Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes - Reaching for the World

Some bicentennial Philly soul. That’s not Teddy Pendergrass (or Harold Melvin) on lead vocals, though you couldn’t prove it by me; it’s David Ebbo replacing the recently exited TP.

Maggie Bell - Queen of the Night

Maggie Bell was touted as a Scottish Janis Joplin. I can certainly see the similarities, though Bell seems far less fractured vocally and personally. Check it: She was in various bands with Leslie Harvey, younger brother of Alex, including Stone the Crows until he was accidentally electrocuted. Sheesh. This is her debut solo album from ’74.

The Very Best of Conway Twitty

Conway Twitty had a really strong voice, as shown on cuts like “It’s Only Make Believe” and “Lonely Boy Blue.” He co-wrote the former and a bunch of other stuff here such as his signature tune, “Hello Darlin’.” I had no idea. Serious helmet hair.

Planet P Project - Pink World

I forgot this thing was a two record set. This album is a whole lot of Tony Carey; he does almost everything on this sprawling concept album. I’ve been sort of a follower of the guy for a long time. He was in Rainbow (on the incredible Rising LP, among others) and his solo song, “A Fine, Fine Day,” from 1984′s Some Tough City, (anyone remember that one?) is a great lost track from my high school days. Carey was a very busy guy around that time; Pink World dates to the same year.

Stravinsky Conducts His Choral Music

Igor Stravinsky is one of the composers whose time intersected with that of recorded music. There can be little question as to the the author’s vision of the piece when he himself is at the podium.

From Shawnee Press Inc., Delaware Water Gap, PA. Love the design.

Added bonus: Inside was a mimeographed SATB arrangement of something called “Pretty Girl in the Ring.”

The only "Pretty Girl in the Ring" I can find on the web is some tropical tune by a Reggie Paul. I don't think it's the same thing.

I also found a receipt from the University of Missouri Kansas City book store possibly from 1986. Now, to learn the principles of part writing.

Wispy.

Diggin’ it while it’s happening …

I had to be at the office at 7:00 instead of 8:00 this morning, and I’m actually sort of glad about that. The earlier-than-normal drive permitted me to see a dance between the clouds and the full moon descending in the west. The blustery skyscape was accompanied by the 2nd movement of the Philip Glass violin concerto (Adele Anthony, violin, on a 2000 Naxos recording) and witnessed with the window open, the temperatures being unseasonably warm. Now, where’s my coffee?

Introspection - Neglected Jazz Figures of the 1950s and early 1960s

A cool 1977 compilation on the New World Records label. This has some great stuff from the always hot Booker Little Sextet, the Steve Lacy Quartet (doing Cecil Taylor’s “Louise”) and the Serge Chaloff Sextet, a pleasant new discovery.

Duke Ellington and His Orchestra - Indigos

Likely from the same deceased person as the above. Classic Duke with a classic lineup featuring Clark Terry, Johnny Hodges et al.

Joe Jackson - Mike's Murder OST

How bad could it be? Please don’t answer that just yet.

Willie Nelson - Sings Kristofferson

Willie and gang ca. 1979 (Bee Spears, Mickey Raphael, Paul English etc.) give Kris Kristofferson the treatment. In addition to better known fare, they also give “The Pilgrim Chapter 33″ a spin.

Jan Howard - Bad Seed

My wife and I collect Jan Howard albums. No, really. Never seen this one, on the MCA Coral imprint. It has four Bill Anderson compositions … and one by Gordon Lightfoot.

Pulsar - The Strands of the Future

On the Kingdom label

Gatefold, bitches.

Holy shit—certain pressings of this are listing between $53 and $89 on eBay. Hmm.

Then, clearly from the same dead or disenfranchised person’s collection, comes Timewind by Klaus Schulze, German electronic music pioneer and one time member of both Tangerine Dream and Ash Ra Tempel.

Klaus Schulze - Timewind

The back cover seems to be portions of a score written on graph paper. Apparently pink noise and white noise are to become, "dark, growing to thunder, filter controlled -> feedback/resonance." The LP is dedicated to Richard Wagner. Huh. Wonder what he thought of it.

On Virgin/Caroline, 1975

I also copped a John Fahey Christmas album. Who knew?

"The New Possibility: John Fahey's Guitar Soli Christmas Album" On the Takoma label, 1968.

