Sounds industrial, like the noises in a factory made repetitive by machines, the floor covered with curling steel shavings. And a kind of marching music, an industrial march, urban with trams and busses, honks and trucking heaves. Heavy Metal is the four piece rock band’s alternative to the symphonic orchestra. The full brass and woodwinds, operatic vocals, orchestral percussion – all accomplished with guitars and drumkit, pedals, and amplifiers. Heavy Metal music can sound like lead stretched thin as wire, or walking on the Earth’s crust with steel spiked boots, the band poised like the Levitated Mass over an arena crowd.
Our latest guitar quest (Live at 5 now already seems as old as the Ed Sullivan Show) has moved to YouTube where in partnership with metal expert CB we record short videos of original pieces or answers to various musical challenges, about one to three minutes, CB taking Metal Monday while I have Telecaster Tuesday (Washboard Wednesday still open). I posted a couple of Telecaster Tuesday short videos here at the Toads – as I continue to find myself drifting further and farther from words, but I’m not sure the blog is the best place for music activity. For one thing, videos are space hogs, while links to anything outside the blog can wind up for the reader like getting on a wrong bus to the zoo.
I’m not sure it has anything to do with hearing impairment, though it might, but I’ve often had trouble hearing lyrics clearly, the vocals sounding like another instrument, which of course they are, but without sharp definition – in my ears. Maybe that’s why I’ve steered away from loud rock, but any type of music can be played loud, or too loud. But you don’t have to play music loud to feel it. At a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert some years back, I could literally feel the sound in my chest – that’s a bit too much, though I get that it might be necessary if one wants the full effect. But often one wants to hear the breeze over the “The Eolian harp” sitting on an open window sill. Still, as evidenced in some of CB’s videos, the loudness has passed, and now rings like a train rounding a corner in the distance, its ringing still vibrating on the track:
What will we do with Live at 5 in the new year? The shows began at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic and at their peak featured a different host player going live most nights of the week, sharing guitar, songs, stories, and readings (live via the Instagram video venue) to an audience of similarly homebound family and friends of family. The shows ran evenings for about an hour starting at 5. The hosts included, on a rotating schedule, myself, my brothers, a nephew, and over time a few guest hosts and visitors – more family and friends. Shows were home-staged from Portland, Salem, Healdsburg, Ione, Drytown, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia. The format was loose and forgiving. Audience clicked on, paused, maybe stayed for the whole show, as people do passing buskers on a sidewalk, and through the Instagram feed anyone tuned in could place comments for the performer and the rest of the audience to read, and many an audience-controlled conversation took off. (Unfortunately, Instagram does not save those conversations – the comments disappear even if the host saves the video to their Instagram feed.) The Live at 5 shows diminished through 2022, timing out as the voluntary pandemic isolations began to lift.
I played guitar in a neighborhood jazz band for the last couple of years. It was fun, I met some new folks, and learned more about music and the guitar – particularly about playing “in the pocket,” a term that means playing in time, in sync with the other musicians, a skill I’ve never satisfactorily mastered. You might think jazz would be more forgiving, but no. I left the band to concentrate on gypsy jazz guitar, renewing my subscription to Robin Nolan’s “Gypsy Jazz Club,” which includes players from all around the world. One of the features of the club is a “Sunday Club Zoom Hangout” – 8 in the morning my time, but I manage to wake up in time most Sundays, for a Gypsy djassreveille. For the most part, the Hangout hour is devoted to live, short performances by club members.
“Step in time, step in time Step in time, step in time Never need a reason, never need a rhyme Step in time, we step in time”
from the song “Step in Time,” lyrics by The Sherman Brothers, in “Mary Poppins,” 1964.
Time waits for nothing, to begin, “to boldy go where no man [which is to say, everyone] has gone before,” pen in hand, splitting infinitives out of time, rubato, robber of time:
“For three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry; to maintain ‘the sublime’ In the old sense. Wrong from the start—”
from “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” [Part I], Ezra Pound, 1920.
Anyway, the question I’m entertaining now is whether or not to try to resuscitate an ongoing Live at 5 show. The need for homebound, not to mention amateur, entertainment may have passed for the time being. Still, there developed a core group of loyal listeners, not enough to fill Shea Stadium, or the Ash Grove, for that matter, of course, but would even those few return for a new season? It’s dinner hour, kids are back in school, the work-at-home movement is weakening, and pizza parlors, pubs, and wine bars have reopened, many featuring live entertainment. And the movies are back up and running. But some of us have emerged from the pandemic isolation years eschewing the old forms. We don’t go out anymore. We are aging. We are stepping out of time. We could fill a living room.
Most of the Live at 5 shows were improvisational, maybe the host wrote down a few notes before going live with some intro comments, checking in with the audience, a few songs, some outro comments. Audience requests were popular. The videos remain on their host’s Instagram, where saved, complete with mistakes and random rambles, unedited. I don’t want to overstate, but I think the shows in the various locales were looked forward to and enjoyed. Where they were not joined live, Instagram followers caught up later.
