore. The air conditioning couldn't compete with fifty sweaty bodies dancing to the Wolfetones, but still it didn't dampen the fun being had. The tunes were fast and loud and freaking fun, and I knew it was the real deal at about 11 when a crowd of Irish men started a kickline to "Go On Home British Soldiers." Ireland does occasionally rear its raucous head on Cape Cod, and when it does, there's nothing for it but a Guinness and a good hearty yeeeeeeee-hooooooooooo!
I drove home at 1 a.m.. barely able to keep my eyes open after a very long day, but thinking to myself that this musician life really is sometimes exactly what it's cracked up to be: a hell of a lot of fun, and worth all that unpaid work that we put into it in our practice rooms and rehearsals. I'll gladly spend an hour loading heavy equipment into the back of the Jeep if I know it means that someone is going to have a wedding that they'll remember the rest of their lives.
Gotta say: Yeah, it would have been nice to be home last night, but you know, Dirty Harry, yes, I DO feel lucky. Lucky to have one of those jobs that you do because you love it, and that gives back more in personal fulfillment than money could ever buy.
Late afternoon, The Lindsays hit the docks for a breezy Kelliher wedding by the sea, right at the dock in Falmouth Harbor. Glowing white yachts cruised back and forth on the cobalt sea, and we played the Butterfly. The bridesmaids wore variations on turquoise and purple, and the bride and groom filled a vase with flowers... tiger lilies, Gerber daisies, carnations, and cala lily. Beautiful, sublime, peaceful.
Then, Soul Mama turned up the volume, and raced off to Yarmouth for a real-deal Irish wedding at the Sons of Erin, filling in on whistle and sax with the band Inchicore. The air conditioning couldn't compete with fifty sweaty bodies dancing to the Wolfetones, but still it didn't dampen the fun being had. The tunes were fast and loud and freaking fun, and I knew it was the real deal at about 11 when a crowd of Irish men started a kickline to "Go On Home British Soldiers." Ireland does occasionally rear its raucous head on Cape Cod, and when it does, there's nothing for it but a Guinness and a good hearty yeeeeeeee-hooooooooooo!
I drove home at 1 a.m.. barely able to keep my eyes open after a very long day, but thinking to myself that this musician life really is sometimes exactly what it's cracked up to be: a hell of a lot of fun, and worth all that unpaid work that we put into it in our practice rooms and rehearsals. I'll gladly spend an hour loading heavy equipment into the back of the Jeep if I know it means that someone is going to have a wedding that they'll remember the rest of their lives.
Gotta say: Yeah, it would have been nice to be home last night, but you know, Dirty Harry, yes, I DO feel lucky. Lucky to have one of those jobs that you do because you love it, and that gives back more in personal fulfillment than money could ever buy.
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Come, Sweet Rain, and More Hidden Details of Making a CD.
Maybe it was the pathetic looking brown grass and droopy chrysanthemum leaves, or maybe it was the chance to wear the new rain boots, but man, was it great to have flooding rains break the drought yesterday!
Weather bedamned, we're okay here, because we're almost done with the long-awaited (at least by us) recording that we started back in October. Tuesday, we were at Sounds Interesting again, to work on Steve's last song, "So Do I," then a redo of saxophone on "Ordinary Man" and a re-do of flute on "One Last Cold Kiss"--and several very sad attempts at my harmony vocals.
We have TWO songs left for harmony vocals to record on Friday morning, and we're done. The harmony vocals are painful, because Miss Suzy has written harmonies too high in her range and thus cannot sing them in tune. Talk about facing reality. But still, let's repeat this part: two more songs, and we're done.
Not quite done, of course. As I've mentioned, our engineer Rob promises that at least a week of mixing is ahead, then the CD gets sent to a mastering house. That, too, will take a week and will probably happen the first week of August. Once we get the mastered CD back (sometimes it's called a "glass master" even though it's not on glass anymore), we listen to it to ensure that it's right.
Meanwhile, I go to Songfile.com, the website for Harry Fox, which is a performing rights organization that ensures that all songwriters get paid for their great songs. I go to the site, log in, enter the song name, and Songfile pulls it up out of the thousands and thousands and thousands of copyrighted songs. I click on the song to add it to my cart, then continue on to search for the next. Right now, I have four songs in my cart, so I owe Harry Fox 0.091 cents per song, per unit. That means if we do 1,000 CDs, then I will be sending $91 to each songwriter whose work appears on it. For us, that means that about $364 will be going out to these creative folks, plus there are another three for which we owe money to Wally Page, an Irish songwriter who's not registered with Harry Fox. Where this money is coming FROM is debatable, but that's why we're banking on that moving target: CD sales.
At the same time, I'm writing copy for the cover and trying to put together the big collection of photos I shot in the studio, for the cover design. This gets sent to the designer Megan Harding, and we can expect a week of back-and-forth there, too, to get the design just right, to tweak the copy to fit the space, to get the colors the way we want them...
At the end, all of these things get assembled: the (not)glass master, the design files, and the licensing information, and I send it with a big fat check to DiskMakers. And hopefully, as I've said, we get it in time for August 24. It will be close, and in fact, it may be unlikely. Either way, it's gonna be done. And we hope you like it.
Weather bedamned, we're okay here, because we're almost done with the long-awaited (at least by us) recording that we started back in October. Tuesday, we were at Sounds Interesting again, to work on Steve's last song, "So Do I," then a redo of saxophone on "Ordinary Man" and a re-do of flute on "One Last Cold Kiss"--and several very sad attempts at my harmony vocals.
We have TWO songs left for harmony vocals to record on Friday morning, and we're done. The harmony vocals are painful, because Miss Suzy has written harmonies too high in her range and thus cannot sing them in tune. Talk about facing reality. But still, let's repeat this part: two more songs, and we're done.
