Hiding Out in Driftless with the Ghost of Harriet Hosmer

In this political season, it is good to unplug and go on a road trip into one of the less celebrated areas of our nation. One of the things that is especially great about the United States is the abundance of elbow room and beautiful places that are relatively unoccupied.  One of the places I head to when I need to hide out is the Upper Mississippi River Wildlife Refuge, a massive swath of the northern section of the Big Muddy, covering  over 200,000 acres and 260 miles of the river's path.

This is not a densely populated area, and it is pretty dang far from major cities.  It is over 250 miles to Chicago, 193 miles to Milwaukee, 198 miles to Minneapolis.  There is lots of farming, hunting, fishing and Harley riding happening in this region.  They call it the Driftless Area, a lovely name that sounds philosophical  but refers to the fact that the great glaciers didn't drift this far south back in ancient times.  There are plenty of forested hillsides and sculpted valleys cut into limestone bedrock.  When you pass a car on the road, the occupants invariably raise their hand in a peaceful, friendly greeting.  Life is slower here, and much quieter.  You can see all the stars when you step outside your cabin door at night and gaze skyward.

The media is blasting news of Romney and Obama into our brains all day and all night.  The Artic ice is melting at an alarmingly rapid pace.  The United States is lurching insanely toward the Fiscal Cliff. The Cubs are on track to lose 100 games this season, which, remarkably, wouldn't be their worst season (they lost 103 games in 1962 and 1966).  In spite of all this distressing crap, the Driftless Area cruises on, basking in local joys and coping with local sorrows.

On the east side of the Mississippi, in Lansing, Iowa, there is a city park, Mt. Hosmer Park.  As you would surmise, it contains Mt. Hosmer.  The view form Mt. Hosmer is pictured above.  At the summit is a lovely World War I memorial and on the cliff overlooking the spectacular Upper Mississippi region is a 60-foot flagpole erected by a local committee that included the American Legion and VFW chapters.  Mt. Hosmer was named for Harriet Hosmer, a noted 19th century American sculptress who spent time traveling the "wild Mississippi" in the early 1850's when she was a young woman.  The little mountain was named for Miss Hosmer because she won a footrace to the summit that occurred during a steamboat layover in 1851.  Miss Hosmer was known as an "independent woman" - she didn't marry and preferred the company of other women, specifically spending 25 years with a certain Lady Ashburton (mostly in Europe).  Harriet was quite the cut-up - Henry James called her "the life of every party."

Now, I didn't expect to learn that a mountain in Lansing IA was named after a wild and crazy 19th century lesbian sculptor.  This is one of those pieces of information that makes me feel quite pleased with the bone-deep quirkiness of the USofA.  Good, old Iowa!

I can go back home now, a bit refreshed and a little more confident that we will all muddle through somehow.

Eva Cassidy

The  voice was the humankind's first musical instrument.  Voices and hands beating a rhythm were the components of our first musical compositions.  I believe singing is the most popular type of music due to this prehistoric connection.  We are hard-wired to respond. That is why a skilled vocalist can connect with millions of people.  But sometimes the most amazing singers remain obscure.

The story of Eva Cassidy is known to some people, and it is available for your reading pleasure via a simple Google search.  The keywords for Ms. Cassidy - shy, insanely talented, eclectic, tragic.  She died of cancer at the age of 33 and her modest fame was achieved after she passed.

I have been listening to this woman for years and she still stuns me and rips my heart out.  That voice! The phrasing and range!  I recommend that you watch and listen to Eva's performance of "Stormy Monday".  This unbelievable soul/blues music is pouring out of her, and she is such a sweet little blonde suburban woman.  Some musical experiences are just too intense and beautiful, the pleasure of listening borders on pain.  A musical experience like that changes the listener forever.  Eva Cassidy was a master of providing people with those experiences.

I am not religious, but I hope that there is an afterlife so I can tell Eva to her face how her music has grabbed and changed me.

David Schantz, aka Dave "Slim" Chance, RIP

Back in the late sixties and early seventies, I was a punk teenager with a bad attitude and really bad hair.  One of my running buddies was a guy named David Schantz.  Dave and I grew up together in the Bonaire neighborhood in San Leandro, California.  He was a year older than me and I looked up to him.  He was a multi-instrumentalist - bass trombone, tuba, cello, acoustic and electric bass, guitar - and he was smart as hell.  If I remember right, he was admitted to Stanford.  He also liked to sing (his vocal style was...umm...unique) and he acted in several plays in high school.  Dave was creative and hilarious, and was a tall, lean character who swaggered when he walked.  So Dave had a lot going for him as a young man.  We had a lot of crazy teenage experiences together and played a lot of music.  He opened my ears to some new sounds.

