Father's Day

Over 20 years ago, my Dad wrote his eleven children and their families a letter.  (Yes a letter. Not an email.) He wanted no more Father’s Day celebrations.  He saw it as a “stupid Hallmark holiday” and he asked us to please forget about it as far as he was concerned.  He loved us, he knew we loved him, let’s not feel obligated to tell each other so just because some Sunday in June rolls around.

He was serious.  And when Dad is serious, even tho his letter was warm and funny, we listened.

See, when my father believes something, he lives it.  He’s never been a go-along, easy way out kinda guy.  When he commits to something, he sticks it. 

100% Irish, he never wore green on St. Patrick’s Day because if you were REALLY Irish, you didn’t have to show it. 

A strong Catholic, he was never a meek follower.  He “got involved”, which for my father meant leading the way. 

And as a parent, if Dad decided, no amount of pleading, whining, cajoling, crying, arguing or “three act plays” would change his mind.  Once Dad believes he is right, Katie bar the door.  Go pound sand. 

Which is not to say he decided issues in some knee-jerk fashion.  He thinks things out, measures consequences and costs, and prays about the important decisions beforehand. So good luck to you if you think you are bringing new information to the table when challenging him on one of these beliefs.

Brings to mind the Sunday at church when Dad was at the lectern announcing a fund raiser that he was chairing (Dad was in the lectern often, either leading prayers or doing readings or in some other way living his belief that the church was people, not the Vatican, and that people of faith needed to be involved to keep the church intact and relevant) and some rather conservative parishioner had the temerity to stand up and challenge the idea of the fund raiser because it was going to include “gambling”. 

When I say the earth stood still, you have to understand this was in far more conservative times and NOONE had ever stood up in church to object or even question anyone on the altar.  Not too many years before, the altar hadn’t even faced the congregation and the whole service was in Latin. But here was this guy, pretty righteous in his manner, taking on my Dad in front of a Sunday morning crowded Mass. 

My mother and all of us were, as we were every Sunday, in one of the front pews off to the right.  Actually we were probably taking up two of the front pews. There are lots of reasons why we always sat in the same place, but it is interesting when I think about where it was.  Up in front – you bet.  Fully participating, absolutely.  But not in the middle.  Not in the prime attention getting or statement making spots.  To the right.  Out of the way but not out of the picture. 

Anyway, we all froze. This was way out of line and wasn't in anyone's game plan. This made us all afraid.  But, Dad just answered the guy.  He never hesitated, never broke stride, and calmly explained why this made sense.  The guy never knew what hit him.

As time has gone by and Dad has had his Father’s Days free of Hallmark cards and bad ties, I’ve been less ok with the ban. 

As much as Dad never minded leading; the Army troops he was in charge of, the parish he belonged to, the family he spawned, the business he created; he is actually a very private guy who doesn’t enjoy public personal attention. 

But there is another side of Dad.  He loves opportunities. Maybe he was so successful as a salesman all those years because he just loves finding and then thinking about how to take advantage of an opening, how to fix a problem, how to surprise the people he loved with remodeled kitchens, bicycles, or chocolate doughnuts.

Maybe that is why he has always watched the sales flyers and the coupons that come in the mail.  Maybe there will be an opportunity too good to pass up.

Well, for me, that is exactly what Father’s Day represents.  An opportunity.  It isn’t important who gave me the coupon, but I have a great big one that says for this one day a year, it is absolutely ok to risk everything and stand up when you are supposed to be quiet and risk embarrassing Dad by saying how much I love him, how much I respect him, how often I judge my actions by what I think he might say and how more than anything I hope I have made him proud. 

I’m sure he will have a very well-thought out response.  But luckily, I am my father’s daughter.  And this is what I believe.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad, with all my love.

Johnny Boy Would Love This...

Today’s Cool Album of the Day (#842 in the Series) is Johnny Boy Would Love This…A Tribute to John Martyn

There are some artists who open their hearts to us. They are the jewels, the ones that never fail you when you go back to their music. And their songs are the ones that live on, because the beauty of the truth they tell does not die, even when the artist does.

