Jeff L. Howe's Open Salon Blog

Robert Plant, Eric Clapton and Elvis

Tue, 22 May 2012 06:05:12 -0400

This particular meander began for me a number of years ago when Eric Clapton disassembled his screaming rock and roll classic Layla and lovingly rebuilt it and rearranged it into the hypnotic, folky, acoustic Layla that most people are familiar with today. That rearrangement was an amazing act of maturity on Clapton’s part - a confidence and clarity that can only result from owning the song by having played it thousands of times. The resulting product was as smooth as the original was blistering. But this was coming from a man who was once equated to God and who penned one of the all-time heart-breaking ballads after his infant son fell to his death from an apartment window.

Eric Clapton

It further came together when Robert Plant, rock singer and former front man for Led Zeppelin, recorded an acoustic collaboration with country star Alison Krauss about five years ago. I had never been a big fan of Led Zeppelin but I was certainly aware of their tall, blonde, lead singer with the voice that could cut through cold steel. The Plant/Krauss recording, Raising Sand, was stunning. It was a beautifully delicate and thoughtful recording that cast Plant in a whole new light. His voice was still powerful but now subdued and restrained.

He had aged like fine wine.

Robert Plant

I became more interested in Plant and began listening to his recordings on YouTube. I was familiar with the Raising Sand work so I concentrated on the middle years and early Zep classics from the 70’s like Black Dog, Going To California, Kashmir and Whole Lotta Lovin. They were songs that I’d been hearing on the radio for years, but had never REALLY LISTENED to.

When I did listen, especially to Plant’s voice, I began to more fully appreciate the power and the subtlety that that man was able to simultaneously project. This made his current work with Kraus all the more interesting. With Krause, Plant is holding back and channeling his fury into sterling vocal gems. It’s like using a shotgun to paint a small picture.

Also popping up on YouTube, in stark contrast, were quiet, subtle acoustic versions of these rock classics from the obviously aging Plant. There was a mid-career solo version of Going To California, and a bluegrass version of Black Dog with Krauss, in which you could actually hear honey drip. The years and the life style had left their tracks on his face, but his voice was still as powerful and expressive as always.

In my Internet travels, I came across an interview with Plant; I think it was a fairly recent appearance on the David Letterman Show. With Letterman, the aging Plant sat cross-legged on the interview chair and recalled a meeting with Elvis, back stage at one of Zep’s early shows. According to Plant, Elvis hung out with them that night, and later in their hotel room, curious about the logistics of a modern rock band and sharing stories of the road. Here was the sagging face of primordial rock and roll hanging out with the new darlings of Big Time Rock. Elvis saw the future and it had to have made him jealous.

So naturally I began to wonder - had Elvis managed to survive the 70’s, and had he lived a long and productive life – like Clapton and Plant – what would he be doing today? What if he hadn’t died bloated on a toilet seat, preserving himself in our minds as that hideous, sweating Vegas/Disco character that he had become when he died? What if he had lived on to be an old man, and like Clapton, Plant, Willie Nelson, Paul McCartney and others, had aged gracefully and productively? What if Elvis had eventually taken Hound Dog, Don’t Think Twice, Jailhouse Rock and Heartbreak Hotel and recast them, rearranged them, regeared them and sang them with new feeling?

Can’t you just hear a Layla-esque version of Blue Suede Shoes? He might have ended up a sage old grandfatherly mentor to modern music. Maybe he would have collaborated with Maroon Five, Gotye, Nora Jones, Tony Bennet and k.d. lang. He might have become a regular in Mr. Rogers Neighborhood and had bit parts in CSI and Hawaii Five-0. In fact, can’t you just hear cackling old Mother Janis Joplin, gimp-legged Duane Allman and bald Buddy Holly sittin’ on Elvis’s porch on his farm in Tennessee, drinking V-8 and jamming and harmonizing way into the evening?

I don’t know. It’s interesting to speculate. But I think that if Presley had been able to weather the hard times, he would have become a beloved and talented iconic figure like Clapton and Plant. I think he would wear it well.

Elvis

This post and much more can always be found at

jeff-howe.net

The Dead Baby Doll That Watches Over My Garden

Sun, 25 Mar 2012 12:03:34 -0400

^{(For reasons that only OS understands, it won't allow me to upload photos this morning.}^{To see graphic, nude photos of the dead baby doll please visit jeff-howe.net. Also new this morning: a repost of "Unorthodox Church of the Holy Moly (stories) and a new WTF? photo.)}

The dead baby doll that guards my bonsai garden is not a doll carelessly lost in tall weeds or dropped from a child’s arms on a walk through the yard. It was not blown there by the wind or deposited by a flood. It was not flung off the back of a bouncing truck or lost in a snowy drift. This doll was not misplaced in any way.

This is a doll that was buried.

I found it a dozen years ago when I first bought the house and was digging along the side to create a garden. My shovel struck something that made a curious thumping. Suddenly bright colored pieces of toy plastic came to the surface… almost the entire grave came up in one heaping shovel-full.