Dave also was interested in experimentation and he had a rebellious streak.  This manifested itself in the activities one might expect of a teenager in the late 1960's - drug use and refusal to conform to societal expectations.  He never made it to Stanford, I don't think.  Dave wanted to be a rock star and he pursued that dream, I think.

When I left California after college, I lost touch with Dave.  I would get tidbits of info - he released a self-produced CD, he assumed the alias of Dave "Slim" Chance, he hooked up a stationary bike to a generator to make electricity while exercising.  I didn't see Dave or talk to him - he moved out past Sacramento, so he wasn't around when I went back to the San Francisco Bay Area to visit.

I got a call from another old childhood buddy last night - Dave Schantz died  on Tuesday.  He contracted hepatitis C some time ago, which morphed to liver cancer, which took him out.  Dave was around 59 years old, I think.  It is a damn shame he had to check out early.

So I dug around the web and found Dave's YouTube channel. He put up a remarkable video - one of his original songs, telling his story, tied to a photo montage of his life.  He knew that he was going to die.  Here is the link to that video. There is another video that provides a glimpse of Dave's brilliance: Check it out here.

Dave Schantz, aka Dave "Slim" Chance - sorry I lost touch with you, man.  I will be sure to raise a glass full of adult beverage tonight in your memory.  I have a feeling that is what you would want me to do.

The UBAA will not rise again.

When I first arrived in Evanston IL to attend graduate school at Northwestern, I was amazed by a strange reality.  It was 1976, and Evanston was a college town that did not have a bar.  This was very wrong and unnatural.  The situation has been corrected - Evanston is now rotten with drinking establishments (disguised as restaurants).  But in the late 1970's, drinking an adult beverage while sitting in a cool dark space required a field trip out of town.  The closest watering whole to my first residence in Evanston was the UBAA, right over the northwest border of town in Skokie.

The UBAA (AKA the Old Crawford Inn) was launched in 1939 by Richard Diesterheft.  It was originally named "The U-Bar" in honor of its'uniquely-shaped bar.  Sometime in the 1950's, the local politicos passed an ordinance prohibiting the use of the word "Bar" in the name of a drinking establishment ( now THAT was over-regulation!!).  Richard shrugged and re-named his joint "The UBAA Tap."  In my view, this was a brilliant piece of passive resistance against tyranny.

The UBAA attracted thirsty Evanstonians like dog poop attracts files.  Every night was Saturday night.  You could also catch the Cubs in the afternoon and suck down a couple of Old Styles.  Until the 1990's, the joint had little competition.  The beer was cold, the food was decent, the hamburgers were especially good.  The Diesterheft family owned and operated the joint for 4 generations.  It was a constant in a sea of change.  One of my favorite Saturday afternoon treats was to ride my bike on a 6+ mile route to the UBAA, have a Fat Tire and a burger, then ride home.  The UBAA was an old-fashioned neighborhood tavern, a gathering place with regulars; a small business that sponsored Little League teams and bowling leagues.  It wasn't a fancy place; it was in a non-nondescript building that had several funky local retail businesses (vacuum cleaner repair shop, window and siding store, etc), but it played a role valuable role in the community.

Late last year, the UBAA abruptly closed.  It might have been due to a deterioration of the business; it might of been due to electrical code violations uncovered by the Village of Skokie during an inspection, maybe the Diesterheft family just ran out of energy for the enterprise.  There is a huge "For Sale or Lease" sign in the parking lot.  There is a hole in the fabric of the neighborhood.

Being a curious person, I called the realtor's number on the big sign in the UBAA's parking lot.  I learned that the property is under contract, has been for several months, and the sale should close in a week.  At first, I thought that the UBAA would rise again, under new ownership, but the news isn't good for fans of neighborhood taverns. The realtor said it will be torn down and a new development will take its place.  The realtor wouldn't tell me what new building would be put in its place; it will be a commercial development, not residential.  Please, no fast food!!

So after 73 years, The UBAA is about to be buried.  It was a long run, and the joint is missed.

Hang in There, Curtis!!!