A tribute album is a tricky thing. It always sounds like a good idea, but we all know cases where the end result leaves you wishing the material had been left alone. Bringing too few new ideas to the arrangements can leave us wishing for the original. Too much re-interpretation can actually point out flaws we hadn’t noticed. John Martyn’s music came from such a sacred space within him, from such specific, intimate emotional experiences, it seemed impossible a tribute album would have a chance of lifting it up in a way that would add to his legacy.

Unless.

Unless the artists who participate in the project do so out of their own deep respect and love for the man and his music. Unless they understand that what is required is for them to come from that same space, to open their own hearts. Unless the producer is himself clear about the music’s strengths and challenges, and is determined to trust the magic that lives in these songs to spread to new artists, new audiences.

 

Well, that is exactly what happened. And the title of the tribute Johnny Boy Would Love This…A Tribute to John Martyn couldn’t be more appropriate.




To watch John Martyn perform live was to see a  man in extremes of both joy and pain – sometimes at the same instant. He seemed to be reliving experiences with the audience rather than performing songs. But his distinctive way of letting the words slide together and the gravel in his voice mixed with emotion – sometimes crying, moaning or yelling more than singing – could overwhelm his lyrics and their raw, simple poetry. The power of John’s personality was so present that you didn’t need to know the words to understand his meaning. When an artist is that unique, how do you pay tribute?

What Producer Jim Tullio understood was how these fresh versions would surprise us. The lyrics feel invigorated in the hands of these artists. And such artists! From every corner of the music world they came happily when asked, or happily asked to come, in order to contribute. Robert Smith from the Cure, David Grey, Beth Orton, the late Syd Kitchen, Joe Bonamassa, Sonia Dada and Phil Collins – all felt a deep connection (and many of them a debt) to Martyn’s work and a desire to add their music to his.

It almost seems as if the versions on this double-CD set and Martyn’s original recordings communicate with each other rather than compete. The interpretations are respectful and that firm ground presents a showcase for the creative ideas the musicians brought to the undertaking. An example is “Small Hours” which Martyn recorded with solo guitar and an echoplex, along with Stevie Winwood on synthesizer. They created a world of ambient night noise as an evocative backdrop to the raw entreaty to “Keep on Loving Till Your Love is Gone.” In the tribute, Robert Smith samples that introduction, adding his own electronic vibe and letting his voice and the lyric echo, mirroring the original to a great effect.

Clarence Fountain, one of the original Blind Boys of Alabama and Sam Butler, another alumnus of the group, take on “Glorious Fool”; their voices a perfect fit for the warning, “Half the lies he tells you are not true.”

  John Martyn and Jim Tulio
 

 

In “Head and Heart” John’s trademark picking style added a small sharpness that cut against the beauty of the words. On the tribute, the sweetness is instead accentuated by wind chimes and the whispery, sensual voice of Vashti Bunyan. Both work brilliantly, and both versions have a steady heartbeat. In the original, bongos are beating in the background. Vashti’s version has a muffled bass drum beat that steadily if somewhat ominously propels the song forward even as it anchors it solidly to earth.

In 1990, Tullio was working with Cheryl Wilson on her record which happened to include a cover of “You Can Discover,” when he got a call from Martyn who was in New York performing. Tullio persuaded him to come to Chicago and play on the side. Cheryl’s record was never released, but when the idea for this album came up, Tullio remembered the track, thereby allowing Martyn to perform on his own tribute.

Martyn makes a second appearance on “Anna,” which is based on the same chord structure as “Small Hours” but boasts a different melody and lyric. Martyn had laid down the music for “Anna,” but was never quite satisfied with his vocals, so it too was not released. For the tribute, Tullio had Brendan Campbell sing over the perfect accompaniment, recorded years before.

The Emperors of Wyoming, a band which includes Butch Vig, the world renowned producer of Nirvana’s album Nevermind, contribute a Neil Young type vibe to “Bless the Weather.” Lisa Hannigan’s stunning Celtic interpretation of “Couldn’t Love You More” feels more like collaboration than interpretation.