The baby lay there motionless, grinning, beckoning me to pick it up. “Pa-Pa” it seemed to say, eyes twinkling, pudgy arms extended. I am powerless in those sorts of situations.

As surely as a corpse, it was buried face up, with a small shard of blanket to wrap it. The Kleenex box-sized grave held small toys, trinkets, and doll paraphernalia – provisions for the dolly afterlife. The grave contents have been lost over the years but the baby has always remained, in a prominent place of honor.

Darkened and peeling, the dead baby doll is now the commodore of the bonsai fleet. It is the wise old owl that lives in the rafters and watches over all. “Whooooo…. whooooo?” it is sometimes heard to moan.

But most of all, the dead baby doll rides upon the wind chimes that hang from the trellis - the long chimes measuring the breeze and playing the melody that defines the day.

Ding. Bong. Ka-ding.

But it is the baby doll, not the wind, that is responsible for which notes play and in what order . When the dead baby doll feels a twitch of B-flat… it is B-flat that suddenly fills the air.

Long live the dead baby doll.

Redcoats Advance On Lancaster - Voters Defenseless

Sun, 11 Mar 2012 12:03:34 -0400

What exactly does a heat-packing, god-fearing, constitution-defending American have to do to vote around here? That’s the question that many were asking here in Pennsylvania’s Lancaster County last week after the City Fathers and Mothers of tiny Marctic Township moved to have the township polling places returned to the Methodist church from which they were relocated a few years previous.

According to an article in the March 8, 2012 issue of the Lancaster New Era Intelligencer Journal, the elementary school that currently houses the polls offers better parking, better access and a more functional space than the church. It is centrally located and easy to find. In most ways it is the ideal location for a public gathering to be held. However, the problem lies in the fact that it is illegal to carry a gun onto school property – any school – which includes the school where the polls are located. This has the undies of some of the local citizenry in a considerable bunch because they would not be able to exercise their God-given right to carry a gun any damn where they please, any damn time it pleases them.

Even into an elementary school.

Even into a polling place.

Even to vote.

Think about that....

Sorry folks, I've done it again. In order to finish this post you'll have to click on my website (jeff-howe.net). But while you're there you'll find so much else to do and read. There's even a new Einstein's Hammock post. You can always click back... do this now.

Live-Blogging Parkinson's: So NOW What Do You Do?

Sun, 4 Mar 2012 11:03:15 -0500

Fortunately, realization came to me slowly rather than suddenly. There was no revealing moment of great suspense: no shocked faces, no crying loved ones, no wine glasses dropping suddenly to the floor. Instead it came to me in small increments of understanding: a problem, the possibility, Google searches, increasing probability, tests, diagnosis, more appointments...

Because this process took place over a period of a couple years, I was a little better able to work through it in my mind, having little glimpses of intermittent quiet between the stages in which to absorb it.

But it still occupied me twenty-four/seven. I was quiet a lot. I was sad. I pondered the situation and weighed the options. What does this mean? Do I spend the rest of my days pitifully shaking and staring off into tomorrow like Muhammad Ali? Will I lose my mind? What happens when the pills no longer work? How much time do I have? Is there nothing ahead of me but deterioration? Is there any up side? Maybe I don’t even have PD… maybe I have something else? Would that be better or worse?

And for days, weeks, months, that’s what you do. You try to look at it from all angles, hoping that you’ll stumble upon an angle that you haven’t’ thought of yet. You feel alternately happy and yet sorry for yourself: “Why me? Why now? Why didn’t this happen to the boss or Jerry Sandusky or Mohammar Ghadafy instead?”

You write down all of the things that are changed… some forever. Priorities are rearranged, belongings are gotten rid of, money is marshaled and options are cast out in full view like a spilled bag of marbles. “… if I had it to do over again, what would I do..?”

“… if I had it to do over again….?”

And then you realize that, in a way you DO have it to do over again. Apart from the Parkinson’s part, what happens next is largely a clean, open slate. Sure, life has always been an open slate but now the game has a name and it has a time limit. The world is no longer your oyster, that’s a younger man’s game. But that’s OK too because you’ve had some oyster…not a lot, but enough from time to time to know what it tastes like if only in isolated little bits. You’ve been there, you’ve sampled it; on occasion you even rolled in it.

So how do you react? After the initial shock wears off and you finish the trying-to-make-lemonades-out-of-lemons bit, you finally muster up all of the “well this is a fucking, rotten, ill-timed, inconvenient, pathetic, unfortunate thing to happen” that you can find and then stew in it in self-pity. That one takes a while.

But at some point you start sticking your head out the other side and looking for something positive. I’m still somewhat shocked but grateful that I’m finally at a point of having an understanding of the situation. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s STILL a shitty situation, but rather that fret over what I’ve not done in my life, I’m trying to get to work GETTING the things done that I can… as many as possible.