The CD assortment was fruitful as well. I picked up Only Heaven by The Young Gods, Youth by Matisyahu (Hasidic Jewish reggae produced by Bill Laswell) and Icarus by The Forms (produced by Steve Albini).

Left to right: Albmz.

Don’t bother racing down there—the rest of the stuff is Bert Kaempfert and Herb Alpert.

A few weeks ago I was approached at the office by a pair of  department directors with a project. I was half expecting something tedious, to which I would’ve of course agreed. But, what they had in mind was me traveling to New York City to meet up with another colleague in order to do some video production.

New York City? On the company dime? Wow. Though I’d always been eager, I’d never been to NYC. So, with stars in my eyes and the corporate card in my wallet I made arrangements to fly into the Big Apple. Our brief visit would focus on interviewing a U.S. congressman, around which other industry-appropriate appointments would be made. This would involve carting a huge bag of lighting and camera gear around Manhattan for two days. Ehh, well worth it.

My evening flight from Kansas City International to LaGuardia (MCI to LGA for those keeping tabs on the IATA location identifier scorecard) was an inauspicious introduction. It was simply the roughest, most turbulent flight I’ve ever experienced. The fact that I was seated at the tail of the relatively small ‘regional’ jet (serving the infamous … Kansas City-New York region) probably didn’t help. Another thing that didn’t help was listening to some rather edgy selections from The Mars Volta’s Frances the Mute while being tossed about somewhere over Ohio. I didn’t think even drinking beer would help soothe me. But, yes, I tried. As you might guess from the fact that I appear to be alive and typing this,  the journey toward Queens County, Long Island came to a successful conclusion. As the plane descended into the New York area the air became calm, the flying graceful. Something about it all struck me as so delicately alien and Kubrickian that I couldn’t help imagining strains of Strauss’ “Blue Danube Waltz.”

Then I deplaned. LaGuardia is kind of a shithole, eh? After about a million minutes I gathered my checked luggage—the boat anchoresque video gear—and hailed a hack. Yeah, that’s totally what I did.

Previous to actually setting foot in the city, most of my recent vision of New York City was owed to the detective novels of Kinky Friedman. And wouldn’t you know it—one of the first exit signs I noticed from the cab was for Vandam Street, location of Kinky’s loft in the books. Circularity at its finest. Minutes later, around 11:00 pm, my ass was deposited at Hotel Thirty Thirty, on (you guessed it) 30th St. between Avenues Park and Madison (serious Manhattan). I’ve become accustomed to the seemingly palatial rooms of convention-center-orbiting hotels associated with my standard business travel. So the closet like room I entered on the seventh floor was something of a surprise. Welcome to New York. I stayed in the room just long enough to muse at its compactness, yet functionality. Then I hit the streets.

Should a Pentax carrying rube really be wandering an unfamiliar and possibly intimidating city at such a late hour? I calculated that 11:00 New York roaming-unknown-streets-time was probably about like 8:00 roaming-unknown-streets-time in KC and therefore … still not necessarily safe. But, fuck it anyway.

... and pass me a loaf of bread.

Uhh, yeah ... nice try.

After a number of blocks in various directions I realized that working all day, then traveling through the dinner hour was starting to take its toll on my body and curiosity. So I endeavored to grab some dinner near my hotel—directly across 30th, in fact, at the Crooked Knife. Though I couldn’t get a table in the street, I still felt like I was walking in some perpetual Billy Joel song. Owing to my ordering dinner at damn near midnight, the Crooked Knife was out of several things I wanted. But the gnocchi and Harps were acceptable and it was about time to call it a night.

The view from within the Crooked Knife

Knowing I wouldn’t be meeting my partner in crime, arriving from Cleveland-via-Akron, until 11:00ish the following morning, I decided to get up early and take advantage of what free time I could carve. I took off from the Thirty Thirty at around 7:00 am, deciding I’d walk for one hour in some direction, leaving me over an hour to get lost and make my way back. The direction I settled on was south, toward Greenwich Village. Along the way I just tried to soak it all in, listening to Powerbill by The Semantics and, stirringly, Pieces of a Man by Gil Scott-Heron, an album recorded in 1971 not that far from where I was walking. Sites:

Archetypal "city shot" on 5th Avenue

Iconic images everywhere you look - The Flatiron Building.

