Wheelie good sounds for dwiving

Reading and listening to one of Third Man Records' latest offerings--  Car Ma & Sound Wheels, a book of prosetry & photart from Alison Mosshart (Kills, Dead Weather) and a "sound sculpture" record album of written parts of the book.  

 "...a book about

Cars
Art
Romance
Music
Attraction

            Carnage
            Asphalt
            Rage
            Madness
            Allies"

Parts are exactly what I was hoping for, parts are not at all what I expected. Parts resonate deeply and are strongly identifiable, parts are a way of living I can only dream of. It took a while for me to become a Mosshart fan, I was introduced to her through the Dead Weather when I fell down the Jack White rabbit-hole and I was initially dismissive.  She was just a chick doing the hard rock posture of Steven Tyler or Axl Rose and she kept getting in the way when I was trying to watch Jack on the drums.  Jack called her "Baby Ruthless".  She was obviously good at what she did, but what she did didn't appeal to me.  Fun fact:  A friend who was enamored of her once told me, before I left the house to drive to Baltimore for a Dead Weather show, "Blow a kiss to Baby Ruthless for me".  At one point during the show when I made eye contact with her, I blew that kiss.  She looked at me, turned and walked over towards the other side of the stage, turned back and looked at me again.  I stared back and she blinked first, then didn't come back to that side of the stage for the rest of the show, which pissed off the guy behind me who wanted to give her his trucker cap. In hindsight, her reaction, or at least my perception of it, surprises me.

I don't know exactly when my impression of her changed. I'm still not into the Kills, though I may be someday.  Maybe it was when I found out she was a stick-shift driver who writes while she drives (can't tell you how many of my blog posts have started that way). 

I'm not necessarily a gear head, I love the lines and purr of a good muscle car but don't learn models and years and horsepowers.  But I love to drive, it's the closest thing to a drug for me. My favorite vacations have been road-trips in rented Mustangs and Camaros.  And it's how I've been making it through Covid, by getting out of the house and into my own little quarantine in the car, driving the same backroads over and over and exploring new ones in other counties, just flying on the straightaways and swooping through the curves in my so-not-muscle Honda Fit that might be uncool but feels like a bullet to me. A properly driven Camaro could certainly blow it into the ditch, but the way that little car handles curves might surprise you. 

But anyway, Alison.  I think much of my early antipathy might've been due to jealousy.  She's a single woman taking care of herself and doing what she wants and being what she wants and being celebrated for it and I resent that.  How come I can't live a life like that?  I'm too much admin as fuck and too scared of not being able to pay the bills.  But at some point the light switch flipped and I really began to dig her. I love the way she talks, low and well modulated but enthusiastic about whatever subject is under discussion, I love her candor and lack of pretension, I love that she just says "I am an artist" and is one. I still envy her, but now I also enjoy her.

As for the words she put together for Car Ma & Sound Wheels, it's right where my head's at these days, wanting to get out, get on the road, go away from being admin and be something else for a while.  I ripped the record to mp3 and it's going on a flash drive full of Funkadelic, Captain Beefheart, Mattiel, Albert Ayler, Moondog, and Jack White's Boarding House Reach for listening in the car. It fits perfectly.

"And nothing was permanent because permanence wasn't important. Nor was it fast enough."

 

 

 

 

  

Random babblings: Coronavirus springtime

"Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring."
(Ivan Karamazov to his brother Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Doestoevsky)

Devil's Backbone Park, Washington County, MD

Spring came early this year, before the coronavirus hit the U.S. in full force.  Temperatures were mild all winter and the mid-Atlantic didn't get more than a dusting or two of snow. And then at the end of February, the daffodils that we wouldn't normally see until close to the middle of March began budding, and the spring peepers began peeping in the creek across the street. It was wonderful, those two harbingers got me just as excited as usual. But there was an undercurrent to it, a feeling that it wasn't right. They were too early, which, combined with the mild winter, seemed to signify all too obviously that Greta Thunberg ain't kiddin' around, folks, and we need to begin listening to the scientists and our governments need to start getting regulatory.  And yet, instead we have Icky Trump rolling back every regulation he can to reverse the small amount of environmental good that's been done over the last half-century.  

