Somebody likes me

ME FIRST SOLO PAID GIG

The Truth About Treasure Island by Dan McNay- To be published THIS SUMMER

Stevenson's Flirtation With the Australian Governor's Wife

August 15^th

            Mr. Stevenson appeared today for lunch. He didn’t bring anyone with him and there wasn’t anyone at the house except Lady Jersey and myself. I was instructed to serve them on the verandah. Mr. Stevenson had definite instructions on what made a good Vailima lunch. Tea, of course, and then a tray of whatever fruit might be available, sliced and skinned if need be. Then cold thinly sliced meat, whatever was left over from dinner and pickles and hard boiled eggs. And crackers, of course. This was exactly how he said it to me and then he winked dramatically, as if we were coconspirators in some low rent theater piece. Then the villain would slip the maid a large bill and proceed to seduce the mistress. He offered no money, but did offer a large Robert Louis Stevenson smile. So I did come up with most of it. Mr. Haggard had no eggs, so I whipped up a small bowl of ham salad as something different and served it all out to them. After the tea was served, I retreated to the house, but not out of earshot.

            I sat down in the parlor and then thought I’d better have an alibi, so I went upstairs for some needlepoint, which if  I was discovered, I could claim the parlor as the only place for close work, since it had the best light. I had missed some of what had been said.

            “She has a swelling that comes and goes in her abdomen and some pain with it. The holuku hides the swelling. I suppose in western dress with a tight waist it would be unbearable, plus she doesn’t think I know, and she thinks she is hiding her condition from us. The holuku really has become the height of fashion here now.”

            “She should go to the doctor,” Lady Jersey said.

            “You should tell her that,” he said.

            “She has hated me from the very beginning.” (I could almost see her turn and smile at him ) “She has every right too, I suppose. Her hair?”

            “She claims she was engrossed in reading a pamphlet on tropical plants and Belle was trimming her hair. Belle just got carried away and suddenly cut off all of it off.”

            (There was a silent pause.)

            “I know, I think Fanny put her up to it, so that if we all hated it, she could blame someone else. She quickly got over it and it has not gotten any longer in six months. She must be trimming it at night when no one is looking.”

            “We sleep separately,” he said as an afterthought.

            “So do we,” she said, laughing. “Perhaps I should start running around in granny’s nightgown too!”

            “That might prove to be very seductive,” he said. “I can see you like that on horseback. What a painting that would make!”

            “With my hair down like Lady Godiva?”

            “Hmmm”

            What did that Hmmm mean? Did I dare to look? It would be just my luck to find them kissing, and finding her eyes looking back at me when I walked out on them. I went to the kitchen for more hot water to refill their teapot. As I reached the door, I stopped to see what they were doing. They were smoking cigarettes. But they were also holding hands, ever so gently. I knocked my pot against the doorframe and their hands dropped.

            “We’ve had enough, Tess. Please take it back. We’re done,” she said.

            “So are you coming along tomorrow?” he asked me.

            I looked at Lady Jersey. I hadn’t been informed of their plans.

            “Oh, she’s coming. You’re up for something quite dangerous, aren’t you?”

            “I guess.”

            “I understand you have been down our famous water slide,” he said.

            I must have blushed.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Then you’re ready for anything!” he said.

What I'm Really Good At When The Time Comes

I know I've been doing this for years, with jobs, and people that are really not my friends, and schools, and marriages, and helping organizations I'm no longer willing to help 

I'm famous

From the Red Riccons Square Dance Club Newsletter

Topanga Scores

My scores from the singing competition at The Topanga Banjo & Fiddle contest. Kinda confirms what I've known all along. You either love me or you hate me. Two of the better score would have put me into the finals, two of the worst woulda made me feel real bad. I'm holding off with the voice lessons because I'm taking serious banjo lessons. Its been the same way with getting gigs. Some hear my short skills and some hear something else. I'm gonna go with the ones who hear something else

Westchester has their annual Rotary parking lot used book sale and I came back with a stack of cool stuff, which included this- a non-fiction book about going mountaineering on horseback in 1910. The pages weren't cut, which basically it was an 103 year old book that no one has ever read. (for those that don't know, the old style of book publishing left pages folded and uncut- you used a letter opener to cut those pages- that's why really old books have frayed edged pages) Any way, it's a great fun book- he tells you what you have to know about pack horses to start. And it's all about our coastal ranges here in old California.