My brother Charles, at the height of the show’s exceptional ratings, had some shirts made:
By the way, none of this post is to espouse Instagram as a preferred tool. But that’s a topic for another post altogether.
I’m now picturing a Live at 5 Never Ending Tour, maybe with a reading list for the audience to keep in tune:
John Cage’s “Silence” Bob Dylan: “The Philosophy of Modern Song” Dunstan Prial: “The Producer – John Hammond and the Soul of American Music” Michael Dregni: “Django – The Life and Music of a Gypsy Legend” Greil Marcus: “Mystery Train” “The Real Frank Zappa Book”: Frank Zappa with Peter Occhiogrosso Alex Ross: “The Rest is Noise” Robin D. G. Kelley: “Thelonious Monk – The Life and Times of An American Original”
But you see how easy it is to get carried away.
Closing this post with a quote from John Cage, “written in response to a request for a manifesto on music, 1952”:
instantaneous and unpredictable
nothing is accomplished by writing a piece of music " " " " hearing " " " " " " " " playing " " " "
our ears are now in excellent condition
xii/Silence, John Cage, Wesleyan University Press, 1961 (paperback 1973), reformatted somewhat here to fit block.
Note: This is a Happy Birthday! post for Matt Mullenweg.
This coming Saturday, the 26th, something relatively new on calendars, called “Play Music on the Porch Day,” a neighbor a couple of weeks ago brought to our attention. As listeners to our “Live at 5” Instagram gigs know, we often can be found playing music on the porch, in the sit out zone in the drive, in the basement during heat waves, in the living room with the rain adding percussion to the set, in the kitchen while the coffee is brewing, offering music up to the passersby – “Live at 5” enjoys usually an audience of 5. Part of the attraction and pleasure of amateur music performance is the random, the mistakes, the discoveries, the forgiveness, loosening the ties and strictures, inviting improvisation, breaking the rules for the sound of it all, mixing stories with songs and guitars, mixing styles – like Struttin’ with Some Barbecue. Anyway, here are some recent songs I’ve been working on for the upcoming “Play Music on the Porch Day” gig:
“Susanna, Oh Susanna” C Mornings when we wake up by the deep blue sea G7 Afternoons sleeping under a green palm tree E7 Evenings when you call me A7 come out wherever you are D7 On the radio playing G Patty and Ray
C Susanna, Oh Susanna I can’t even say your name G7 All I have for you is more of the same E7 Hiding in the evening A7 when you call my name D7 On the radio playing G Patty and Ray
“Coconut Oil” G Here’s an emotion B7 Let’s jump into an ocean E7 Of lotion A7 Of coconut oil, (D7) coconut oil, (G) coconut oil (D7)
G I got a gal B7 Heart full of mushrooms E7 She drinks oceans A7 Of coconut oil, (D7) coconut oil, (G) coconut oil (D7)
G She tells me don’t be dry B7 She likes me all wet E7 Night and day drenched A7 In coconut oil, (D7) coconut oil, (G) coconut oil (D7)
“Two Riders Were Approaching” (G, C7, G, D7) Two riders were approaching On hogs and wearing leathers Stopped into a tavern For a cool glass of beer.
Two pints for us, my friend The day is warm and grim The dust has found its corner The dogs want shade and water.
We are the two riders Who were approaching Now for those beers Nighttime is drawing near.
Yippii-yi-yo Yippie-ki-yay We’re gonna go Our own way.
Yippi-yi-yo Yippie-Ki-yay We’re gonna go Our own way.
And a few more pieces, instrumental and fragmented vocals, and of course the ever popular “Pretty Vacant and We Don’t Care” and “Bury My Heart in the Muddy Mississippi,” as well as covers of some train songs: “Mystery Train,” “This Train” (Bound for Glory), and “Freight Train.” Should be enough to fill a porch.
So, wherever you might be come Saturday evening, put your ear to some porch and see what you hear.
Hey Joe, where you going all tangled up in blue? Gonna change my attitude, walk on down the avenue Fly away on a magic carpet ride down to Graceland. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, what kind of mood you in with that cat-like grin? I’m moving off the dark side of the moon Going over to see Jerry Lewis at the Paradise. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, what’s that seaweed vine around your neck? After months at sea I washed up on a beach Now I’m drinking water from a coconut cup. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, who you seeing, hanging out with these days? When the going gets tough, the tough get lonely, that’s what she said to me. Gonna put on a tie and suit up for a career in the red dust. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, where you going with that book in your hand? This here book is Penina’s Letters. Going down to the water and toss the whole book off the jetty at D&W. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, why do you sing songs when we know you can’t sing? This is my song to the world that’s always singing to me. I’m taking voice lessons from a locomotive trapped in a tree. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, what’s that in your DNA? Trains, uniforms, wheeled and track vehicles Off the rack guitars and SWR surf films. Goodbye, Joe
Hey Joe, been down to the cathedral lately? You don’t need a church to pray. Jesus said, two of you gathered in his name, and he’ll take you home, he’ll take you home.