And then there is the blessing. Martyn’s wish for himself and for us captured for all time by Snow Patrol in “May You Never” with its heartbreakingly simple requests:

“May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold

Won’t you please won’t you please won’t you bear it in mind
Life is a lesson to learn in our time
Won’t you please won’t you please won’t you bear it in mind for me”

 

Snow Patrol adds a full chorus behind the last verses as it builds to a powerful conclusion. When John performed it, the power came from repetition. He sang the refrain over and over, wishing it harder and truer each time, until the audience was simply wrecked. It is true, he would love this. So will you.

Baby Don't You Want to Go?

Today’s Cool Album of Day (#802 in the Series) is Eddie Holstein, Eddie Holstein

When Eddie Holstein sings “I’m goin’ down to Morton Grove, baby do you want to go?” the answer is yes.  And that is just how it is, after all these years and clubs and sing a longs and tributes, Eddie Holstein still makes you want to go.

The slightly fat sound of his free finger picking style on the folk guitar and the weathered but still potent voice takes you back to the days when folk singing was the bomb. Or, against the bomb.  But he isn’t singing strident protest tunes on this set; no full throated, head back sincerity ala Bob Gibson or Joan Baez.

Instead Ed stays in the pocket where he is comfortable and where we want him – singing songs we recognize, ones with lyrics that knock you out with their truth and warmth, songs with love and longing and hope and pain. And occasionally he reminds everyone that anytime he wants to, he can stop the show. And with Eddie Holstein, that’s where you have to watch out.

See, most folk singers back in the day could make you sing along. Hell, you came out because you wanted to sing along, although you acted shy for a verse or two. Eddie can still make audiences sing along, and he also still has the ability to make his audiences choke with laughter. Sometimes at the same time.  Don’t take my word for it. Listen to the live version of “Back in the Saddle” and just see how long it takes for him to get to you. He had me at the third line.  At the “Live at the Earl” Concert at Fitzgeralds a few months ago I thought some of the old folkies were going to need medical attention from laughing so hard at Eddie’s set.

It is true there is something inherently ridiculous about a bunch of city people sitting around singing old cowboy or blues songs. But we love them and so does Eddie. He just can’t help flashing a mirror at us all from time to time so we can appreciate how much fun we are having singing them. When the album opens with “I Love Me” with the Pickin’ Bubs (Maura Lalley and Peggy Browning ) singing “He loves him” you know that he’s still having fun.

Eddie says he was very pleased with how the record came out. “I was a little reluctant to record an album because I’m not touring or anything, but I was really happy to be able to show these arrangements and what I could do.” He teaches guitar now at the Old Town School of Folk Music and still plays the occasional gig.  A few of those gigs make it onto the side, including a great live version of “Done Laid Around” with Jim Craig and Mark Dvorak.  “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” is on it too and if you have never heard Eddie’s classic Vincent Price story, (and even if you have) you need to hear it here.

There are a few other Dylan tunes, “Buckets of Rain” and “If You Gotta Go, Go Now” for example. Eddie says he thinks “they are the most understandable of his tunes, and they’re not whiney.” John Prine’s “A Good Time” also makes an appearance. On these numbers, since you aren’t laughing, Eddie has to break your heart a little. He also includes a few traditional numbers such as “Shake Sugaree” and “12 Gates to the City” with Elaine Moore. A tribute to Big Bill Broonzy recorded live at the Old Town School yields “Tell Me Who’s Been Foolin You?” which is arguably one of the best song titles ever.

Bonnie Koloc, whose voice has somehow defied the years to stay as crystalline and pure as it ever was, duets beautifully with Ed on “Swinging On  A Star” and “Bluebird Hotel.”  (By the way, if you love Koloc like I do, don’t miss her brilliant new album, “Rediscovered”.)  She doesn’t sing Eddie’s “Jazzman” this time, although Eddie says that like all of us he still loves her version from so long ago.  