Also found Calvino novel I hadn't read, a McMurtry book about Tahiti, a book about a schooner trip to the South Pacific in the 30s, a Hamlin Garland novel from 1910, and a bunch of other cool stuff.  

Still they come to let me know

My secret life: (as a national expert on the Gilders) -this is an email I just received: 

You might find interesting a very uncomfortable fact. As I'm sure you are aware, the largest printed collection of Helena Gilder's letters is Bette Roth Young's Emma Lazarus in Her World: Life and Letters, published in 1995. Pretty much everyone writing about Lazarus cites and quotes from this edition. I had a few of Helena Gilder's manuscript letters from Columbia University, and checked them against Young's transcriptions. To my horror the transcriptions contained dozens of serious errors and inaccuracies. The book is a very badly corrupted version of the letters, and should no longer be used. Someone (not I) needs to edit the letters all over again. Please if you can check this out for yourself.

Sincerely,
K---- S------, Professor Emeritus of English, New York Unversity

My Answer:

Kenneth,

Thanks. Helena's handwriting was incredibly bad. I'm in the process of reading the letters that her daughter typed up and trying to decide if they are a viable source vs trying to dig through the originals.  I'm still a few years away from writing the biography I was hoping to do. I'm retiring from my real job in three years and will have finished the novel currently in progress and was hoping for a summer at the Lily in Indiana where most of the originals are now.

I did get to visit at the Gilders farm in western Mass last year and talk to a descendant. It was interesting to get a sense of place, though the woman wasn't too interested. It seems most of Helena's artwork still in the house was carried off by a nephew who has not responded to my inquiries. 

I'd love to trade notes with you.

Dan

This is the garden 120 years later

IN HELENA'S GARDEN

the sunset window

Through the garden sunset-window
Shines the sky of rose;
Deep the melting red, and deeper
Lovelier it grows

Musically falls the fountain;
Twilight voices chime;
Visibly upon the cloud-lands
Tread the feet of Time.

Evening winds from down the valley
Stir the waters cool;
Break the dark, empurpled shadows
In the marble pool.

Rich against the high-walled grayness
The crimson lily grows,
And near, O near, one well-loved presence
Dream-like comes and goes

-Richard Watson Gilder

What's Wrong With Me

One of my readers made a comment today, which I really appreciated  mostly because he is one of the few readers I still have left, I think. What I have been trying to do is write about the experience, that was the reason for the last two posts. Thank god, none of the ex-band members read this thing or even care.

I went out to The Topanga Banjo and Fiddle Contest on Sunday to compete in the singing contest. I didn't get very far. They picked 5 out of 25 to move on to the next level, and there were at least eight that were better than me I think- I'm no judge of singing. Saw all of my ex-band-mates out there except for the lady in the picture above. Shook hands all around.

I'm really feeling like I've left them as much as they've left me. I don't want to put up with bad playing or bad singing. I don't want to put up with people who think they know better than me. I'm finding my way. I think I'm tired of being the organizer and the patience.

B-- wasn't any kind of driving force- I would have loved it if he had taken charge. He was just a 70-something kid who played really well.

All the stuff I took personally, as a sign that I wasn't ready to do anything on my own, has fallen away. I know when I try too hard or get excited I screw up the measures of a song. I know when I'm off key or playing wrong. I know I'm old. I know I've written a song that ends in C, which you are not supposed to do. I know I wrote a song that has two different tempos which you are not supposed to do, but It seems Mumford and Sons are doing it well.

I know that right now I want to play as much as I can by myself. I've started lessons again with someone who is teaching to reach music and hopefully will get me soloing. I'd like to jam now and then, but I don't want to play with anyone that is not in sync with me. And there ain't nobody I know of right now, who wants to.

