Park Bench

Rain threatened from the west. Though it had been a warm morning, warm for late December, with the advancing clouds the breeze had freshened and the temperature had begun to drop. Still, in the park children in new coats raced around on new bikes, just as walkers in new shoes loped along the path around the lake, each faction dodging the other in a swirling ballet.

There was a sign - No Alcohol Permitted In The Park - at every entrance. But behind the bench at the far corner of the lake, an elderly gentleman dug into the deep pockets of his overcoat and removed two glasses, a bottle of cabernet and a corkscrew. He set the glasses on the bench and skillfully, yet with shaking hands, pulled the cork. He poured out two healthily glasses and set the bottle down on the bench between them. He removed his gray fedora and bowed his head for a moment. With odd care he snuggled the hat back on his ihead and reached for the glass on the left. He held it, aloft as though inviting the failing sun to warm it, until the palsy struck again. As he put the glass to his lips he suffered another slight tremor which left a small red bead in the corner of his mouth. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his mouth. He sipped from the glass again.

A small boy rode a new scooter along the walkway. A woman cantered along just behind him. When they came upon the man, the boy took notice, as boys will, of the bottle standing on the bench. He stopped as though he had come to the edge of a cliff and turned to the woman, who quickly pulled up beside him. "Look," he whispered and pointed to the bench. The woman followed the boy's finger and quickly turned away. "It's okay, let's go," she said and gave him a loving shove on his rump.

After a time, the man, in all seriousness, turned his glass up and finished his wine as if obligated. He took the full glass and drizzled its content across the bench. After a slight pause he took the remainder of the bottle to the edge of the pond and poured it into the water. For an instant, the gray water sparkled with the blood of the grape. The man waited. When there was no trace of wine in the water, he turned his back to the water and the distant past, returned to the bench, and shoved the glasses into the pocket of his overcoat. On his way from the bench he pitched the nearly full wine bottle into the trash bin and began the climb to the parking lot and another year.

Let The Sleeping Starlet Lie

"Justice delayed is justice denied." - William Gladstone

Just what is justice?

One definition: "the quality of being fair and reasonable."

But "fair and reasonable" to whom? The victim or the accused? Or, in this ghastly time, to the media and its disciples?

As anyone with an internet connection knows, the state of California is flush with cash. So it makes perfect sense that the people of California would spring for a new investigation into a 30-year-old accidental death. Or was it?

Or does it matter?

Natalie Wood, the phenomenally talented and beautiful actress, died under somewhat suspicious circumstances on 29 November, 1981 off the coast of Catalina Island. Perhaps had she not suffered from an awful fear of the water, the accidental death ruling would have sufficed, the loss accepted and regretted. Perhaps had there been no argument....

But even thirty years down the road, there is money to be made. A new book is out and the accompanying tour is lighting on every formerly reputatable news show. So the state of California, in the name of justice above solvency, has reopened its investigation into Natalie Wood's death.

But what could possibly come from this? By all accounts, there were only four people on the yacht -- one, Natalie, is dead; one wrote a book; one is "not a suspect;" one has remained quiet.

There's no time limit on the truth, and a good story still has legs. But odds are the state is not chasing some nose-broke killing machine here. We are a nation of laws, we are told, and justice, though a moving target, should be a perpetual goal. However, the reasonable exercise of common sense should also be a goal. Some stories should remain mysteries.

Why Music Matters

Read this.

Music matters. If I/you/we can't find a way to have a similar effect (to some meager degree), whether through a smile or a word or a story or a song or an opportunity, why am I/you/we here?

Music matters. We are born yearning for connection, and perhaps so we die. Connections come in all shapes, sizes, keys and languages. Sometimes it takes the form of a power D chord. Sometimes it takes only a touch. The connections are out there, if only we are open to them.

Music, even when it sounds like some racket from Hell, matters. What we do and say, how we look and act matters. We are magnets. It is up to us how we present ourselves, whether we attract or repulse. Either way, pain is an option, but only attraction offers an opportunity.

Music matters.

Our choices matter.

Read this.

Wilco - The Release Party Show

The Whole Love was released on Tuesday, 27 September. iTunes promptly delivered it when I logged on in the morning. But I did not have the time to get my head around the record. One quick and distracted listening in the car was the best I could do on day one, and that doesn't begin to do this work justice. Once again Wilco goes on a sonic Easter egg hunt with this record and issues the kind of aural challenge that cannot be answered when one is in the car and on the phone. It is a record that demands your full attention. Sadly, when it comes to listening to music, the older I get, the lazier I get. So it just may be that The Whole Love won't achieve staple status in my cue over the next months.

But it sure made for a great Wilco show in Raleigh. Of course, I was fortunate. Thanks to pre-sale, I had a seat on the 3rd row just to Nels's right. Without question Wilco is all about Jeff, but Nels is a manic virtuoso and to be able to watch him so closely was … disturbing. It is easy to tune out the greater sonic world and get stuck in how'd-he-do-that mode. However, despite Nels's antics and their unfamiliarity, The Whole Love songs came across very well. The melodies are catchy and the atmospheres are beguiling. Not sure about the lyrics yet -- need a little time on that one. But from the opening with "Art Of Almost", the band's energy and joy sold every one of the new tunes, all 9 of them that were played.