But now it's April and there are still daffodils in bloom, and tulips and redbud trees are beginning to burst forth, and sticky little leaves are opening up on the trees.  And the coronavirus is ramping up its death toll and has forced business closures that are crippling the U.S. economy.  And while some folks are holed up at home in self-quarantine, others are getting out to take what socially-distant pleasure they can from the early-arriving, long-lasting spring.  I'm of the latter group (don't yell at me). Aside from work during the week and brunch and movies on the weekends, my life has been one of social distance on a regular basis for many years. But now I'm furloughed from work and waiting to find out when unemployment payments will kick in and, while I can't do brunch or movies, I can still get out and drive. It's either that or stay home binge-watching Father Brown and obsessing over where the hell to buy some toilet paper. 

A Facebook conversation this morning had me missing my favorite Waffle House, the one off of I-70 near Hagerstown, MD, where a couple of the ladies on the staff have memorized my usual order of steak and eggs, sunny-side up,  hashbrowns smothered, diced, and capped, and sweet tea. Waffle House, for those paying attention, has become a barometer for the severity of the coronavirus pandemic, according to the "Waffle House Index" that FEMA uses to gauge disaster severity. The company has become a model of not only 24/7/365 service, but emergency response.  Between getting their restaurants up and running on generator power after hurricanes and tornadoes, and rolling out their Waffle House food trucks to provide food for affected communities, they've fed a lot of hungry people who might not have had much in the way of options after a disaster.  But the coronavirus pandemic is one disaster even Waffle House wasn't prepared for.  They've closed over 400 of their 2,000-something locations, which puts that FEMA index in the red.

Usually the Hagerstown location is bustling when I walk in. I'm usually able to snag a single empty seat at the high bar, while larger groups of people have to wait for a table.  Watching the staff behind the counter is like watching a raucous ballet, as the servers and expediters dance behind the cooks at the grill and waffle presses, pushing trays of dishes through the washer behind the high bar, slinging plates of hashbrowns to the tables with graceful efficiency while calling out hellos to every person who walks in the door.  Today the place was empty with a capital EMP-TY.  I called in my order from the parking lot and sat waiting until Miss Linda came out to give me my packed and bagged waffle and hashbrowns and take my credit card. She invited me to come inside to sign the receipt, and it was a sad, lonely sight-- Plastic covering over all the high bar stools, and only Miss Linda taking orders and one cook dishing them up. I asked her to tell all the other staff I would normally see there that I said "Hi" and she said she would, and that I'd see them all again soon, because this wasn't going to last forever and "We'll be back, better than ever!" 

 
 
Her optimism reminded me of an interview with musician William Tyler that I'd read this morning in which he was asked if he had any words of hope to share during these troubled times. He did, in the form of a quote from former POW, Admiral James Stockdale-- “Never lose faith in the end of the story.’”  

I agree with him that that's a powerful mantra to hold onto. If only I didn't drive past so many Trump signs on the lawns of folks out in the more rural areas of Maryland...


 

 
 

Five on the five: Escaping from coronachaos and other stresses

Once upon  a time there was a little girl who didn't know what she wanted to do in life. So she indulged in driving country roads, riding her bike, walking in the woods, drinking tea, and reading books.  Then one day she realized she was growing older and that maybe it was time to figure out her future. So she thought about it and thought about it and thought about it, until it gave her a headache. She just couldn't figure it out. So she went back to indulging in driving country roads, riding her bike, drinking tea, and...

It'll end someday.

When I moved out of my parents' house in Virginia into my first apartment, I ended up in new territory-- Maryland.  Being on my own for the first time in an area I wasn't the least familiar with, I started going out driving a lot, to explore and get to know my way around.  There was a lot less of the suburbs back then, much more farmland and forest.  Often in the evenings after work, I'd get in the car and pick some country road I'd driven past on another day, turning onto it at nightfall and cruising in the dark until I was ready to head back home and go to sleep.  Driving around on the weekends led to the discovery of a vast number of parks and recreational areas in my county and the one next to it, which led to exploration on foot and became an avid love of hiking.  I never went as far as getting into long-distance trekking or climbing mountains or even camping, but I spent hours in the woods of mid- and western Maryland, learning to watch for deer and foxes and other wildlife, bushwacking off-trail, picking up animal bones and turtle shells and feathers along the way.

And I never did figure out what to actually do with my life. High school was a miserable experience and my family was far from rich, so I skipped college and started working full time right out of high school.  Started as a sales clerk in a department store and made my way over the years into the back office side as a clerical, assistant manager, manager, to inventory processing (you see, I don't mind being responsible for things, but I can't stand being responsible for people), to where I am now, as an operations manager.  I've done ok for someone whose only college experience is a handful of part-time classes in their late-20s.  The industry I'm in is contrary in many ways to the principles I've developed over the years, but it's family-owned and they treat the staff like part of that family and pay us fairly well. And since I don't know what the hell else to do anyway, I've stuck around there for over 20 years. 