I need to figure out a lot. I really need to figure out why I'm counting seven measures while others are counting eight. (Its somehow equaling out at 28)

I need to get back and find a balance with my prose-writing. I have at least one more first draft to rewrite,

I still feel like some kind of idiot savant with the music. Why should I know I want to write a song where the verse is is centered around an Em to a Am line.

I want now, to be around others, who are focused on performing and doing what it takes to do that. The folks that want to jam on and on and take lessons on and on, hasn't ever been a place where I can live. There are a thousand writers out there like that. There are a thousand water-colorists out there like that.

My copy-editor on the book I'm about to self publish, thinks that you can't write a fictional book about people that really were alive. I love them all, but where do these people live? (I can't play a wedding reception because I don't know any Anne Murray songs?)

The letter I shouldn't post here

This was the letter from the last of the three wise men. Names removed to protect the innocent. This is the guy that didn't know the difference between a recorded in studio song and a live recording. This is the guy that didn't understand how hard I worked to try to keep the Second Wise Man (B--) n the band, and finally gave up when everyone told me to get him gone. 

The break-up of a band is like a divorce. You suddenly realize what you will never do again in the same way. He really sounds like an an ex-wife, doesn't he? (I picked the fight, I knew he'd quit- I knew I was blowing up the band, and honestly I don't regret it.) The truth be told, next time round, I'll find folks who really want to perform and know how to to do it. That's where I'm going. 

There were several realizations that began to happen: 

1. no one in the group had any friends and they were not telling anyone where we were playing.

2. no one would speak into a microphone

3. no one realized how slow the tempo was

4. no one could stay on track with playing the play list

5. no one could show up on time and be ready to play

6. no one would stand up

7. no one would memorize songs that they didn't already know.

8. no one realized how much work I was putting into this band

9. the biggest realization of all- B--- and R--- (the author of this letter) and N--- were the only only three who could hear me, but couldn't play to me, and I could hear all of them and play to all of them

10. The wise men wouldn't work to learn new songs unless you forced them and no one rehearsed outside the group but me.

(11.) And that some folks are incredibly stupid- I had spend a year rewriting "Mocking Bird: and trying it out with tempos and variations and in that time that he was around, he never realized what I was trying to do or even asked what I was doing. 

"I don't know what to say, Dan.  You frustrate the hell outta me, like a machine that refuses to stay fixed.

I am not brilliant, far from it.  But I do pride myself on having some intelligence.  Yet I am used to people thinking I am a moron.  I think it is my voice that causes that impression.  My own brother thought I was a moron and that he was infinitely smarter than me for over 40 years--even though I have a Master's and he doesn't.

Even though I have played music for 55 years, I am realistic enough to know that I am not very good.  I started playing the piano when I was 5 and have played the viola, violin, dulcimer, mandolin, mandola, and guitar since.  I even learned to rudimentarily play the Irish button accordion in a week when B---'s sister visited with hers.  I have recently picked up the violin again, and have just started playing the bouzouki.  The trouble is, I am a jack of all trades and a master of none when it comes to music, and I know it.

Plus, I know that my voice is not pleasing and has pitch problems, and so I generally don't sing in public.

In case you haven't noticed, I don't take instrumental breaks and  have never asked to do one.  It is because I know I'm no good. 

I have never negotiated contracts with USC or Microsoft, or anyone else.  I  have, however, spent 30+ years as a trouble shooter.  I can take a machine which does not work, figure out what is wrong with it, and usually fix it.  Sometimes I have to call an expert to help fix it (technician, computer programmer, mechanic, etc.).  Dan, the band is broken and I have merely been trying to help fix it.  I'm not an expert, but I have recommended one to you.  Yet I feel like I am beating my head against a brick wall.

I have also spent 40+ years as a historian, analyzing things.  For over 25 years, I have been an internationally published writer and have a favorable reputation for my historical work.

You may think that what you are doing is working.  I disagree.  Mere hutzpah has gotten you into venues that artists much better than you have never gotten into.  You admitted that when you played that one place that you were in over your head.  If that is OK with you, that's fine.  It is not for others.

With N--- and C---, well, you are lucky to have such loyal friends.  Each have abilities that you need.  I have no such loyal friends.  I like C--- and admire his abilities, but N---- I don't know well enough.  N----'s singing is one bright spot in the band.  Yet I'm not crazy about her choice of songs.