Not quite done, of course. As I've mentioned, our engineer Rob promises that at least a week of mixing is ahead, then the CD gets sent to a mastering house. That, too, will take a week and will probably happen the first week of August. Once we get the mastered CD back (sometimes it's called a "glass master" even though it's not on glass anymore), we listen to it to ensure that it's right.
Meanwhile, I go to Songfile.com, the website for Harry Fox, which is a performing rights organization that ensures that all songwriters get paid for their great songs. I go to the site, log in, enter the song name, and Songfile pulls it up out of the thousands and thousands and thousands of copyrighted songs. I click on the song to add it to my cart, then continue on to search for the next. Right now, I have four songs in my cart, so I owe Harry Fox 0.091 cents per song, per unit. That means if we do 1,000 CDs, then I will be sending $91 to each songwriter whose work appears on it. For us, that means that about $364 will be going out to these creative folks, plus there are another three for which we owe money to Wally Page, an Irish songwriter who's not registered with Harry Fox. Where this money is coming FROM is debatable, but that's why we're banking on that moving target: CD sales.
At the same time, I'm writing copy for the cover and trying to put together the big collection of photos I shot in the studio, for the cover design. This gets sent to the designer Megan Harding, and we can expect a week of back-and-forth there, too, to get the design just right, to tweak the copy to fit the space, to get the colors the way we want them...
At the end, all of these things get assembled: the (not)glass master, the design files, and the licensing information, and I send it with a big fat check to DiskMakers. And hopefully, as I've said, we get it in time for August 24. It will be close, and in fact, it may be unlikely. Either way, it's gonna be done. And we hope you like it.
Categories: All
Travel Notes from the One-Armed Paperhangers
Seven days ago today, my sangria-stained corporal cataclysm was interrupted with an email from our recording engineer, Rob Pemberton: "Lets check schedules, and get some dates booked. I just found out my schedule is going to get really crazy in three weeks. Mixing will take a week."
Translation: You have two weeks to finish your CD.
In other circumstances, not too bad a thing, except that we still had family in town and I just wanted to spend my sister's last day in town on the beach. We were looking straight into a week that already had four gigs, an airport run, the last week of swimming lessons, a fortieth birthday, and a forty-first birthday on the cards. Just the kind of week that explains why it's taken so long to do the CD in the first place.
Unlike the Rolling Stones, we don't have a steaming hot basement in France to exile to when we want to get creative; we are not rock stars, and so, have to somehow dangle the creative process loosely around very uncreative activities like working our day jobs, swimming at Nana's, doing the dishes, watering the brown grass, rescuing the droopy hydrangea, and grocery shopping. Like most working artists, we have to make the creativity happen, right there, smack dab in the middle of life. No matter how friendly you feel, don't wave to a one-armed paper hanger while he's hanging from the rafters.
What was left on the CD was all the vocals—both Steve's melody and my harmony—and as it turns out, a few re-dos of my parts that didn't sound so good.
It's seven days later, and let me recap because I think I'm proud that I survived.
On Tuesday, after a 6 am bike ride, we spent Plymouth's hottest day on record in the studio. Wednesday, we brought my awesome sis to the airport. On Thursday, we did a half hour set in a rock club in Boston. (Yes, that is correct.) On Friday, we spent another full day in the studio, then did a peaceful little concert beside Sandwich's shimmering Shawme Pond. On Saturday, I did another long ride (see that lovely photo? I love the morning!) then played a family reunion in Manomet for one of the most fun Irish families we've ever had the pleasure to play for--they were up set dancing at the first jig! On Sunday, last night, we celebrated a dear friend's 40th, then headed down to Woods Hole to help celebrate the release of Stanley & Grimm's third CD, Open the Gate. Rob Pemberton recorded their CD, also at Sounds Interesting Studios. Great CD, folks, and a great show!
Where's Soul Fry in all this? Right there with us for some of it, and right next door with her best buddy for the rest of it. She's fine. In fact, she's probably the only one that's fine.
As for us: Well, Soul Papa (née Steve) has done some amazing vocals on our songs. We have only one song left to sing, then I re-do sax and flute on two songs, and a little bit of harmony vocals. All tomorrow, we hope. Then, my friends, we are done recording. It will take Rob about a week to mix it all, then we send it off to get mastered, to get all the tracks at the same relative volume and feel. In the meantime, we'll be acquiring copyright licenses, writing copy and assembling images for the CD cover, and Design Diva Megan Harding will be designing it. We're excited because she's got some VERY good ideas.
Finally, the CD master and the design files get sent to be duplicated at DiskMakers and hopefully ready for our Aug. 24 gig at Church of the Pilgrimage in Plymouth, 8:00.
If it takes a while for us to return your call in the next three weeks, that's why.
Today, we rest, then eat a lot of breakfast meat from Ireland, for dinner. Then cake.
Happy Birthday to Soul Papa! We love you.
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Day Whatever: Lindsay Gigs
Family in town so I've not been writing much... Steve and I spent yesterday (the record hottest day in Plymouth ever in history) in the studio in Middleboro... a welcome, cool way to spend a day. Recorded vocals all day, and neither of us could seem to sing in tune. We got it together eventually, but still, it's a little scary... but then again, we celebrated heartily on 4th of July and both of us were hoarse. We'll blame the holiday.
We're planning to finish vocals this week and the CD will be done by July 31, and hopefully hitting the streets soon after. Can't wait to share the music with you.
The next few days: A few shows coming up. Tomorrow, we're playing in an Otpor Records showcase at the Rosebud in Boston. Here's a link to the Facebook event.
Friday, we're at the outdoor stage on Shawme Pond in Sandwich from 6:30 - 8:00. Free and outdoors; bring your bug spray.