However, the highlight of the show was "Impossible Germany". I admit I am severely prejudiced toward this song. Every version I've heard has been mesmerizing. Raleigh was no different. It launched a killer second half of the first set - "Say You Miss Me" into "Whole Love" into "Pot Kettle Black" into "Handshake Drugs". Of course, "Impossible" alone was worth the price of admission. But top to bottom, the set list was strong. Naysayers would point out that the Summerteeth, Ghost, Sky periods were underrepresented, but the highlights from each made the set. Honestly, who would drop "Red-Eyed And Blue" from AM to add another Ghost song. At this point the only problem with a Wilco set is that the canon is now too big to accommodate the traditional two-hour show. I come from the days of the 3:30 hour Springsteen shows. Wilco could now, at last, put the kibosh on the opener and do two full sets and still leave fans wishing they had played this-or-that.

But not on this leg of the tour. As an opening act, Nick Lowe is a pure treasure. In Brit-speak, he's bloody ridiculous. An old guy with hair gone white with mileage, black horn-rimmed glasses and a beautiful thump-plucked Gibson acoustic, Lowe strummed and sang through a catalog familiar pop tunes he has penned for himself and others. This is a man who once titled a record Jesus Of Cool and, all religion aside, the title just might have been warranted. The only letdown, if any, was that he included only one song from his new record, The Old Magic, which deserves much more attention. During Wilco's encore he returned for two additional numbers and proved that old guys can rock too. Not your prototypical old English dude, this Nick Lowe.

If you get the chance to catch this show, by all means offer a non-essential limb for a good seat. This music stuff is good for the soul.

The Big Man

Chasing the sunset somewhere southwest of Topeka and cruising at 32008 feet, it truly hit home that Clarence Clemons is gone. Of course he's been gone since June 18th when he passed away following a stroke at the age of 69. As a longtime Brucefag follower of the E Street Band, I read the news with a heavy heart. The Big Man had brought a world of joy. Sure, his chops had slipped over the course of the last few tours, but when he stepped into the spot the notes mattered less than the spotlight, and the man deserved the spotlight.

Through the magic of all things Internet and Steve Jobs' little jukebox, I was listening to The River show from Madison Square Garden in 2009. Drinking a little Jack & water and staring down at the odd blocks of Kansas greenery, I had Drive All Night cued up and when the sax solo came it hit like a shotgun blastf. In the beat of a heart I was back in every arena where I'd seen the band, every car I'd jammed away in, every dark apartment drinking every solitary drink I've drunk. It was supposed to be a diversion, a counterpoint to the engines' droning. It wasn't supposed to matter. Not this time. But it did. Shame on me for ever pretending it wouldn't. 

I've never gotten my head around the whole arts/music/emotion thing. Those things, those works of art, can reach from some uber-godly depth of heart or soul or primordial love-ooze and disturb places that mightn't ought to be disturbed. Life would be easier if they weren't, not necessarily better but easier.

Many artists and musicians say they feel as though they are simply a conduit, that the songs and the stories and the images flow into them and out them as if on their own accord. Keith Richards, for one, is bomb on this. Yet it seems that many of those who espouse this theory suffer some version of artist's agony, some addiction, some inability to find a peaceful, productive place in the world outside their creative process. Clarence seemed to cotton to none of this. He came from a different place, a place that allowed beauty to arise without the throes of creation, a place of a deeper peace. On stage and in the lore of the band, this was played up. From the outfits and demeanor on stage to the oft-repeated tale of the first Clarence/Bruce meeting on a rainy Jersey boardwalk, Clarence was presented as a larger than life character. But it seemed a life far less ordinary. Though he occupied his traditional position stage-left for nearly forty years, when the spotlight hit him and the solo began the E Street universe shifted and Springsteen, one of the most compelling performers since Daniel entered the lions' den, played second fiddle until C had his say. In younger days Bruce could be seen zooming around the stage during the solos like a planet round the sun, but he was a miniaturized Boss until the saxman was done; in later years he was prone to step back and observe, to drink it in like the rest of us, with a look of appreciation and awe. As the last note rang often Clarence would recede from the spot with a slight bow as if acknowledging a gift both given and received. Night after night the notes were the same, but the solos, like a lover's kiss, landed fresh and true every time.

If we ever see the E Street Band again, it will surely feel like a skeleton. Though always an integral part of the band and the sound, Danny passed away and was replaced. For the most part the band felt same. But Clarence played a role in the live shows that can never be recast. Whatever band we get next, if..., will feel like E Street Lite.

The performances of Clarence Clemons will live on. Those solos that soared like a red-tailed hawk in a summer sky will continue to steal my breath. They sound as fresh and new now as they did thirty years ago. But the teardrops will never dry on E Street. 

*"Hey vibes man, hey jazz man, play me your serenade..."*