E--- quit because he was too frustrated to continue any longer.  You were pushing recording, but he, like me, did not feel the band was ready.  He eventually reached the tipping point.  

I am in awe of B--'s abilities.  He is the best guitar player that I personally know, and from what I hear from others, he has been exactly the same for over 40 years.  He has been in several bands, even touring nationally, and knows how bands should operate.  He told me he enjoyed playing with you guys and tried to help your band, but no one was listening.  Maybe he is a bit eccentric, but B--- has a busy life with a lot of other interests. You said  he wasn't dependable but he asked me, for example, if he had a choice of a paying gig/job or had the chance to play with you for free, which should he pick?  He was frustrated with the band but was trying to help.  I think you were damned lucky that he was willing to sit-in at all.  And you fired him--he didn't even know he'd been fired until I asked him about it 2 weeks later.

I too am frustrated.  I have been dismayed by the way you perform some songs in a manner which is unrecognizable (i.e. "Listen to the Mockingbird").  When you performed your version of "Paradise" the other night, I wondered it was hopeless.

You said that I had no right to criticize the song list, that the band as a whole devised it.  Which band?  The one with W---?  N---, O---, B---, and R----?  E--?  Well, if I was to be part of the band, I do not accept or agree with the prohibition.

I understand that you don't like criticism.  I am not fond of it myself.  But some criticism is constructive if we are only smart enough to put our egos aside and learn from the criticism.  I have worked hard over my life, to keep my ego in check.  I have not always been successful, but I have tried.

I wish you good luck with your musical efforts.  But I think you are going to have difficulty keeping band members other than your C----N--- core.

The Three Wise Men

Once upon a time in a galaxy far far away there was a boy who wanted to play the banjo. So he took lessons for a little while and then he sat in his room for a year and practiced the same song over and over and over, until he got bored with the one song, so he told himself that he needed to find others to play with because he could learn faster and he liked other people a whole lot. So he started hanging out with the first wise man, who played guitar, and they started playing together at lunchtime and they invited some others to coma and play with them. And then it moved to the boy’s house where the boy could invite even more people to come and play with. The first wise man encouraged the boy to continue on and learn new songs and get better and faster and when the boy suggested that they go play at a local open mic, everyone seemed to want to do that.

                Then one day, the boy heard a bunch of home-made songs at an open mic and he thought, well, I can do better than that, so he went home and took an old poem that had never quite worked as a poem and re-wrote it as a song. He stole the chord progression from an old folk song. People seemed to like it. He gave it to the group of people who came to his house to play and the first wise man rewrote it a little and they started playing it and they played it over and over again for the next three years.

                So the boy wrote another one. The wise man, this time said he didn’t like it. It sounded too much like the first one. He didn’t want anyone in the group that played at the boy’s house to play it. He wanted them all to play thirty year old songs because that was what people wanted to hear.

                The boy wrote a parody song for a friend’s retirement party and the first wise man decided it wasn’t politically correct, so he re-wrote it and wanted the boy to play his version, but his version wasn’t funny or even fun, so the boy refused. So the parody was never heard of again.

                The boy just kept on writing songs and the first wise man would pretend not to ever hear them. The first wise man decided that he didn’t want to play with a group of people that played so much, so he quit playing with them. Even to this day, when the first wise man comes around when the boy is singing his made-up songs, the first wise man stares off into space and pretends not to hear them. He never applauds and never says ‘well, it looks like you are doing your thing’ or ‘not bad’ or ‘I still don’t like ‘em’ or anything. The wise saw the boy’s CD recently and let out an “oh” by accident.

                The second wise man was recruited by the boy to be the replacement wise man to the band that had formed. The boy thought this was great. The second wise man was really talented and the boy thought he could guide them. At first it was all good. Then when the boy tried to get the band to rehearse one of his made-up songs, the second wise man would start a conversation with another band member so then there were two band members not rehearsing the song. When asked to help with the song, the second wise man would say that he couldn’t hear or understand the song, so he couldn’t help. The boy knew it wasn’t true because the second wise man had actually played the same song with him at a jam party the month before and had really done a good job at playing the song off the cuff. But now every time the boy asked to rehearse the song, the second wise man would distract another member or interrupt in the middle to point out how the song was wrong. So the boy gave up trying to rehearse the song and just put it on the song list and after playing the song badly for 3 or 4 times in public the band decided to learn it.