Instead Ed takes the vocal on his most famous original tune, joined by John Spiegel on dobro and John Abbey on bass. It takes on a new poignancy with its slower tempo and the voice of a man who has obviously tried a trick or two. “It’s not a mournful song;  plaintive but not mournful.”  It’s a great song that has been recorded by many performers over the years.  Eddie loves them all and said it is “the biggest kick when someone else records your song. It was the ultimate dream come true to have Tom Rush record it.”

So, if you spent time on Wells Street or Lincoln Avenue back in the day, and wish you could time travel back there, here’s your ticket. Just like he always did, Eddie makes you wanna go.

Jessica is Going to College!

When Linda was going off to college I wrote her a letter. Today is your party, Jessica, as you leave for college, and even tho you are my niece and not my sister and I never went away to college as you are about to, today I felt like I wanted to write you a letter too.

The older I get, the less I am sure of, and the less advice I try to give. Actually as I think about it, the letter I wrote to her was because I was so scared. She was the first to leave and go away, and as much as our personalities clashed, she was doing something that was terribly frightening to me.

And Jessica, I was the oldest; I don’t know if you know that….I rarely mention it.

Allright, I mention it all the time. But you know what that means, right? Even tho nobody told me that I was responsible for my brothers and sisters, I felt I was. So I guess I thought she needed my advice.

But you are a totally different story. When I look at you I am not frightened for you. You have grown up with the best parts of your mom and dad, and I am so proud to be your aunt. You have your head on straight (do people even say that anymore?) and you make good decisions. You are so smart, and funny and clearly comfortable in your own skin that I am excited for you but not scared.

So no advice for you today Jessica. Go off – do good – enjoy this time of your life. You are going to do great and nothing is going to hold you back. Get outta here you knucklehead!

However, as long as I am writing this I do feel like there might just be a few things I could share that might be helpful…

First of all if you ever need anything don’t hesitate to call me, because whatever you need I will get for you.

Except money. If you need money I think you would be better off going to Jeff or David or somebody. But other stuff. Of course it might be better to call your mom and dad, but it you need anything that your mom and dad or Jeff or David can’t provide, call me ok? Or somebody. Call somebody. Why do you think you have a cell phone anyway? To talk to your friends? You call home, Missy.

And, don’t play any of these choking games I’ve been reading about. You wouldn’t do that anyway. But don’t. Actually no games. Don’t play any games at all. Not even cards or Monopoly. Just study. That is what you are there for, for God’s sake, what the heck are you playing games for anyway? Is that what life is all about for you Miss Rogers? Games? Do you think it will be all fun and games when you get out here in the real world? No, my friend, it will not.

Now it seems obvious from recent family history that you will probably need your appendix taken out at some point. So just go over to the med center and introduce yourself so when you go there in the middle of the night some snowed-in weekend in February they will know who you are.

And no snow blowers. That goes for the whole family. No more snow blowers. Have I made myself clear?

Let’s talk seriously and realistically about drinking for a minute ok? No drinking. Ok that’s covered.

Because here is the thing about drinking. You have one drink and before you know it you are looking like me at the end of Sue’s wedding. Or David’s wedding. I don’t know if you were there. Unfortunately I am not sure what all happened, but there is evidently a picture of me in a cowboy hat I’d like to get back. Anyway the point is once you start drinking you buy a ticket to Hot Messville. And, Jess, that is a bad look for anybody (... and everybody has a camera!)

Have I mentioned no ladders?

You know Jessie-girl, life is like a box of chocolates. I never understood what that meant, but it sounds good. Actually I think life is more like a spider web. I’ve been thinking about them a lot because evidently spiders just LOVE high rises. I have no idea why, but I have 30 or 40 spiders on the outside of my windows. And these are big old dudes with beards, not the itsy bitsy kind. And they are furiously covering the entire windows with their webs.

Here is the weird thing. There are no other bugs up here. So what do they think they are going to catch? Are they doing some artistic wrap of the building? Or is it just my apartment? Are they trying to encase me in here? And they are making so much noise!! It sounds like roaring almost, like war, like….wait, is the Air and Water show today? Anyway, you work hard all your life and you end up in some Twilight Zone episode where the spiders are coming to get you and you can’t find your drink…

You know J-dog, now that I think about it, life is like an Air and Water show going on BEHIND you, so you hear all the roaring and you keep getting distracted and snapping your head to see NOTHING because it is behind you and life is like that with all the distractions that seem important at the time, I mean you could really hurt your neck if you don’t figure out that all those noises are just noises and nobody is going to crash into your building and anyway if they did they would get caught up in the magnificent spider webs that are now covering your windows…

Look Boo, I gotta dip. So let’s review.