But fear is also one of things that's kept me there.  Back in my early 20s, just a few years after I moved out on my own, the store I worked for at the time went bankrupt.  I was clueless and stuck around to the bitter end, even when paychecks got skimpy.  I ended up paying my rent in installments, and taking out cash advances on my credit card to do so.  Then came the day when my landlady called to say the property management company wouldn't allow her to take my rent in installments anymore, and that call was followed up by one from a collection agency on behalf of my credit card company.  I had no money to give either of them.  This was the job I'd gotten straight out of high school, seven years before.  I had no experience job hunting, no idea whether to go to another department store or try something else.  So I did what I always did. I got in the car and drove. Headed out to the mountains towards the Grotto of Lourdes near Emmitsburg MD, flying at 90mph with the stereo blasting Queensryche, crying scared tears as I went.  As I turned off the main road onto the side road leading to the grotto, I finally noticed the flashing lights behind me.  The cop walked toward my car with his hand on his gun, but I wasn't trying to get away from him, I was just freaked out and depressed and trying to escape from it all.  When I told him where I was headed, he calmed down a bit, but still gave me a ticket that ended up costing over $100, more money I didn't have. 

I've never forgotten that day. Every time I've considered exploring another line of work that might be more fulfilling but would pay way less than I make now, I've felt whispers of that choking fear again.  I ended up moving back in with my parents back then while I looked for another job and got my finances straightened out, but fear of ending up in that situation again turned me into one of those people who will spend years in an unfulfilling job that's stable rather than exploring other options. I save my exploring for the road, and the woods.

So here we are, roughly 30 years later, and the stable job I've had for the last 20 years is being impacted by the goddamned corona virus.  My boss notified the staff yesterday that while our store is closed and we're all at home social-distancing or out hunting for toilet paper, we will be paid out of short term disability.  When those hours run out, we'll be paid from regular sick time, then vacation time.  What his notice didn't mention was the word "layoff", but it was lurking between the lines.  We had to do some of those back during the 2008 recession and the current situation is horribly more unsettled and uncertain.  My position is considered essential to the store, but my stomach still dropped at the thought of reduced pay, possibly getting to the point of no pay, and knowing that my own staff (against my wishes, I've ended up responsible for people after all) will be the first to be cut if layoffs come.  And while I try to plan for my own situation, I think also of the many people out there whose finances are already being impacted, who have already been laid off, too many of them familiar to me from shops and restaurants and movie theaters that I frequent.  To deal with the fear and the twisted gut and racing mind, on behalf of myself and everyone else out there, I'm doing what I've always done-- Driving those back roads.  Wandering the woods is less of an option than it used to be, between the encroachment of the suburbs filling the trails with people who have no thought of walking quietly and watching for wildlife, and my own advancement into middle age and the joint issues that come with it. And, thanks to the steadily growing suburbs, it takes longer to get to the back roads than it used to. But I know all the ones tucked between developments, and am willing to drive farther out, beyond the spreading edges of the suburbs.

You'd think I'd be tired of these roads by now, I know them so damned well.  But I'm not.  The feel of engagement with the car as it coasts down a long hill and banks into a curve while my favorite music blares out of the speakers is still the cheapest, most stimulating, and easily obtainable high I know.  The spinning of my brain slows down to match the flow of the car and the knots in my stomach begin to ease loose. I don't usually come home with answers, but it lessens the fear for a while. As long as I can afford a tank of gas, I'll need those roads. 


And because I drive a stick shift, this has become a bit of a theme song for me...

A White Weekend 10 Year Anniversary: Everything I've Ever Learned, Part 1

It's been 10 years since my first White Weekend, but there's been no snow in the DC area this year. And this anniversary celebration is actually not about Jack and his music so much as it is a recognition of Everything I've Ever Learned from the entity called Jack White.  Because that's a lot, and it's going to take a couple of posts to cover it all.  Hopefully you'll follow along.
 