                And when the second wise man showed up to play in public, he didn’t seem to have much trouble playing the song.

                Meanwhile, the boy discovered that people liked his home-made songs. People would come up after he sang one and tell him how much they liked it. Videos of just him singing his home-made songs were getting him booked into clubs – almost wherever he wanted to play. People hearing him rehearse in public places applauded and asked him for another one.

                The second wise man just wanted to play thirty year old songs, so the boy obliged him, even though they were songs he didn’t love, because he could sing and the second wise man didn’t . Eventually the second wise man quit coming around much, he would show up to perform once a month for half a set. The last time, he sent text messages on his phone throughout his playing and the boy had to elbow him to get ready for his solo. The boy had all of this on video, but never put it up in public because he didn’t want embarrass the second wise man.

                So, like all the times before, the boy went around to everyone that they were playing with and asked for opinions and everyone said it was a shame, but the second wise man wasn’t adding much and it was hard rehearsing solos for him, when he wasn’t there to play them.

                The third wise man had been hanging around for a while. Everyone knew he played well, but you could never tell because he always sat in the back at jam parties and never played loud enough for anyone to hear him. The band finally and repeatedly asked him to join and he did. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Quiet. It turned out he played rather well. But, because he never rehearsed and he played by ear it took him a little while to learn the songs the band played. That had happened to the second wise man as well whenever a new song was introduced. It took them both a while because new songs that were younger than thirty years old were not anything they listened to. But they were both talented enough to pick them up.

                The boy had had some experience with the third wise man, and so he should have known better, but maybe he thought it was a one-time aberration. The boy had discovered that one band member could get them a large hall with a stage for free, so the boy had a notion about putting on a show. He worked out the details and got everyone lined up and was about to set it off, the third wise man intervened and sent long long emails saying how it wasn’t going to work and he was in charge of it now and they weren’t going to put on a show, they were going to have a jam party instead.

                The boy let it go- there were other fish in the sea- you win a few you lose a few. After the third wise man joined the band, the band was approached to do a wedding reception. When the boy approached the band to see if they were all in, the boy got another long long email explaining how the band wasn’t ready to play a wedding- that they all had to learn to play thirty year old songs and all of the songs the band did play were terrible including all of the boy’s home-made songs.

                The boy told him to fuck off, which the third wise man did, after sending another couple of long long emails telling the boy how fucked up the boy was. The boy decided it was his home-made songs that the wise men couldn’t handle. The boy has decided that he has had enough of wise men to last a lifetime, or at least thirty years when these three wise men will be dead probably, along with their sixty year old songs.

The guy at The Airliner

Weell, I thought this would be cool. I've been sort of collecting the old clubs. So I show at the time the guy emails me to show. He's not there. There is a bartender and two girls in the bar who were there for happy hour and the two guys that were supposed to meet them there didn't show. My wife came. We sat out in the back patio and had a drink. The stage is rhis little narrow space in the front bar that faces the bar, no seating in front. So the dude shows. He wants to know where my amp is. I tell him I understood he had a couple of mics and a PA, so I didn't bring anything. He asks where are my people? I guess the people he was expecting me to bring in. I said I wasn't sure I had anyone coming. He says, well, maybe I'll wait a half hour to set you up and we'll see who we get. I asked when is the next act, - he says at nine. He had promised me 40 minutes which now has shrunk to 30 and I get to sing to two girls and he can't be bothered?  I tell him to forget it and we leave. Bad vibes, bad little hole in the wall bar, and they probably haven't touched their equipment in ten years. Don't bother showing up here. I've played the Tripp in Venice twice and there's a friendly sound guy and people in the place even on a bad night.

Anyway, I played 2.5 hours Sunday at a Farmers Market and got tips and saw friends and they liked me.Much more fun than being able to say you played The Airliner.