Saturday, we're playing for a private party.
Sunday, we're joining Stanley and Grimm for their CD release party in Woods Hole at 8:00 pm. Here's a link to that event.
Monday, we celebrate Steve's birthday!!!!!!!
Tuesday, Soul Fry begins Irish step dancing lessons.
Don't ask about Wednesday. We're picking up our veggies at the farm, and then it's a feast. At home. Phew.
We're planning to finish vocals this week and the CD will be done by July 31, and hopefully hitting the streets soon after. Can't wait to share the music with you.
The next few days: A few shows coming up. Tomorrow, we're playing in an Otpor Records showcase at the Rosebud in Boston. Here's a link to the Facebook event.
Friday, we're at the outdoor stage on Shawme Pond in Sandwich from 6:30 - 8:00. Free and outdoors; bring your bug spray.
Saturday, we're playing for a private party.
Sunday, we're joining Stanley and Grimm for their CD release party in Woods Hole at 8:00 pm. Here's a link to that event.
Monday, we celebrate Steve's birthday!!!!!!!
Tuesday, Soul Fry begins Irish step dancing lessons.
Don't ask about Wednesday. We're picking up our veggies at the farm, and then it's a feast. At home. Phew.
Categories: All
Day 3 of Year 2: It's About Just Doing It.
I am dangerously close to making a photo of my bike handlebars into my Facebook profile picture. See, biking gets you to places like this, early in the morning. God bless Massassoit—he didn't even have to ride three days a week at 6 am for those legs.
Again with the cycling instead of practicing thing. Oh, I'll practice today, right after I finish writing to you to tell you now beautiful it was by the sea this morning. Seriously? When you can go to places like these early in the morning, does it really matter what your "practice" is?
When we played at the Eastham Windmill the other night, our host from the Arts Foundation of Cape Cod was Tyler, who recently finished college with a music degree. He had majored in trumpet performance, but now he doesn't play music any more. Now he's a glass blower. To the raised eyebrows, he said, "It's all good. I'm still getting my creative outlet." I think Tyler knows something we can all learn from: It doesn't matter what you're doing, as long as you're doing it.
It doesn't matter how long you do it, how hard you do it, how often you do it, how fast you do it, or what you're doing it in order to get. The "doing it" part is the goal... the means is the end, the process is the result.
Thanks Tyler for that reminder!
Again with the cycling instead of practicing thing. Oh, I'll practice today, right after I finish writing to you to tell you now beautiful it was by the sea this morning. Seriously? When you can go to places like these early in the morning, does it really matter what your "practice" is?
When we played at the Eastham Windmill the other night, our host from the Arts Foundation of Cape Cod was Tyler, who recently finished college with a music degree. He had majored in trumpet performance, but now he doesn't play music any more. Now he's a glass blower. To the raised eyebrows, he said, "It's all good. I'm still getting my creative outlet." I think Tyler knows something we can all learn from: It doesn't matter what you're doing, as long as you're doing it.
It doesn't matter how long you do it, how hard you do it, how often you do it, how fast you do it, or what you're doing it in order to get. The "doing it" part is the goal... the means is the end, the process is the result.
Thanks Tyler for that reminder!
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Day 2 of Year 2: Counting and Kvelling
We musicians get into all the best places.
Yesterday, we played at the Plymouth Farmer's Market. It was a lovely, sunny, dry day, in the lower 80s, and our makeshift stage under an EZ-Up tent was at the end of the market, right next to the ocean. A light breeze was blowing, and combined with the hundreds of moving feet in the market, it meant that all of the dust came right to us en route to the ocean, which was directly behind us.
We played for a couple hours, picking jigs, reels, hornpipes and tunes from a set list that our compadre fiddler Denya the Fabulous and I put together a couple of years ago. We'd play a little, chat a little, play some more. Suddenly, Denya turned to me, put her hand over her microphone so it wouldn't pick up her voice, and leaned over. "You know, I was just thinking..." I put my hand over my own mic, too, and leaned in to hear her.
She continued, "I was thinking about how lucky I am. To play such wonderful music with friends, in such a gorgeous spot, next to the ocean... I mean, look at this place!" She gestured behind us, where white sailboats drifted against the steel blue ocean. A half mile away, across the bay and against the horizon, the bright green beach grass and wheat-white sand of Long Beach peninsula shone in the sunlight. Then she gestured across at the stands in the market: farmers, cheese makers, bakers, artisans, chefs. "This is gorgeous!"
While she was kvelling, I had been kvetching. Thinking about all the dust and about how it might affect my lungs. Wondering how the dust would look on my sparkling new (used) Jeep parked right behind us. (I'd only picked it up at the dealer a half hour before the gig.) Thinking about how my fingers hurt a bit from two days in a row of long performances. Wondering if the sound system was adequately projecting our "real" sound, or whether it was tinny... Wondering if anyone was even listening to us, and if they were, did they like it?
What I had forgotten to ask is, "Aren't we fortunate?"
Thank you, Denya, for bringing it all back home. We all need friends like Denya in our lives--not for kvetching but for kvelling.
May I kvell? Denya, we are blessed to know you.
Yesterday, we played at the Plymouth Farmer's Market. It was a lovely, sunny, dry day, in the lower 80s, and our makeshift stage under an EZ-Up tent was at the end of the market, right next to the ocean. A light breeze was blowing, and combined with the hundreds of moving feet in the market, it meant that all of the dust came right to us en route to the ocean, which was directly behind us.
We played for a couple hours, picking jigs, reels, hornpipes and tunes from a set list that our compadre fiddler Denya the Fabulous and I put together a couple of years ago. We'd play a little, chat a little, play some more. Suddenly, Denya turned to me, put her hand over her microphone so it wouldn't pick up her voice, and leaned over. "You know, I was just thinking..." I put my hand over my own mic, too, and leaned in to hear her.