 

For the couple of decades pre-Jack, I was fairly musically monogamous. I would latch onto one, maybe two bands or musicians and listen to them pretty much exclusively. I'd dabble here and there in other stuff, but my primary focus would be that one or two that resonated with me on an emotional level. And my tastes ran in sequence from the cartoon rock of Kiss in my high school years, to the raunchy rock of Guns'n'Roses, to the operatic rock of Queensryche, to the esoteric rock of T00l,  the grungy rock of Soundgarden and Audioslave, and then whatever Incubus is considered.  T00l led me into things like the ideas of Carl Jung, but none of the other bands I listened to over the years really opened me up to anything else.

That changed immediately in 2010 because getting into Jack meant also getting into the blues.  It was impossible to not be curious about all of the music and other elements that he talked about-- It Might Get Loud had just come out the year before and he went on and on about the blues in that film and in pretty much every old White Stripes interview I was digging up. Right away, I was buying music by Robert Johnson, Blind Willie McTell, and Son House right alongside all of the White Stripes, Raconteurs, and Dead Weather albums.  I went as deep down that rabbit hole as I did down the Jack hole.  I've never read any of the books written about the White Stripes, but I've read a dozen or more about blues music and countless essays and articles.  And it blows my mind that I made it all the way to my mid-40s, having grown up hearing Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones and the rest of those blues revival bands, without ever hearing any of the original artists who inspired the revivalists.  If I hadn't been exposed to it all by Jack, it's possible I might've lived my entire life without ever consciously listening to Howlin' Wolf or Muddy Waters or Skip James or Fred McDowell or Geechie Wiley. And there's still so much that I haven't gotten to, so many people like Tampa Red, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, and both Sonny Boy Williamsons whose music I've yet to dig into, and who knows how many I've not even heard of yet.


 
Actually, thinking back, I remember at some point when I was younger, George Thorogood's Bad to the Bone was a big hit and I heard it all the time, and someone said that was "blues music".  And then other guys like Stevie Ray Vaughen came along and, again, were described as "the blues".  But back then I just listened to music, I didn't bother to explore it, and those guys didn't grab me that strongly anyway.  So I accepted what I heard and my early, very vague conception of "the blues" became something created by white people.  Now that the circle of people I share and discuss music with has broadened, it feels like everyone I know knows where blues music came from, but what about outside of that circle?  Are we still just a bunch of Seymours in a world of Blues Hammer fans?



When Third Man Records released their two Paramount Records sets and Documents Records reissue series in 2013/2014, my world really exploded. It wasn't just that they'd opened a doorway to old music and genres that I'd never considered before. That in itself was tremendous, but I soon realized that along with the music, I was developing a totally different awareness of United States history and culture.  It's difficult to read extensively about blues music without also learning about the post-Civil War reconstruction era and the beginnings of the Civil Rights era, about the history of African-American people. The history of not only blues but also jazz, soul, R&B, rap, and hip-hop music is obviously enmeshed in the African-American experience. But is it that obvious?  How many people, even those educated in the history of the music, really stop to think about it at that level?  White versions of all of those genres can be deeply enjoyable, but to listen to the white versions and not acknowledge that their basis lies in the black experience is to naively believe that the tip of the iceberg is the whole thing. Even listening to Charley Patton and Robert Johnson can be just peeking below the surface if you don't take the time to learn about the experiences of those musicians. When Black Lives Matter became prominent in the news in 2015, I found myself able to understand why specifically because I'd read Alan Lomax's description of having been hauled to the police station for being caught recording music with Son House, and because I knew that Blind Willie McTell's Southern Can Is Mine wasn't necessarily written about beating a woman.  I can say with no pretension or irony that this music woke me up to a whole new form of empathy.


 
Touching on another currently prominent social issue and at the risk of being accused of misogyny, I have to admit that, up until 2010, I didn't have much appreciation for female singers and vocalists. There's something about soprano voices that is frequently like nails on a chalkboard for me.  Even Jack's high-pitched tenor kept me from diving into the White Stripes for a year or so.  Up until that time, there was only a small handful of female singers I could stand to hear, which included Tina Turner, Annie Lennox, Janis Joplin, and sometimes Alanis Morissette. So my musical world was shaped by an almost completely male-centric perspective.  But Jack is recognized for his associations with female musicians so his fans can't help but be exposed to female voices. The first on the list for me was, of course, Alison Mosshart of the Dead Weather.  Can't say I've become a full-on fan, but she does have a good rough'n'ready rock'n'roll voice. Next was Loretta Lynn, through the album Jack produced, Van Lear Rose, and I found myself wanting to hear more of Loretta's straightforward, conversational style. Then Cary Ann Hearst's scratchy tone grabbed me, when I saw Shovels and Rope open for Jack in 2012. Then came the old blues queens  included on the Paramount Records sets-- Ma Rainey, Ethel Waters, Alberta Hunter, and Ida Cox-- and the women who played harder blues as well as any man-- Louise Johnson, Geechie Wiley, and Elvie Thomas.  