Asleep in Washington Square Park

So, I made it to The Village in pretty short order. It was pretty much as I’d pictured it, waking up to the day as it was. Being there so early, most everything was closed, including Bleecker Street Records, a shop I figured I could get into judging from the window display.

Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music right up front

Speaking of Bob Dylan, I also passed by one of his reported former haunts, the legendary (and obviously closed) Cafe Wha?, a spot which also plays in the history of Jimi Hendrix. I enjoyed the atmosphere and noted the nearby buzz of crosstown traffic.

Wha? Foreground: Some flight-delayed Night Bird Flying?

But I didn’t have all damn day to sightsee. It was time to head back to the hotel and prepare to get to work. The walk back was just as great as the trek there, the streets starting to come to life and truly manifest the hustle and or bustle of the city.

Resting for a bit, I took in the scene that daylight provided out of my room, a very Rear Window vibe.

It's just another run-of-the-mill Thursday. The calendar's full of 'em.

Meeting up with my cohort for coffee on Madison Ave. (so cosmopolitan, see), it was time to get down to the reason we were there. The ensuing middle portion of the day was a damn busy affair which called for us to visit multiple veterinary hospitals (truly) wherein I unpacked and assembled our traveling multimedia array. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t hauling around a $30,000 ENG camera and a bunch of other high end gear, just a small, simple Canon HD unit and a few lights. Our multimedia department is still a work in progress, a work under scrutiny. It was still a lot of shit to carry around. I took it upon myself to assemble makeshift sets where I could, such as in the library of Manhattan’s legendary Animal Medical Center:

Instant set.

Later, between our second and third appointments we had a few minutes to kill. On 72nd St. I happened upon a hot and dusty shop specializing mostly in classical sheet music and recordings wherein I did not purchase a condensed score of Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo and a nearby cluster of street vendors, including table after table of books, including a slim biography of Lester Young which was also not purchased.

72nd & Broadway

It was a steamy afternoon and I could feel the back of my neck getting burnt and gritty. By the time we were finished with work we were ready for some hard earned relaxation. We grabbed another cab to take us back to the hotel, passing briefly and without ceremony through Central Park, rather near the Dakota. Plans were made to reconvene in the lobby and grab dinner and beverages back in Greenwich. The cabbie (a man with no meter in his black sedan type vehicle—should probably stick with the yellow variety) dropped us in the vicinity of MacDougal street where were ensured we could grab some Italian. Food, that is. After a false start in a joint that was cash-only (bad move—we were spending someone else’s money!) we found ourselves seated outdoors on 6th Avenue … I think. Passing on a bottle of white, a bottle of red, I settled on a bottle of Meroni. Oh hell yea.

Ambiance

After an excellent meal we shopped a bit in the area and, spent, cabbed it back to the hotel. So much for Thursday.

Friday would also be a busy one, capped off by flying home. We started out by heading to Times Square to shoot a news segment, rolling our crap out onto the sidewalk and acting like we belonged there. That’s at least half the battle, don’t you think?

Following my own formula for 'great shots in NYC': 1. Turn camera on 2. Point camera in some direction 3. Take photo - Instant classic.

Of course no one batted an eye at our somewhat ramshackle operation. Love it. Following this miniature success we sought out some breakfast. We had in mind some very New York type of scene in line with the previous evening’s dinner, say some Scorsese-like diner in which Henry Hill might’ve met up with Jimmy Conway. Of course, Times Square is mostly the caliber of McDonalds and MTV—strictly commercial. We wandered a while, passing Radio City (did you know they do not constantly play “You Get What You Deserve” and “September Gurls” by Big Star over the PA there? Weird.) and other notable sites. Finally, starving, we settled on dining at … Rockefeller Center. No sign of Jack Donaghy or Liz Lemon, but the waffles and French press coffee were excellent.

Our final assignment was actually the impetus for the entire trip. We were to meet with the aforementioned (yet still not herein named) congressman at Madison Square Garden, the site of Ross University’s graduation. And where would we shoot this segment? That’s right, in a ‘green room’ at the Garden.

Another improvised set featuring taxis.