I was pretty excited when I saw a poster at the used record store in Evanston - Curtis Salgado was coming to my suburb, playing at SPACE ("Society for the Preservation of Art and Culture in Evanston"), on August 11, a big Saturday night.  If you are a harmonica player who sings (like me), Curtis is who you want to be when you grow up.  I have been following Mr. Salgado for quite a while; he even has been a victim of this blog back in 2006.

A few weeks ago, I got on the SPACE web site to buy tickets and saw that the show was CANCELLED!!  "Uh oh," I thought.

Curtis is one of the under-appreciated super-talents of my generation.  He is my age (58), he is a fantastic white-boy soul singer and he is an amazing harmonica player.  Curtis has one main claim to fame - he was John Belushi's inspiration for the Blues Brothers schtick.  Curtis was playing the clubs around Eugene Oregon when Belushi and the National Lampoon gang were filming Animal House on the University of Oregon campus.  Curtis' style and talent fascinated big John, and he swiped much of Curtis' persona when he constructed the Blue Brothers - in fact, he split Curtis into two performers - the singer (Jake) and the harmonica player (Elwood).  Salgado was on the fringes of breaking through - he teamed up with Robert Cray for a while, he was the front man for Roomful of Blues,  he opened for Steve Miller in the early 1990's, he played on the Conan O'Brien show in 1997, he sang lead for Santana for a year.  Curtis toured heavily most of his career.  He also partied hard - alcohol, cocaine and a mix of other substances.  He had a "moment of clarity" during a coke binge, checked himself into the hospital in October 1988 and quit.  He stayed clean.

But the life he led left its mark  Or maybe it is genetics - Curtis' mom died of cancer when he was 23 years old.

In 2006, Curtis was diagnosed with liver cancer and was given eight months to live.  He had no health insurance.  He waited six months - the sands were running out of the hour glass.  Finally, he got a call to hot-foot it out to Omaha to receive a liver transplant.  The bills were massive - a series of benefits, donations from fans and fellow musicians and on-line contributions covered the bulk of the costs.  Curtis came back and hit the road, but he was taken down again in 2008 - a tumor metastatisized on his right lung.  That mass was removed, and he recovered again.  I saw him at the Chicago Blues Fest in 2010 and he killed it, man. Curtis Salgado live is an amazing experience.  No recording can capture his passion.  Here is a YouTube video that comes close.

So when Curtis cancelled his show in Evanston, I  knew he had cancelled his entire summer tour.  That can only mean that the cancer is back.  On July 18,  he went under the knife to have another mass removed, this time from his left lung. He lost a big chunk of his lung. Recovery is supposed to take about 4 weeks, and the doctors expect him to be back again.  I sure hope they are right.  I hope Curtis will retain his voice and his harp-playing skills with less lung in his body.  If you feel moved to contribute to his medical expenses, you can do so via his web site (click here).

Hang in there, Curtis. Please.

Sharon Jones Will Save Us All

Sharon Jones is not a kid.  She is a full-grown woman, a Baby Boomer born in Augusta GA but raised in the Apple, New Yawk New Yawk. As a young person, she was obsessed with her fellow Augusta native, James Brown. She is all of five foot tall, and she is not slender, oh no.  She is a powerful small package - she blasts out the deepest soul and funk.  Her live performances are astonishing displays of energy and charisma, not to mention fabulous musicianship and professionalism.  Sharon achieves this with an instrument that isn't as polished as some soul singers - she doesn't have startling range and prettiness; just power and authenticity, which are vastly more important.  She is a legend now, but she has taken a very long road to get there.  She used to be a prison guard - Riker's Island, no less.  She also was an armored car guard for Wells Fargo Security Services.  She spent many long years trying to gain musical recognition and did sing back-up on a number of records.  It wasn't until the late 1990's that her talent and ability to front a band became apparent to the soul/funk music revival community.  Sharon's first record with the Dap-Kings was released  ten years ago. While Sharon Jones is a legend, she isn't famous.  She is known and loved by a decent fan base, but she hasn't hit the mass market.  She hasn't achieved Adele's disgusting ubiquity on the soundtrack of our popular culture, and she never will.