She continued, "I was thinking about how lucky I am. To play such wonderful music with friends, in such a gorgeous spot, next to the ocean... I mean, look at this place!" She gestured behind us, where white sailboats drifted against the steel blue ocean. A half mile away, across the bay and against the horizon, the bright green beach grass and wheat-white sand of Long Beach peninsula shone in the sunlight. Then she gestured across at the stands in the market: farmers, cheese makers, bakers, artisans, chefs. "This is gorgeous!"
While she was kvelling, I had been kvetching. Thinking about all the dust and about how it might affect my lungs. Wondering how the dust would look on my sparkling new (used) Jeep parked right behind us. (I'd only picked it up at the dealer a half hour before the gig.) Thinking about how my fingers hurt a bit from two days in a row of long performances. Wondering if the sound system was adequately projecting our "real" sound, or whether it was tinny... Wondering if anyone was even listening to us, and if they were, did they like it?
What I had forgotten to ask is, "Aren't we fortunate?"
Thank you, Denya, for bringing it all back home. We all need friends like Denya in our lives--not for kvetching but for kvelling.
May I kvell? Denya, we are blessed to know you.
Categories: All
Day 1 of a New Year!
I know Buddha says don't count, but I'm finding it hard. Today is Day 1 of a new year, and I can't help but want to celebrate. You business types know that it's a fiscal year, too, so we artists will take that along for the ride.
A fun gig in Eastham last night, joined by Salil Sachdev on percussion. Today, we're looking forward to another fun one today with the Henhouse Ceili Chicks at the Farmer's Market. It starts out with Helen Kisiel on piano and Denya (the Fabulous) Levine on fiddle. At 4:00, we have a shift change; pianist Helen Kisiel packs up and heads back north, and Mr. Steve comes in to be the fox in the henhouse, foxy fellow that he is.
You know what? I'm not practicing this morning, and know why? Because I'll be playing for four hours this afternoon, and that's a lot for these wee hands. A grand way to start the new year of practice!
Girls, you out there and wanna play tunes? Deb? Peig? Lorna? Jil? Nikki? Michelle? Amy? Angel? Ginny? Sue? Ann? Doreen? Janine? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Come on down!
A fun gig in Eastham last night, joined by Salil Sachdev on percussion. Today, we're looking forward to another fun one today with the Henhouse Ceili Chicks at the Farmer's Market. It starts out with Helen Kisiel on piano and Denya (the Fabulous) Levine on fiddle. At 4:00, we have a shift change; pianist Helen Kisiel packs up and heads back north, and Mr. Steve comes in to be the fox in the henhouse, foxy fellow that he is.
You know what? I'm not practicing this morning, and know why? Because I'll be playing for four hours this afternoon, and that's a lot for these wee hands. A grand way to start the new year of practice!
Girls, you out there and wanna play tunes? Deb? Peig? Lorna? Jil? Nikki? Michelle? Amy? Angel? Ginny? Sue? Ann? Doreen? Janine? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Come on down!
Categories: All
Day 365 of Practice: The Big Day. (Except It's Not.)
Today marks the last day of 365 days of practice. I've been expecting that something magical would have happened by now. As it turns out, no angels sang from on high this morning, but I know that if there are angels, they're smiling.
What we've got here is a girl who's got family in town and who's been sick for three days and so hasn't practiced, coming in on the final stretch. Somehow I lost count, because according to my last entry, today should be day 356. That's a lot of days to miscount on, but alas, today has to be day 365 because we started last July 1.
Well, folks, it's not over 'til the fat lady sings, and based on my steady consumption of the five bags of cider donuts my sister bought at Atkins Farm in Amherst last week, you might think that day is coming soon. But it's not. We shall continue. Are you with me?
All year, I expected that today would include a meaningful, moving recap of the last year. What you're getting instead is real life: the ten-minute recap, written quickly knowing that Soul Fry will be awake any minute now.
1. Consistency is everything. Picking a regular time to practice, always the same time, always the same place, has made a huge difference. For me, if it doesn't happen at that time, then it doesn't happen. We got lucky, because sometime in this year, Soul Papa built a soundproof Irish bar in the basement. We call it a practice room. And it is.
2. Family first. When you have a family, it simply may not be possible to practice every day. But practicing most days is a really good thing.
3. Having concrete goals are very important. But when you don't meet them, just keep trying. I still haven't managed to fit daily sax practice in with daily flute practice. That's my goal for the next year: play both, every time. (Maybe not every day, but every time. Or almost every time.)
4. Structure is very helpful. I have a basic plan of what I do every time I practice, and it makes it much easier. Practice goes best when I have a big show coming up; I work specifically on those tunes and feel good about it. When there isn't a specific concert, a recording, etc etc, then practice gets a little more squirrely, and I end up sitting down with a Catherine McEvoy recording and playing along.
5. Being accountable helps. Boy, it's made a big difference for me to know that at least two of you (you know who you are) are out there, practicing along every day. As far as I know, both of you have done every single day. You beat me! Sometimes I feel badly that I haven't been able to do every day, but then I have to remember that I've still got Soul Fry here in the house. She gets to be first. Second in line is making a living, and sometimes work deadlines require that I'm at the computer in the morning instead of the practice room. So be it. The roof over our heads is also important.
6. Sometimes by looking for one thing, one discovers something else. I discovered, much to my dismay, really, that I am as much a writer as a musician... As soon as I figured that out, I got writer's block for the first time in my life. But it lasted only a couple weeks, then it was over.