After this most interesting session (the subject made me, for a few moments, not despise lawmakers—no small feat) there was some talk of attending the commencement. I cited need to get the gear back to the hotel and got the hell out of there. With only a couple more free available hours in the city I was not interested in lingering indoors. I did take the ball-and-chain back to Thirty Thirty, mind you. Then I wove my merry way up streets and down avenues in search of … whatever. Among the things I found were a ‘vintage’ clothing store where one could buy a t-shirt with a Beatles iron-on for $40, tons of wholesale clothing and fabric stores in the fashion district, Koreatown and yes, lunch.

Minar.

I had the fish curry, which was killer. It was a very interesting experience—I was the only ‘pale face’ in the place and the only English being spoken was to me or by me. Inside a busy Indian restaurant in Manhattan I felt very submerged in another culture within another culture, precisely the melting pot moment I’d hoped for.

Back out on the street I had a while longer to kill and so continued my hunt, which all along had actually been for a suitable artifact to take back to V, with whom I’d be celebrating our seventh anniversary in a couple days. I finally found the block I didn’t know I’d been looking for, a quiet street with several antique shops. I nearly made myself late for travel back to LGA by bargaining over a special ring with a proprietor.

Of course I took a photo.

Once we agreed on a price and transacted I hauled ass back to the hotel, then back to the airport where there was time for one (or two) final Samuel Adams(s)—the ‘victory lap’ as we called it. I think I made the most of the not quite 48 hours in the city. Now, about those re-shoots.

Now what? I decided I check out a spot I’d not frequented since probably 1994. No, not a barber shop, Streetside Records. I’d worked for another record shop for ages and had allegiances to good friends’ business after that, so I had no reason to go there. After an intense three minute perusal, I realized I had no reason today either. I was edified by the 10/$2 LP bin, but found only a couple suspect Sons of the Pioneers records therein. I departed empty handed.

Outside Streetside.

I further roamed Westport for a few minutes, passing by … nothing much. I did see this, though:

Who knew the International Headquarters was located right there on JC Nichols Parkway?

Being Saturday afternoon, I don’t think anyone was in puncturing patients.

Still interested in consuming music (and when am I not, really?) I headed for a funky little shop called Zebedee’s on 39th Street (dig it: new website design coming in January 2008! Oh well …). Therein I ogled such wonders as a Kansas Song for America t-shirt and a $25 vinyl copy of Zappa’s Sheik Yerbouti. It really is a cool store, full of posters and boxes full of records in every corner— just the type of establishment that has regrettably gone missing from our landscape. In a pathetic attempt to help them stay in business, I came away with Crawdaddy by The Darling Buds on CD for $1.

As I was paying up(when else would the goddamn phone ring?), I took a call from my lunch appointment in waiting, Mr. Horsepower. Would I like to meet him and his youngling at Minsky’s? Goddamn right I would.

I hot-footed it to 5105 Main for a bite, on the way thinking, damn, The Darling Buds beat James to that snare sound by three years. Yep, that’s what I was thinking.

We dined, we laughed, we talked about Patti Smith and April Wine—it was probably just about like your lunch. Now what? These girly functions aren’t brief. We still had HOURS to kill. Yeah, you guessed it: guitar store.

We wagon-trained it to Big Dude’s Music City (“new site coming soon” … come on, music retailers, get your virtual shit together …) where it was possible to examine and purchase items like an exceedingly angular and beat-to-shit Kramer Striker and drums and cymbals emblazoned with caricatures of Carmine Appice. Can’t say I expected either of those. More importantly, we ran into the magnificent Go-Go Ray (hey, I wouldn’t place a Myspace link if there wasn’t something worth seeing there … check out Go-Go—one of the most bewitching drummers around), with whom the shit was shot about webcasts, New Orleans, and Trilok Gurtu. Very good, very good.

Realizing I’d only taken about 348732937 photos in the past few weeks, I decided to venture on, solo, toward downtown KC. Why not, aside from the fact that it was breezy and in the lower 30s? I parked at 10th and something and set out on foot, taking pictures of, that’s right, buildings and shit.

Buildings and shit.

I was in the vicinity of Quality Hill and hearing a loud clanging in my head. Turns out this time it was actually emanating from the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception, a real motherfucker of a cathedral just across Broadway.

C of the IC in the distance. Can you pick it out?