Now here is the thing.  For me, and I suspect for others, hearing Sharon singing over the tight, multi-racial Dap-Kings ensemble is a transforming experience.  She makes me feel that my problems can be overcome, that the unattainable is obtainable, that there will be a brighter day. This sounds ridiculous, but I feel that this type of music can save us all from the depressing aspects of human existence.   Even when Sharon is singing songs of pain and loss, I feel uplifted. Talking and writing about her music is a futile exercise; you have to hear it to understand. Just click here and listen to Sharon lay it down at this year's Bonnaroo festival..http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLpJBTgbgqs

This late 1960's/early 1970's soul/funk revival makes me happy.  I was seriously imprinted with this sound and the emotions that went into it when I was just coming into adulthood.  Tower of Power, Kool & the Gang, Sly and the Family Stone, Rufus, Cold Blood, Parliament/Funkadelic and of course the fabulous James Brown were all on my soundtrack.  They still are.  The success of Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings makes me feel hopeful that this music will live on and remain fresh.

Farewell to My Cannondale H400

On Friday morning, I got up before 5AM, put on my bike riding clothes and headed out to the garage to jump on my Cannondale for an hour-long spin.  My heart sank, because the garage door was open and the Cannondale was GONE!  Gawd!

Well, it is possible that I left the garage door open, I suppose.  I am pretty careful about such things, and when I went out to walk the dog late Thursday night, I went past the garage and didn't notice that it was open.  It is also possible that a clever thief with one of those adjustable garage door openers cruised by and popped the garage door by cracking the code with his nefarious device (I have heard that this is a tool used by professional thieves).  And it is also possible that one of my garage door openers that has gone missing ended up in the hands of someone that knew which garage it could open. I will re-secure the garage, of course.

I registered the bike four years ago, so I turned the registration info and the serial number over to the police officer that came by to take the report.  It is unlikely that I will get the bike back if it was a crime of opportunity inspired by an open garage door. So I went to Bucephalus Bikes in Evanston and bought a replacement single-speed custom refurbished machine for a price equal to about 50% of what an equivalent new bike would cost. I am going to ride this for a while to see if my good old Cannondale shows up. By the way, Bucephalus Bikes and its owner, Alejandro Anon', are truly wonderful.  Alex is a trained architect who has decided leave his profession to pursue his passion for repairing and rebuilding bicycles.  He really knows bikes, that's for sure.

Material possessions really don't matter, I know.  But I was fond of the H400.  It carried me many, many miles.  When I was having a hard time, it helped me forget my problems for a while.  It was a great source of transportation, perspiration and inspiration. I owned it for almost 10 years.  It was my first "real" bike.

I would love to get the bike back, and I would love to see the thief charged, tried and convicted of his or her crime.  I would also like to be eight inches taller and 20 years younger.  The likelihood of these events occurring are about the same.

The Long Hot Summer

Tomorrow is Independence Day in the US of A.  As I walked the rat dog this evening, I could hear fireworks exploding in the middle distance - a mildly disturbing imitation of a wartime mortar attack. It was 90 degrees  with 70% humidity at 9:30 in the evening.  The drought has turned all unsprinkled plants dry and dead. Electricity consumption is spiking as everyone cranks up the aircon.  I haven't felt or seem anything like this since the summer of 1988.  Coincidence - in the summer of 1988, I was finishing up a divorce from my first wife.  I also met my current wife during that heat wave.  Now, in the heat of 2012's equally long hot summer, I am in the middle of another divorce proceeding.

I hate long, hot summers.

I learned a new word today - anosognosia.  Anosognosia is a condition in which a person who is suffering from a mental illness seems unaware of his or her disability.  Unlike denial, which is a psychological defense mechanism conjured up by an individual who knows that something is wrong, anosognosia is part of the disease - a bipolar disorder sufferer or a schizophrenic can be incapable of the insight necessary to recognize that he or she is suffering from a mental illness.  Anosognosia can cause heaps of trouble for the mentally ill person and their family members.

For some reason, this heat wave and anosognosia seem to go together.   Some of us lack the insight to see that climate change is a problem, even when we are living through record-breaking heat.  This may be viewed as the "New Normal."

Bipolar Disorder

Bipolar disorder is an illness that can be successfully treated if the sufferer "takes ownership" of his/her condition and resolves to get well.  It can be controlled with the right psychiatric medication and good ol' "talk therapy."  But if the sufferer refuses to recognize his/her own illness, their lives, and the lives of their family members, can become a living hell.  Read this article from the New York Times for one example of the mess that occurs when a person with bipolar disorder refuses to accept their diagnosis.