7. I need to disconnect the blog from my website. During the year, I read a blogger's comment on his own blog, and he said that more important than anything else in a blog is complete honestly. Well, I've had to sugarcoat the truth a few times, because this blog is connected to our website, and thus, I don't always tell the full story. This year look for the blog to be less prominently connected to our site. (This is a boring discovery only relevant to me; pardon my navel gazing.)
8. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Some blog entries are great, some are personal and self-serving (as above). Likewise, some performances are wonderful and others are uninspired. Some practice sessions are productive, others are just going through the motions. Whatever. Keep going.
Throughout the year, I've been reading books on Tibetan Buddhism and Chinese fung shui, as well as deep and inspiring American novels, and a little bit of beach trash. All except the latter tend to underline the fact that every single issue identified in my numbered list above is simply native to human existence.
The Buddhist philosophers would most definitely advise us all to stop counting the days, and just keep on practicing. As soon as we grasp on to what we're doing and start expecting some result, we predetermine ourselves for disappointment, disruption, or simply torture ourselves with an overexamined life. It was Socrates who said "An unexamined life is not worth living." Not sure if I agree with him.
Here's the big discovery:
Starting today, I'll keep on writing but I'm going to stop counting. It's really not about how many days one does it; it's about simply doing it, with focus, with intention, and with balance. As often as possible.
T. S. Eliot was more poetic, but I must adjust his quote. "Not with a bang, but a shrug."
What we've got here is a girl who's got family in town and who's been sick for three days and so hasn't practiced, coming in on the final stretch. Somehow I lost count, because according to my last entry, today should be day 356. That's a lot of days to miscount on, but alas, today has to be day 365 because we started last July 1.
Well, folks, it's not over 'til the fat lady sings, and based on my steady consumption of the five bags of cider donuts my sister bought at Atkins Farm in Amherst last week, you might think that day is coming soon. But it's not. We shall continue. Are you with me?
All year, I expected that today would include a meaningful, moving recap of the last year. What you're getting instead is real life: the ten-minute recap, written quickly knowing that Soul Fry will be awake any minute now.
1. Consistency is everything. Picking a regular time to practice, always the same time, always the same place, has made a huge difference. For me, if it doesn't happen at that time, then it doesn't happen. We got lucky, because sometime in this year, Soul Papa built a soundproof Irish bar in the basement. We call it a practice room. And it is.
2. Family first. When you have a family, it simply may not be possible to practice every day. But practicing most days is a really good thing.
3. Having concrete goals are very important. But when you don't meet them, just keep trying. I still haven't managed to fit daily sax practice in with daily flute practice. That's my goal for the next year: play both, every time. (Maybe not every day, but every time. Or almost every time.)
4. Structure is very helpful. I have a basic plan of what I do every time I practice, and it makes it much easier. Practice goes best when I have a big show coming up; I work specifically on those tunes and feel good about it. When there isn't a specific concert, a recording, etc etc, then practice gets a little more squirrely, and I end up sitting down with a Catherine McEvoy recording and playing along.
5. Being accountable helps. Boy, it's made a big difference for me to know that at least two of you (you know who you are) are out there, practicing along every day. As far as I know, both of you have done every single day. You beat me! Sometimes I feel badly that I haven't been able to do every day, but then I have to remember that I've still got Soul Fry here in the house. She gets to be first. Second in line is making a living, and sometimes work deadlines require that I'm at the computer in the morning instead of the practice room. So be it. The roof over our heads is also important.
6. Sometimes by looking for one thing, one discovers something else. I discovered, much to my dismay, really, that I am as much a writer as a musician... As soon as I figured that out, I got writer's block for the first time in my life. But it lasted only a couple weeks, then it was over.
7. I need to disconnect the blog from my website. During the year, I read a blogger's comment on his own blog, and he said that more important than anything else in a blog is complete honestly. Well, I've had to sugarcoat the truth a few times, because this blog is connected to our website, and thus, I don't always tell the full story. This year look for the blog to be less prominently connected to our site. (This is a boring discovery only relevant to me; pardon my navel gazing.)
8. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Some blog entries are great, some are personal and self-serving (as above). Likewise, some performances are wonderful and others are uninspired. Some practice sessions are productive, others are just going through the motions. Whatever. Keep going.
Throughout the year, I've been reading books on Tibetan Buddhism and Chinese fung shui, as well as deep and inspiring American novels, and a little bit of beach trash. All except the latter tend to underline the fact that every single issue identified in my numbered list above is simply native to human existence.
The Buddhist philosophers would most definitely advise us all to stop counting the days, and just keep on practicing. As soon as we grasp on to what we're doing and start expecting some result, we predetermine ourselves for disappointment, disruption, or simply torture ourselves with an overexamined life. It was Socrates who said "An unexamined life is not worth living." Not sure if I agree with him.
Here's the big discovery:
Starting today, I'll keep on writing but I'm going to stop counting. It's really not about how many days one does it; it's about simply doing it, with focus, with intention, and with balance. As often as possible.
T. S. Eliot was more poetic, but I must adjust his quote. "Not with a bang, but a shrug."
Categories: All
Day 352 of Practice: Launch
"The human heart is a frail craft on which we wish to reach the stars." - Giotto
This quote came on an email forwarded to me from an artist friend. My heart goes out to her -- if we envision our hearts as frail craft, are we dooming ourselves to a tortured journey?
So many of us confuse what we do with who we are. And so, too many of those who lose their job, botch their performance, receive a heavily marked manuscript back from their editor, or get well-meaning feedback on their paintings or page designs, take it personally. It's not personal. It's just the world telling you to keep trying.
The real journey is not to reach the stars, but rather to fortify the heart, let loose the ballast, and launch.
That's enough.