Look at it this way: you didn’t just die in a horrible automobile accident or get murdered walking down the street. You haven’t been told that you have terminal, inoperable cancer or that you are about to be eaten alive by vicious, flesh eating beetles. Granted those things might yet happen but at this point you only know that you HAVE PD. You probably have a few other things that are racing to kill you… we’re all dying of something. But at least you know what you have. You can make plans, put priorities in order.

I’ll tell you one thing, this focuses my priorities. I’m no longer pondering old age and wondering how I’ll ever save some money to die on. I’m now more inclined to focus my energy on hustling to get my art out. It will outlive me.

The biggest realization for me is that this, right now, this time right here is probably about as good as it’s gonna get. At least physically, it’s all downhill from here. All of my life I’ve had the trusted fall back fantasy of Someday, that rosy in-the-future place where I’m rich and famous, and content, living on a tidy farm Up North along the Betsie River. But I know that, even should those fantasies finally come true - I’ll be nothing but an ever crippling old man to enjoy them.

To live with this Parkinson’s you need to realize:

1. You won’t be getting any better

2. You don’t have to go downhill getting worse.

3. It may be the end of a lifestyle but it’s not the end of your life.

Now get back to your corner and resume your sulking.

This post, plus harmonica recordings, a graphics (not graphic) slide show, and posts on exploding babies, meatballs and the invention of sex can be found at jeff-howe.net. Go there now.

Meatball's Revenge

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 12:02:16 -0500

His real name isn’t actually Stanley, that’s just a made-up name to protect the innocent. And he doesn’t really look like an innocent cherub, although he does. In fact, it’s a stretch of the imagination to call him your average eight year-old kid because he’s not – he’s a special needs kid with very serious anger and behavioral problems. That’s why he’s here in this special school.

But when it comes to nicknames, his real nickname is “Meatball”… a name lovingly bestowed upon him by his father due to their shared love for a certain food. He even looks like a meatball.

So, “Meatball” it is.

• • •

Meatball is like a light switch. One minute he is warm and bright with a smile that illuminates everything around him. But in an instant, some diabolical hand reaches into Meatball’s world and throws that switch, turning his world suddenly and starkly dark. When this happens, anything not bolted to the floor is likely to be hurled across the room.

On the particular morning in question, Meatball entered the cafeteria for breakfast. Seated at intervals were other emotionally-challenged eight year olds with similar diabolical hands throwing switches in their worlds. Anytime they gather in one place, the potential of individual dark clouds gathering into a sudden storm increases exponentially.

As Meatball sat down at his place the dark cloud came over him. Something was wrong. The switch had been thrown and suddenly his entire breakfast was being launched in handfuls, directed at poor Ms. K., the young woman who worked with him and just happened to be sitting directly across from him.

When the milk settled, the consequence of this action was that Meatball was escorted, kicking and screaming, down the hall to the “reflection room” - a spartan, windowless room padded from floor to ceiling. There, he pounded and screamed and bounced off the walls until finally he could bounce no more. The clouds cleared. The switched was again thrown and light returned to Meatball’s world.

But before he could return to civilization, Meatball was required to take responsibility for his behavior. He was required to process what had taken place, by either drawing or verbalizing what had happened and deciding how he might better handle a similar situation in the future. Having a wealth of speech problems, but considerable art skills, Meatball elected to draw a picture and explain to a staff member (me) what had happened.

This is Meatball’s story:

Picture #1 (above) represents the “what happened?” part of this assessment. Meatball can be seen to the left, clearly unhappy – as indicated by the dark, downwardly scrunched eyebrows and viciously angry mouth. The eyebrows were the first thing that Meatball drew, representing how well these kids have learned how to draw emotion.

Meatball is holding a mini-box of cereal and is obviously quite angry about something. Behind Meatball and to the right, is the surprised but ever-smiling Ms. K. The objects flying past her are a box of cereal, a carton of milk, and a packaged muffin. There is apparently a situation here which, to Meatball, is unacceptable.

As it turns out, Meatball had been given Apple Jacks while expecting Cocoa Puffs and a banana muffin when nothing short of blueberry would do. And what would Meatball’s response be to this dilemma? What should Meatball do to smooth over this uncomfortable discrepancy? Obviously the remedy is to grab whatever is nearest, and to hurl it as hard and as far as possible… hopefully at someone.

How might a clearer-thinking Meatball have better handled the situation? Picture #2 indicates a noticeably distraught Meatball (note the even angrier eyebrows and pointy mouth.) But this time he has left the cereal on the table and is raising his hand.

Progress.

New at jeff-howe.net. This post, along with a second post ("My Blue Jeans Are Not Negotiable"), a story about pie-wielding Polocks, an "Einstein's Hammock" offering and a new harmonica photo by Chalkly Matlock are new this week at my website. (jeff-howe.net). Coming in the coming week is a new post on Parkinson's and a jazz guitar / harmonica version of "Stardust" done with Denny Williams in Boston.