Pat Hughes - The God of Cubs Radio

I have had a great baseball week.  On Monday, my wonderful son-in-law took me to the Crosstown Classic, Cubs vs White Sox at U.S. Cellular Field.  The Cubs won 12-3, 5 home runs.  I owe Patrick a big "thank you" for a terrific night at the "new" ball park.   The Cell isn't as quaint as Wrigley, but the men's rooms are much more civilized. I stayed home last night and listened to the game on 720 AM.  Cubs eked out a win, 2-1.  I am listening to the radio again tonight, seeing if the Cubs can sweep their local rival, the Pale Hose.  It ain't looking good - 2 zip, White Sox, at the end of the 3rd.

I believe that baseball should be watched live, in the ballpark, whenever possible.  If you can't make it to the park, the best way to take in the game is to turn on the radio.  Yeah, I will watch the Cubs on television if I am at a bar, but the magical rhythm of the play-by-play man and the color man has been part of my consciousness since I was a preschooler, listening to the San Francisco Giants with my Dad in the backyard of our cheesy suburban ranch house in San Leandro CA.  Chicagoans are very lucky because we have the awesome Pat Hughes.

Pat was the play-by-play guy to Ron Santo's color guy from 1996 thorough 2010 when Ronnie died of cancer.  They were absolutely terrific partners - they had that awesome chemistry and they kept their sense of humor through all those years of Cubs misery and disappointment.  Now, Pat is teamed with Keith Moreland,  Keith is in his late 50's and was a good professional baseball player - he was on the 1984 Cubs team that won their division.  Keith knows his stuff and is doing a great job, but of course, he can't be Ronnie.  It is good that Pat Hughes is providing the continuity.

I am amazed by Pat's voice.  It is warm, deep, lush and comforting.  He is always well prepared for each game, he tells good jokes, and he never seems to make a mistake. He never stutters or muffs his lines. I read an interview with Pat.  He said his biggest thrill is when a blind person greets him and says "thank you for helping me see the Cubs play."  Baseball is a game with lots of spaces; a good broadcaster can convey information, wisdom, humor and excitement in those spaces.  The magic of the broadcaster is much enhanced if you have a voice like Pat Hughes.

It is summer solstice, the longest day of the year.  Twilight is upon us at 8:45PM.  The Cubs are now down by 3 runs in the 6th inning.  It is still hot - 89 degrees.  I have the sprinklers on, and I am beginning to fade from my long day.  But Pat is still talking on the radio, emoting, soothing us all with his word pictures.  Thanks, man.

Musical Magic

I still can't believe the impact of technology on music. I am a non-techie; it all seems like musical magic to me.   I am reaching the downhill slope of my run through life, so there is a lot of technological change in my rear-view mirror.  I remember sitting in my room at the age of 15, wearing out my "Kind of Blue" LP on my cheap Sears portable stereo, trying to figure out how Miles injected simple phrases with such beauty and intensity.  I remember spending hours producing a mix-tape for my brand new Sony Walkman so I could be immersed in Tower of Power and Ray Charles during my morning commute.  I had a Sony Discman, enjoying my favorite J.J. Johnson CD as I moved about.  Then, on October 23, 2001, Apple introduced the first iPod - 1,000 songs in your pocket!! Holy crap!! I was beside myself in excitement. By the time I got around to buying an iPod, the capacity was up to 10,000 songs.  I uploaded my entire CD collection to that sucker in 2004.  It took a solid week.

Just for fun, take a look at the Steve Jobs YouTube video of the iPod introduction.  Doesn't the iPod look lame and clunky?   That wheel thingy on the front is totally retro now.  In this age of touch screens and cloud-based data storage, the iPod Classic is heading down the road to obsolescence, following the path of the 8-track tape, the cassette and the compact disk.  I still have and use my old-skool mega-iPod with the wheel interface, but I am now listening to something else.  It is crowding the iPod from my ears.  It is Pandora.

Yeah, it has been around for a while and my eldest daughter has been onto it for years.  I started fiddling around with Pandora at least two years ago and found it amusing to run it in the background as I worked on my laptop. A few months ago, I discovered that I could have Pandora stream to my smartphone thus turning it into a portable music player.  I set up a bunch of stations - Trombone Shorty Radio, Dexter Gordon Radio, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings Radio, Muddy Waters Radio - then I hit Quick Mix.  It is like having a personal DJ with telepathy.  Pandora knows what I like before I have heard it.  I heard that Pandora can access over 1 million songs.