Stay in your room except to go to classes, and only talk to teachers. And the people at the med center. And be good to spiders cuz they talk to each other and these guys are clearly really mad at me.

Dirt

A funny thing happened to me as I researched my family tree. I was having lots of luck. I was the center of attention at family reunions with all of the family history I’d found. I was researching church and school records, old family letters and pictures, census rolls and public records in order to dig up all the information I could. And I found lots of interesting information, also known as dirt. I was having a blast.

But just today I remembered a conversation with my sister Diane from some time ago that stopped me in my tracks. She was working on my mother’s family tree. We didn’t have a lot of reliable information, but she wanted to record what she had found and present it to my mom as a surprise. There were a few dates she didn’t have. Could I tell her the date of my divorce?

No. I could not.

Did I know the date? No. I did not.

Would I look it up? No. I would not.

She was exasperated. Why not? She needed the date to make everything complete. Would I think about it? No. I thanked her for calling.

It was just too personal. Five solid years and at least one serious relationship had passed since my divorce. Still. No. I would not even consider it.

I have to face facts. I am obviously a hypocrite. I am delighted to jump into someone else’s life and stir up all manner of dirt in the name of “finding out what their lives were like” but I won’t even give my sister a date that she needs for basic record-keeping.

I’m not trying to keep my divorce a secret. There is no reason to, everyone knows I was married for years and have a wonderful 19-year-old son as a reminder. There aren’t lingering hard feelings. In fact, my ex sometimes shows up for holidays (to my family’s never-ending confusion) and he and I are in constant communication about our son. I’m willing to talk about my marriage and breakup with anyone who asks. In fact, I’ve been known to talk about it to people who have heard the story many times and wouldn’t mind changing the subject once and for all.

And what does a date tell you anyway? Nothing about what really happened, that’s for sure. Nothing about the agonizing years that it took to understand that it needed to end and then to make the move to end it. Nothing about the long painful process of the actual proceedings or about being held captive in a judge’s chambers while she reviewed our financials between taking phone calls and shout outs from people walking by the office. Nothing about how on the day, after it was over, my ex and I ended up in the same elevator, and all I could think about was the day we started. Or about how I went to lunch alone at a diner near the courthouse and called my mother to let her know it was over, like a surgery that had been successful in cutting out the cancer but was only the beginning of the healing.

Giving her the date seemed like giving up control of the story, making it part of the public domain when I wasn’t finished with it yet. It isn’t some funny anecdote; it is a powerfully charged, defining moment in my life. I couldn’t bear to reduce it to a date on a piece of paper where someone might look at it and find it slightly interesting or, worse yet, of no importance whatsoever. It’s water under the bridge, but it is still my bridge.

As my mother says, “You might want to look at that.”

I know. She’s right. I’ve obviously got unfinished business. Frankly, I’m not sure I will ever finish that particular business. Like everything else having to do with the breakup of my marriage, it will take as long as it takes for me to let it go. The dreams and regret and promises and pain are still closer to the surface than I like to admit. It wasn’t until my sister called that I realized how close it still is.

So, I’m thinking about these relatives whose vital statistics I am brandishing as if I created these characters in a novel. What facts have I uncovered that would have caused them pain to reveal? Do I have any right to violate their privacy in the name of “Tracing My Roots”? It’s all very respectable until you realize that I am simply a nosy private detective who happens to be related to these people.

I can’t kid myself. I’m addicted. There is no way I could stop this work now, even if my grandmother came back from the dead and threatened to disown me in the hereafter.

I’m not looking for gossip. I am truly looking for stories about who they were and what life was like. I can be respectful and resist the temptation to jump to conclusions about what I find and how they felt. And maybe I can give them something in return.