This quote came on an email forwarded to me from an artist friend. My heart goes out to her -- if we envision our hearts as frail craft, are we dooming ourselves to a tortured journey?
So many of us confuse what we do with who we are. And so, too many of those who lose their job, botch their performance, receive a heavily marked manuscript back from their editor, or get well-meaning feedback on their paintings or page designs, take it personally. It's not personal. It's just the world telling you to keep trying.
The real journey is not to reach the stars, but rather to fortify the heart, let loose the ballast, and launch.
That's enough.
Categories: All
Day 351 of Practice: The Sign Says "Mine."
See this lovely shot? Isn't the road inviting? Ignore it. It's NOT an invitation. See that big orange sign to the right? It says, "This is mine. Don't fish here. Don't hunt here. Don't trap here. Don't stop by the side of the road and take pictures here. In fact, I'd rather you not even LOOK here, okay? That's why I picked bright orange. Because I don't want you to look."
Just in case you missed that sign, the owner of this gorgeous road that winds between two luscious horse pastures has also put two white signs on either side of the gate, just where the fence ends, just to remind you. In case you missed it, like.
We didn't miss it.
"MINE!"
Just got a call from a dear friend who's just lost his low-paying, menial job. He didn't love the job, but it's a job and he has a family. See, he was told, he wasn't paying attention to directions, work wasn't up to snuff. By the way, this fellow who just lost his job just happens to have a head injury that makes it impossible to follow directions. Of course, he told his bosses that when he got the job. But alas, he lost the job, where he was tending gardens for people who live behind big white gates in a private community whose entrance is marked by a gate and guarded by a little "MINE" booth right at the entrance, with someone in it to tell you to turn right around just in case you thought you might like to see what they have. Lucky people, those people. They still have their jobs, lots of them.
The MINE people have sent most of the boring jobs to China. For the other jobs that they just can't send away ("Who will mulch for me? Who will sweep my floor? Who will paint my house trim?"), they hire illegal immigrants because they work cheaper. But you can't blame them, of course; everyone else charges too much. Or so everyone seems to say.
That's fine. We understand. But has anyone figured out what will happen to people who have head injuries and can't follow directions given to them by the "MINE" people? What do they do to have just a little of "mine" for themselves?
That's not a crack to fall between. That's a fissure.
Just in case you missed that sign, the owner of this gorgeous road that winds between two luscious horse pastures has also put two white signs on either side of the gate, just where the fence ends, just to remind you. In case you missed it, like.
We didn't miss it.
"MINE!"
Just got a call from a dear friend who's just lost his low-paying, menial job. He didn't love the job, but it's a job and he has a family. See, he was told, he wasn't paying attention to directions, work wasn't up to snuff. By the way, this fellow who just lost his job just happens to have a head injury that makes it impossible to follow directions. Of course, he told his bosses that when he got the job. But alas, he lost the job, where he was tending gardens for people who live behind big white gates in a private community whose entrance is marked by a gate and guarded by a little "MINE" booth right at the entrance, with someone in it to tell you to turn right around just in case you thought you might like to see what they have. Lucky people, those people. They still have their jobs, lots of them.
The MINE people have sent most of the boring jobs to China. For the other jobs that they just can't send away ("Who will mulch for me? Who will sweep my floor? Who will paint my house trim?"), they hire illegal immigrants because they work cheaper. But you can't blame them, of course; everyone else charges too much. Or so everyone seems to say.
That's fine. We understand. But has anyone figured out what will happen to people who have head injuries and can't follow directions given to them by the "MINE" people? What do they do to have just a little of "mine" for themselves?
That's not a crack to fall between. That's a fissure.
Categories: All
Day 350 of Practice: The Reluctant Gourmet
Despite hours of meditative long tones on the flute for the last 350 days, I discover that I am not sufficiently spiritually advanced for placid pea picking. Still, I can joyfully weed the heck out of my own garden when there's nothing else to do. The latter (having nothing else to do) happens only at 7 a.m. on June 24, 2010, when I lock myself out of the house after a morning bike ride.
In other words: Once. Like ever, in forever. Musicians always have something to do. We can always practice, at least when we can get to our instruments. Which brings us to why I haven't practiced yet: The cat ate my house key.
Hopefully, the cat will also like peas, because we have a lot of them. Yesterday was CSA pickup day at Plato's Harvest, and it was summery hot. Just the day to step away from time and find peace via peas in the organic fields. Or, curse every pea as it came off the vine, wondering how many thousands of peas it takes to get to two pounds. It takes about ten thousand.
The Organic Farmer's Wife wonders if I even like vegetables. Oh, I do. When Denya the Fabulous cooks them, for example. All other times, I'll defer to the bread from Artisan Kitchen in Rochester, Mass., because all you have to do is unravel the tie wrap, sit down with a snappy friend, break off a few chunks, and you're good to go. Right, Sasha?
Now Hiring: Private Chef with Knack for Locally Grown Organic Peas.
I'll be downstairs practicing; call me when dinner's ready.
In other words: Once. Like ever, in forever. Musicians always have something to do. We can always practice, at least when we can get to our instruments. Which brings us to why I haven't practiced yet: The cat ate my house key.
Hopefully, the cat will also like peas, because we have a lot of them. Yesterday was CSA pickup day at Plato's Harvest, and it was summery hot. Just the day to step away from time and find peace via peas in the organic fields. Or, curse every pea as it came off the vine, wondering how many thousands of peas it takes to get to two pounds. It takes about ten thousand.
The Organic Farmer's Wife wonders if I even like vegetables. Oh, I do. When Denya the Fabulous cooks them, for example. All other times, I'll defer to the bread from Artisan Kitchen in Rochester, Mass., because all you have to do is unravel the tie wrap, sit down with a snappy friend, break off a few chunks, and you're good to go. Right, Sasha?