Drawn to its ostentatious cupola, I proceeded west. Looks like a long, cold walk, doesn’t it? I would walk to the ends of the earth for you, blog reader. As I passed by the holy joint at precisely 4:29 (Sprint time) a bell rang out exactly 53 times—yes, I counted, fuck you—signifying … any of you Catholics know? Interesting.

So, now I’m freezing my ass off and blocks from the car. But it’s ok, because I came across this:

Oh.

Hey, now I don’t have to do that in Photoshop! Thanks, dizzying sign that I don’t quite understand!

(If you’re interested in 1,000+ photos of buildings and a lot more and have escaped my spam elsewhere, check out my Fotki albums.)

If you know me, you’ve probably figured out that I’m a little dense. Need more evidence? Here it comes. As I rounded the corner of 8th and whatever, I stumbled onto this, an improbably large needle.

'So,' a needle pulling thread, also the scalar manifestation of the dominant ...

How about that? You don’t see that every day, do you? With a frozen mustache and a call from the wife, I left the towering sewing utensil behind and heading for the car, realized that I’d been walking in the famed garment district. Don’t believe me? Eat this:

GARMENT district, I tell you.

Collecting my darling, I headed home where I did not write this blog, nor drink several Pacificos. Then, I’m not kidding you, hours later, I put together the big ass needle and the garment district. Oh well. It was a fun afternoon.

Tomorrow will mark the first Thanksgiving that we’ve really had “kids come home” for a holiday. With two out of three official sons and an unofficial one all currently living out of the house we’re looking forward to getting everyone together. Also, as has become a tradition, we’re having some friends over for added revelry. So, while V takes care of the important stuff (cooking—she declared Turkey Day to be, “the most important of the year as a mother and a chef”) I’ve worked on other details. Aside from some straightening and art hanging, I’ve been up a ladder.

Away we go.

Remember all those nice, temperate weekends we’ve had of late? You know—days in the 50s or 60s? Do you think I bothered trying to hang Christmas lights then? Of course not. It’s just not traditional to be teetering on an aluminum ladder on uneven ground with my head in a tree without feeling a brisk wind. So, in a Griswoldian fit of festiveness, I started into this project this morning.

Some of these bulbs work.

Generally I wouldn’t consider decorating before Thanksgiving, but as we are having company on that day, I’ve conceded.

My kingdom for a hammer.

If there were such a thing on Facebook, some people in my household would have a status reading, “Became a fan of never putting fucking tools away where they belong.” I looked high and low for one of a possible four hammers just to drive a couple tiny nails. Nope. Wound up using a prybar. Alas.

...

Why so smug, fucker?

Bulbous, also tapered.

This projectlet didn’t really require all that much swearing. This is a little surprising. It’s not that the infrastructure left from last year was so stellar. It’s not that the lights were left in such great shape. It’s not that I’m skilled in the ways of seasonal festooning—I stepped on and crushed at least one bulb and dropped another on the garage floor as I plugged a strand in, causing a puff of suspicious smoke to spew forth. That was pretty cool. It just came together. Perhaps I’ve gained a lot of perspective this year and realize the nails and hammers really aren’t that fucking important.

I also had to place the Soldiers. They’ve been a fixture at our house for four or five years now. We bought them second hand somewhere and judging from their apparent age, they were a fixture at someone else’s home for many years before that. I like that.

Ten-hut.

Right after I placed these fellas, I raked the entire yard. Yeah, that’s what I did. Not a single leaf left. Yep.

The wreath is up too.

Reef.

There’s still an improbably large candy cane to deal with. Perhaps early tomorrow.

With the outdoor enhancements brought to a stopping point I headed inside to deal with other cleanings and pickings up. And to wait for dark to check my work.

Cue Tchaikovsky.

Lit.

Hey—not a bad start!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

This is why I always try to take my camera with me. You just never know when you’ll run across a tiny oil well shrouded in fog. I snapped a couple of shots out of my window, pausing just long enough to not get slammed into by some (other) distracted rural motorist.

It’s interesting just how much color actually lives in what appears to be essentially a black and white photo. Once I started jacking with various parameters it was surprising just what could be coaxed out. A few filters here and there  added to the subtle variations. So, here are a bunch of them for the hell of it.

Of course, anyone can make a bunch of image variations using Photoshop; but I’ve tried not to make any of these “stunt pictures,” using blatant effects.