My divorce was final on December 20, 1999.

Go ahead, Diane. Add it to the tree.

How I Learned To Travel

In England for the first time, to be a godmother to my friends’ new baby, I decided to take one day for myself to see London. Being from Chicago, I figured I could find my way around, and I was eager to experience it on my own.

So I did what any good tourist does, I got out the guidebooks, the pamphlets and the maps, and planned a route with my friends the night before.

They were very helpful, telling me about things I shouldn’t miss, as well as things I should. And I had some of my own ideas, like visiting Charing Cross Road. There was a wonderful book I’d read called “84 Charing Cross Road” about a bookstore there and a woman from New York who grew to love the store and all of the people in it as they exchanged letters about books she wanted to buy during World War II.

Neville thought I was crazy to go there. “You must see the Tower and you have to see St. Paul’s. Really Charing Cross Road is only a shadow of what it was. I don’t think you should waste your time.” Right. We marked out an itinerary that included as many of the tourist attractions as we could fit. If I kept very tightly to the schedule I’d have a full experience of London.

Morning, and I boarded the train. I was used to the whole commuter scene and tried to look very nonchalant as we whizzed by buildings and gardens and signs that were all totally different from home. All of the other people were bored and going to work, while I wanted to yell, “Yippee! I’m in London!”

First stop was Leicester Square to buy discounted same day theater tickets. I was standing on line and began chatting with the lady in front of me. We introduced ourselves, her name was Margie. We slowly began to suspect that we were in line for one of the “fake” booths, which don’t really offer the wonderful tickets to the smaller plays, but only slightly discounted tickets to the “Cats” variety. While she held my place I began to walk around and found the famous Leicester Square booth. I waved Margie over and she and I were having a fine time celebrating that we had avoided a tourist trap, talking and waiting for the booth to open.

In a few minutes, a man from Kentucky named Tony joined in. We compared notes about theater in general and what we would see that evening and in the end all got tickets for the same show. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet again that evening at the theater.

Almost immediately on leaving them I started to feel very woozy. Enough to sit down on a park bench. Enough to start to worry about what to do. Down the bench from me was a man I hadn’t noticed.

Had I seen a tourist in trouble in Chicago, I’m quite sure that I would have helped. I see myself doing so in a very take-charge way. What was so different about this fellow was how he just sort of leaned in and very casually mentioned what a great day it was. This gave me the opportunity to say something about suddenly not feeling well.

He pointed out a “chemist” as they call drug stores, and suggested that perhaps I had a bit of a sinus problem. So after sitting for abit, he walked me there. Again, very understated, not Chicago style at all.

The chemist recommended a powder that you were to put into hot water. My next step was to find a café so I could order tea. Soon I was in a lovely little restaurant where I could sit outside and enjoy the weather and concentrate on feeling better.

Mentally I was cursing myself for wasting so much time. There went the tour at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and if I caught the next one, I would miss the Tower. But there wasn’t an alternative. I had to sit there and let the medicine do its work in order to salvage any of my day.

I’d brought along my travel journal, and so I dug it out and started to write about what I’d experienced so far, about Margie and Tony and the lovely Scotsman.

Then suddenly I saw myself sitting in the sun on a brilliant spring morning in a small café, sipping this medicine that tasted like peppermint tea, and munching on a lovely pastry. I was watching people go by, hearing snippets of conversation and writing as the inspiration hit.

This was my dream of being in London. Not the crazy rush to see attractions so that I could tick them off a list. But time to actually experience the city and feel its heartbeat. How had it happened? If I hadn’t gotten ill, I would have missed it all - trying to see it all.

After awhile I felt much better. I looked at my map, and realized that I was just a few blocks from Charing Cross Road. I saw the day stretch out in front of me – browsing for books, getting on a double decker bus and sitting upstairs while I watched the city go by, eating dinner in a pub and talking to and laughing with the bartender and then meeting my new friends for a lovely play.

The Tower of London would have to wait, today I wasn’t ready for prison. Today I wanted nothing more than the freedom to find this city on my own terms.