Now Hiring: Private Chef with Knack for Locally Grown Organic Peas.
I'll be downstairs practicing; call me when dinner's ready.
Categories: All
Day 348: Losing David O'Docherty, 1935-2010
We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand, and melting like a snowflake... Let us use it before it is too late! —Marie Beyon Ray
We're sad to learn of the loss of a great musician, poet, artist, and character in the Boston scene, Dublin-native David O'Docherty. O'Docherty passed away while swimming in Martha's Vineyard. According to the Vineyard Gazette, he had gone to the Vineyard to play tin whistle at the annual Bloomsday celebration in Vineyard Haven, as he does every year. (Bloomsday is June 16, the day the James Joyce's Leopold Bloom character, of Ulysses, set off on his exploits throughout Dublin.) He had gone swimming on Sunday, June 21 at 10 am, and never returned, apparently suffering a heart attack or some other medical event while swimming. He was 75.
It was sad news to the crowd of musicians and friends who gathered here at our house last night to ring in the solstice with Irish music. But, no doubt, O'Docherty would have approved. Just as solstice is a time to celebrate the light that comes out of darkness, so the loss of a friend can remind us of the life we must embrace while we have it. O'Docherty was a real inspiration, and it is only mildly comforting to know that he passed on to the Great Seisiun in the Sky while enjoying the world around him.
For a lovely tribute to O'Docherty, visit today's article in the Vineyard Gazette.
Categories: All
Day 345 of Practice: Doe. A Deer.
Oh my great people, I have gone Native. Henceforth, I shall be called She-Who-Spots-Deer-Standing-Near-Highway-Onramp-at-Midnight.
Not just one midnight, but now two midnights in a row. Last night, at the Bourne Rotary, after a Stage Door Canteen gig. Tonight, on the onramp to I-95 exit 13B in Canton, after a session at the Irish Cultural Center.
Of course, I did the only logical thing one does when one spots a deer standing by the side of the road at midnight. I called a friend.
Not just any friend, mind you. I called the Great Rudini, a musician, unmarried, and likely to be wide awake at midnight. He was awake, as it turns out, and my call interrupted him while he was photographing his friend's cat and saving it as the wallpaper on her phone. (I'm quite sure that there is no cause/effect relationship between these last two conditions.)
The Great Rudini is a college buddy, a dear friend, and for nearly fifteen years now, we have played together in a band called Einstein's Little Homunculus, a Celtic/Klezmer concatenation that specializes in children's songs for grown-ups. ("Daddy, what does Kooky Floozy mean?") In the band's heyday, we traveled together all over the folkin' place en route to coffeehouses and contra dances, and it was on these journeys in the Great Rudini's old Volvo wagon that I earned the nickname "Secretary of the Interior," for my great skill in spotting roadside wildlife attractions. Deer, moose, foxes, groundhog, beaver, hawks... if they were there, I saw them. And pointed it out.
Tonight, the Great Rudini was mildly impressed with my consecutive sightings, and asked me only one favor: If I should ever—"God forbid"—strike a deer with my car, please call him immediately. "There's good eatin' in them deer," he said.
On my mysterious roadside doe, however, he had no sage observation. Oh Great People of Blog Spirit, how can it be that I saw the same deer in two places, miles away from each other, on two consecutive nights? Both at midnight? It can only be one of three things:
1) Mother Earth is sending me an important message.
2) Deer act suspiciously as summer solstice nears.
3) I'm way super extra wicked overtired. There was no deer.
Should you have any insight on this matter, I implore you to write your thoughts on the back of a peyote root and send it to me at my home address. I shall await your message.
In the meantime, I shall sit here drinking tea with jam and bread....which, I have on very good authority, will bring us back to Doe.
~~~~~~~
For further insight on Native American deer symbolism, do visit the highly scientific, peer reviewed, and academic Web site of extensive international acclaim, www.whats-your-sign.com. Actually, do. I think I know the deer of which she speaks.
Not just one midnight, but now two midnights in a row. Last night, at the Bourne Rotary, after a Stage Door Canteen gig. Tonight, on the onramp to I-95 exit 13B in Canton, after a session at the Irish Cultural Center.
Of course, I did the only logical thing one does when one spots a deer standing by the side of the road at midnight. I called a friend.
Not just any friend, mind you. I called the Great Rudini, a musician, unmarried, and likely to be wide awake at midnight. He was awake, as it turns out, and my call interrupted him while he was photographing his friend's cat and saving it as the wallpaper on her phone. (I'm quite sure that there is no cause/effect relationship between these last two conditions.)
The Great Rudini is a college buddy, a dear friend, and for nearly fifteen years now, we have played together in a band called Einstein's Little Homunculus, a Celtic/Klezmer concatenation that specializes in children's songs for grown-ups. ("Daddy, what does Kooky Floozy mean?") In the band's heyday, we traveled together all over the folkin' place en route to coffeehouses and contra dances, and it was on these journeys in the Great Rudini's old Volvo wagon that I earned the nickname "Secretary of the Interior," for my great skill in spotting roadside wildlife attractions. Deer, moose, foxes, groundhog, beaver, hawks... if they were there, I saw them. And pointed it out.
Tonight, the Great Rudini was mildly impressed with my consecutive sightings, and asked me only one favor: If I should ever—"God forbid"—strike a deer with my car, please call him immediately. "There's good eatin' in them deer," he said.
On my mysterious roadside doe, however, he had no sage observation. Oh Great People of Blog Spirit, how can it be that I saw the same deer in two places, miles away from each other, on two consecutive nights? Both at midnight? It can only be one of three things:
1) Mother Earth is sending me an important message.
2) Deer act suspiciously as summer solstice nears.