I’ll be performing “Goodbye, Joe” from the JoeZone, live at 5 (PST), tomorrow, Sat Jun 6, on Instagram: @joe.linker
She shakes me out, she jiggles me down starts me dancing like a rodeo clown. Twist to the left, twist to the right never do we get too way up tight.
She stays so near, she goes so far she ain’t no Facebook or Internet star. She’s seen over here, she’s been over there all night and day, everywhere.
Turn it up loud, turn it down soft turn it all the way off. She never says yes, she never says no she knows when to say let it all go.
She don’t wear silver, she don’t wear gold she’s never been bought, she’s never been sold. She rides me high, she rides me low she rides me fast, and she rides me slow.
Turn me loose, I have no choice she rides me like a pet mongoose. She be hep, she be cool she never ever don’t be cruel.
She sings the old songs, fingerpicks a guitar she don’t care if all the words go wrong. She walks the streets, visits the sick she don’t mind being in the thick of it.
She knows how to live, knows how to die she looks me straight in the eye. Color me blue, color me green she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
She heats my beans, toasts my buns and I hardly ever get the runs. She shoots pool, shoots the shit she ignores all the rules of it.
She hits a home run, lays down a bunt she lays it all on the line. She knows how to fly, knows how to fall knows how to climb this here wall.
She knows how to pray, knows how to sin she always knows the shape I’m in. She knows how to work, knows how to play knows to go home at the end of the day.
She knows how to give, knows how to take she knows how to ask if there is some mistake. She knows how to swim, knows how to sleep she knows how to make that midnight creep.
She knows how to laugh, knows how to cry not every guy in a suit is a spy. She likes a tete-a-tete with a cat or two down by the water.
She likes it slow, takes it easy drinks a bourbon in the salsa garden. The sun makes her happy, but rain makes her glad Her blue eyes seldom cry.
She forgives, she forgets she’s got rooms to let. I do her dishes, scrub her pots change the diapers, that’s my lot.
The bells of Saint Mary’s, down by the sea the waves they did cry. The day she got married, on the radio angels they did fly.
She took a walk, on the mild side she went to bed, and fell asleep. She shakes me out, jiggles me down I get up in the morning like a working clown.
“She Shakes Me Out” is a song I wrote and performed on my show “Live at 5 from the JoeZone” on Instagram on Monday, May 18 (now deleted). I used the chord progression:
Tune in to Live at 5 from the JoeZone most nights (PST), a pandemic quarantine social distancing live video hour (or less) of music, talk, stories, and such to help pass the time and ease the mind.
Two riders were approaching on hogs and wearing leather. “Let’s stop here,” said one to the other, “for a cool drinking beer.”
They passed the time on songs that ofttimes rhymed. On the trail or in the big city. They parked the hogs in the gutter.
At the bar the one he uttered, “What’s that you got in the vat?” “Saltwort Ale,” the barkeep did tell, combing his beard with a hand.
“Two lights for us, my friend, the day grows warm and thin, the dust is finding its corners, the dogs want shade and water.”
“No light here,” the barkeep says, “and we don’t serve no rhymesters.” “But we are the two riders, two riders who were approaching.”
“This here’s a craft brew pub, not some seedy tavern. Take your hogs and dogs across the tracks, go see John Wesley’s mother.”
The two riders went back to riding. On the trail where we last heard their cry, they were still approaching. Two riders were approaching.
“Yippi-yi-yo, yippie-ki-yay, we’re gonna go our own way.”
Yippi-yi-yo, yippie-ki-yay, we’re gonna go our own way.”
“Two Riders Were Approaching” is a song I wrote and performed on my show “Live at 5 from the JoeZone” on Instagram on Saturday, May 9. I used the chord progression Am Dm E7 Am. I changed a few words and lines here, and I discarded here a few of the lines sung live, as follows:
“…where the hodads hang their hats”; “The hogs are hot and tired”; “I don’t care if you’re the four horses of the apocalypse.”
If I ever play “Two Riders” again, I’ll probably change it some more. Meantime, tune in to Live at 5 from the JoeZone Saturday nights (PST), a pandemic quarantine social distancing live video hour (or less) of music, talk, stories, and such to help pass the time and ease the mind.
I wrote this song, as I explained on “Live at 5,” to celebrate the latest Bob Dylan recordings, his first with all original songs in eight years. The title of my song, “Two Riders Were Approaching,” is the penultimate line in the Dylan song “All Along the Watchtower.” As I asked my audience, “Have you ever wondered what happened to those two riders?”
Photo: Pic I took of a photo at the Oregon Historical Society “Barley, Barrels, Bottles, and Brews” exhibit in 2019: two musicians and a bartender at the Cowdell Saloon in Antelope, Oregon, 1913.
The Coming of the Toads 