Slowly I realized that there were more female voices that my ears could tolerate than I'd thought, and that I actually enjoyed. Yet I was still shocked at myself in 2016, when Third Man Records signed Margo Price, who sings country songs in a powerful-yet-soft soprano that's exactly the sort that used to make me cringe.  There's something about Margo's delivery of her smart and raw lyrics, though, that connected with me and made me end up not just enjoying her sound, but loving to sing along with her.  And then Jack collaborated on a song on Beyonce's album Lemonade and I gave the whole record a listen and, holy hell, it blew me away.  If you'd told me in 2010 that I would one day buy a record by someone like Beyonce, I probably would've laughed in your face. As with Alison Mosshart, I can't say I've become a Beyonce fan, but Lemonade resonates with me deeply.  Others I've come to love are Rachel Nagy of the Detroit Cobras, and Mattiel, who's got a clarion voice and writes songs that sound like a cross between Nancy Sinatra and avant-garde garage band The Monks.  Most recently, Third Man released a 3-record compilation of Patsy Cline's Decca Records singles, and I can't stop singing along with her in the car. Why was I never exposed to her music before???  Though if I had been, would my ears have been prepared to appreciate it the way I can now?  That's the thing.  I think it took having my mind opened by all the myriad things Jack has exposed me to in order to make this shift.  There are still a lot of female voices out there that grate on my ears, but I've learned to at least listen before dismissing most of them outright and that's significant, because it's been necessary for me (and anyone else who might not realize this yet) to recognize that these women have important stories to tell.







Along with Loretta Lynn's country stylings, Jack introduced me to Hank Williams when he joined Bob Dylan's project of writing music to unfinished Hank lyrics, released as The Lost Notebooks of Hank Williams in 2011.  Throughout my childhood, Johnny Cash was the definition of country music, but Loretta and Hank and, again, the two massive Paramount Records sets and then Jack's American Epic project have put me on the path of Cash's predecessors. As with blues music, it's opened up a whole 'nother world for me.  

For the sake of brevity, though, that world and more are gonna be explored in Part 2 of this anniversary celebration.

The Nine Year Anniversary of the White Stripes breakup is a palindrome

 

Nine years later, it's 02/02/2020 and the day is a palindrome.  

The White Stripes were a bit of a paradox, so it's fitting that this would happen on one of their anniversaries.  Here's one of the best songs that Jack White will ever write, recorded by the Stripes back in 2000.  Listen carefully to catch the cleverly off-beat rhyme scheme in this tale of young love, bowling, and jealousy. I'd credit one of Jack's favorite songwriters, Bob Dylan, for the story song influence, but my pal Peromyscus once said this song was like "Chuck Berry for the current generation", which is probably more accurate.

I took my girl to go bowling 

Downtown at the Red Door 

After an argument I started 

'Cause I thought she didn't like me anymore 

I can't help it sometimes I feel pitiful 

And of course she's so young and beautiful 

I bought us two glasses of Coke 

That's her favorite 

And I wanted to make up for earlier 

But I dropped her glass and it broke 

So I just gave my glass to her 

She laughed and so did I in our lane 

And then she went to the vending machine 

To buy a candy cane 

But right next to that was a boy I knew 

With a spring in his hand 

Playing a country pinball machine 

Called "Stand By Your Man" 

I saw him talk to her 

But I stayed in my lane 

And played my game steady 

And was thinking of a day 

When I'd be too old to throw a ball this heavy 

But I guess I'm young now 

So it's easier to knock 'em all down 

Then I looked and saw her say to him 

"You're really hittin' that ball around" 

And so he's lookin' at her the way I did 

When I first met her 

I could see in his face 

White flowers 

And cups of coffee 

And love letters 

I was sorry to interrupt their game 

But I went and did it anyway 

I dropped my red bowling ball 

Through the glass of his machine 

And said "Are you quick enough to hit 

This ball, Mr. Clean?" 

I was scared to lose her 

So I couldn't help bein' mean 

And that ended both of our games 

I said I was sorry 

But my girl left with him just the same 

I thought how much I hate 

When love makes me act this way 

I was bent over a broken pinball machine 

In a bowling alley and I threw it all away 

Well isn’t it all just a big game?