3) I'm way super extra wicked overtired. There was no deer.
Should you have any insight on this matter, I implore you to write your thoughts on the back of a peyote root and send it to me at my home address. I shall await your message.
In the meantime, I shall sit here drinking tea with jam and bread....which, I have on very good authority, will bring us back to Doe.
~~~~~~~
For further insight on Native American deer symbolism, do visit the highly scientific, peer reviewed, and academic Web site of extensive international acclaim, www.whats-your-sign.com. Actually, do. I think I know the deer of which she speaks.
Categories: All
Day 344 of Practice: Cool Parents, We Love You.
Sometimes at bedtime, Soul Fry and I go over the events of the day and pick out our favorite part. I'm thinking about yesterday, one of those days when 343 days of practice paid off. Two gigs, totalling seven hours of playing, and twelve hours of the day.
The musical day began at the Farmer's Market in Plymouth, with ten children heralding in the start of the season with tambourines, shakers, and plastic instruments, and ended eight hours later with a 14-piece big band at Liam Maguire's in Falmouth playing "Brown Eyed Girl," the universal over-40 siren song for barroom dancers.
A riddle:
Q: How many bar bands does it take to play "Brown Eyed Girl?"
A: Apparently all of them.
But back to our story. Thank you farmers of Plymouth for bringing your goods to Steven's Field, a place that we who grew up in town associate with tennis and swim lessons (yes, we all swam there til someone spotted toilet paper floating by), steamed hot dogs, a can of Pepsi, and a chocolate bar, purchased from Chet Downie with our weekly 50-cent allowance.
Now the concession stand, run by Side Dish, is all about organic energy bars and hibiscus iced tea. Oh, then there's the oven baked pizza at the Market, done by the man in the straw porkpie hat, while you wait.
My favorite part? Mighta been Sasha's hug. Also mighta been the awesome under-5 crowd at the Farmer's Market, especially Lana, who shook her little patootie for nearly three hours straight, dancing while we played. That's what life is about, my friends.
Thank you, you cool moms and dads, for bringing your kids right to the music and letting them let themselves free for as long as they wanted to, not rushing them off anywhere, but just letting them play and dance.
You are some seriously cool people. Maybe I'm a little biased, and I certainly am no expert, but I really like the track you're on.
The musical day began at the Farmer's Market in Plymouth, with ten children heralding in the start of the season with tambourines, shakers, and plastic instruments, and ended eight hours later with a 14-piece big band at Liam Maguire's in Falmouth playing "Brown Eyed Girl," the universal over-40 siren song for barroom dancers.
A riddle:
Q: How many bar bands does it take to play "Brown Eyed Girl?"
A: Apparently all of them.
But back to our story. Thank you farmers of Plymouth for bringing your goods to Steven's Field, a place that we who grew up in town associate with tennis and swim lessons (yes, we all swam there til someone spotted toilet paper floating by), steamed hot dogs, a can of Pepsi, and a chocolate bar, purchased from Chet Downie with our weekly 50-cent allowance.
Now the concession stand, run by Side Dish, is all about organic energy bars and hibiscus iced tea. Oh, then there's the oven baked pizza at the Market, done by the man in the straw porkpie hat, while you wait.
My favorite part? Mighta been Sasha's hug. Also mighta been the awesome under-5 crowd at the Farmer's Market, especially Lana, who shook her little patootie for nearly three hours straight, dancing while we played. That's what life is about, my friends.
Thank you, you cool moms and dads, for bringing your kids right to the music and letting them let themselves free for as long as they wanted to, not rushing them off anywhere, but just letting them play and dance.
You are some seriously cool people. Maybe I'm a little biased, and I certainly am no expert, but I really like the track you're on.
Categories: All
Day 343 Part II, On Food: The Flute Smoothie, a Recipe
Here's a recipe from the Lord's most low maintenance chef.
An ideal drink to celebrate finding your lost flute. Five minutes to prepare, unless you insist on washing your fruit first. (Finicky, finicky you.)
-1 carton of Stonyfield fat-free blueberry yogurt that's been in the fridge for over two months because I hate fruit yogurt
-About 7 about-to-go-bad strawberries
-Half a package of fresh raspberries, also on the verge of saying bye-bye. I know because I had to pick out a few moldy ones. (Do you eat blue cheese? Then stop with the being grossed out thing.)
-A big handful of blueberries, still fresh. Miracle!
-Another big plop of fat-free vanilla yogurt... also Stonyfield. (Hey, they went to my alma mater, I have to buy their products.)
-A capful of "Mother's" brand toasted wheat germ. (Something to make you feel virtuous, even if you don't know what it's for.)
-Half a mug of tap water (I said low maintenance!)
-Half a mug of crushed ice
Run it through the blender for about a minute, and oh my goodness... You'll be set up for the morning.
An ideal drink to celebrate finding your lost flute. Five minutes to prepare, unless you insist on washing your fruit first. (Finicky, finicky you.)
-1 carton of Stonyfield fat-free blueberry yogurt that's been in the fridge for over two months because I hate fruit yogurt
-About 7 about-to-go-bad strawberries
-Half a package of fresh raspberries, also on the verge of saying bye-bye. I know because I had to pick out a few moldy ones. (Do you eat blue cheese? Then stop with the being grossed out thing.)
-A big handful of blueberries, still fresh. Miracle!
-Another big plop of fat-free vanilla yogurt... also Stonyfield. (Hey, they went to my alma mater, I have to buy their products.)
-A capful of "Mother's" brand toasted wheat germ. (Something to make you feel virtuous, even if you don't know what it's for.)
-Half a mug of tap water (I said low maintenance!)
-Half a mug of crushed ice
Run it through the blender for about a minute, and oh my goodness... You'll be set up for the morning.
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