THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
"Don't play for safety - it's the most dangerous thing in the world."-Hugh Walpole
Taking the day off of work today and trying to finish my essay for the Specialty Records box set I have been working on. The project has been such a massive lift…it really has taken me away from other pursuits, like this newsletter. But it will be all worth it in the end: it is coming along nicely with Barbara imagining an incredible design for the package…and the recent new addition of an amazing introduction by Dom Flemons. And then there are the unreleased Wynona Carr audition tapes that will be included, that will solidify the sister’s place in rock n roll history. Oh yeah. Set the world on FIRE, baby.
We did leave the work behind over holiday weekend and camped in Big Sur, which included seeing Los Lobos in a beautiful setting with just 100 people in the audience. Live music, maskless, safe and rocking. It was a wonder. The band was as excited to play as the small audience was to take in their sounds…and while I wish the set had been longer the experience was so needed with definite highlights including a rollicking Don’t Worry Baby from an early release Will The Wolf Survive and the always mysterious Kiko and the Lavender Moon which fit so well in the shaded redwood trees that garnished the stage. Beach Boy Al Jardine even made an appearance joining the band for Sail On, Sailor which the band covers on their new record, and the old tyme hit 409. But the highlight was dancing with my daughter to one of their Cumbia numbers, with her starting by following my steppin’ feet and ending with her making up her own moves…big grinning the whole time.
Live music. Nothing like it. Bring on more and more .
Wordsmithing Whitman: Diaries and Notebooks from the Feinberg-Whitman Papers
This article was inspirational, digging into the journal words of Whitman…making sense of his process….giving insight on the time and work that led up to Leaves of Grass. For the fan, this is revelatory. He was so much beyond his time.
Jimi Hendrix :: Nine To The Universe
The good folks at Aquarium Drunkard dive into the last sessions of the legendary guitarist, where we find him radically psychedelicised and reaching to sonic new planets with some great players by his side. The clip at the end is very much worth the 19 minute listen…a great way to start a short workweek.
If You Nose You Nose: Ryan Travis Christian For Variable Editions
Oh yeah.
B.J. Thomas, ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head’ Singer, Dead at 78
“But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me
It won't be long 'til happiness steps up to greet me”
The West Wind
by: John Masefield
It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
"Will ye not come home, brother? ye have been long away,
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,--
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?
"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
(This poem is dedicated to my late Great Uncle David, who made me my first Manhattan and took me on many an adventure as a child. A sailor: he loved this poem)