This morning, I heard Howard Tate sing "Eight Days on the Road" thanks to Pandora.  Now, that is about as soulful and funky as a man can be!  I like Aretha Franklin's version of this song, but it is nowhere near as REAL as Howard's version.  The song is from the pen of Jerry Ragavoy, a prolific soul songwriter (a Jewish fella, of course) who also wrote "Get it While You Can" (covered by Janis Joplin) and "Time is on My Side" (covered by the Rolling Stones).

Right after Howard Tate, Pandora served up Dexter Gordon playing an amazing version of "Ruby My Dear," his tenor sax caressing the phrases and purring the theme.  Then came Muddy Waters, Ray Charles, The Diplomats of Solid Sound, Chet Baker and Otis Redding.   And I thought, "Magic."

Starting the Year with a Loss - RIP Neil Lifton

Back when I was fronting the Mystery Band, I walked into Duke's Bar in Chicago's Rogers Park neighborhood, hoping to get a gig. I met Neil Lifton, who had taken over Duke's around 2004 or so. Neil turned a true skanky dive bar into a marvelous neighborhood music tavern. He was a passionate roots music fan and a passable guitarist. Neil and his wife, Mary, became pillars of the east Rogers park neighborhood and had a lot to do with the revival of the Morse Avenue/Glenwood Avenue music/arts district. The Mystery Band played Duke's many times until I shut the band down in 2010.

Neil died on January 3, 2012. He was 60 years old. He was an exuberant, fun-loving, hard-working guy. He did his best to help musicians. His tiny music room was the venue of choice for many up-and-comers, blues/roots/jazz players and the occasional star. Neil decided that his bar would be dog friendly; I remember a pooch howling along with my vocals during a gig one night. And always, Neil was a genial presence, setting the tone and keeping the patrons under control, mostly.

It is jarring when a friend dies suddenly. There will be a memorial for Neil at 5PM on January 2211 at the Lifeline Theater, 6912 W. Glenwood Avenue in Chicago. Duke's Bar is right next door....

Pearl Harbor Day - Some thoughts that I received today

This showed up in my e-mail; perhaps it has already been blasted around the Web. I found it to be worth reading...

"Reflections on Pearl Harbor " by Admiral Chester Nimitz
(This is a true story: Day in American History)

1941- At 7:55 local time in Hawaii, “a date that will leave in infamy,” nearly 200 Japanese aircraft attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, long considered the US “Gibraltar of the Pacific.” The raid, which lasted little more than one hour, left nearly 3,800 dead. Nearly the entire US Pacific Fleet was at anchor there and few ships escaped damage. Several were sunk or disabled, while 200 aircraft on the ground were destroyed.

The attack on Pearl Harbor brought about immediate US entry into World War II, a “Declaration of War” being requested by President Franklin D. Roosevelt, carried live on radio, and approved in a record time by the Congress, December 8, 1941, only a few hours after President Roosevelt address to a joint meeting of Congress.

December 11, Germany and Italy, in a pact with the Japanese, declared war against the United States. Misinterpreting the anti-war sentiment in the U.S., they thought we would not want to enter two separate wars, particularly with a decimated U.S. Navy and would leave Asia and Australia for Japan to conquer. They thought American's weak and without the will, particularly without the weapons to fight back.

( lower half of http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/today/dec07.html )

In reality, Former Admiral Chester Nimitz saw three of the biggest mistakes an attack force could ever make:

Sunday, December 7th, 1941--Admiral Chester Nimitz was attending a concert in Washington D.C. He was paged and told there was a phone call for him. When he answered the phone, it was President Franklin Delano Roosevelt on the phone. He told Admiral Nimitz that he (Nimitz) would now be the Commander of the Pacific Fleet.

After making plans, organizing his staff, Admiral Nimitz flew to Hawaii to assume command of the Pacific Fleet. He landed at Pearl Harbor on Christmas Eve, 1941. There was such a spirit of despair, dejection and defeat--you would have thought the Japanese had already won the war. On Christmas Day, 1941, Adm. Nimitz was given a boat tour of the destruction wrought on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. Big sunken battleships and navy vessels cluttered the waters every where you looked.

As the tour boat returned to dock, the young helmsman of the boat asked, "Well Admiral, what do you think after seeing all this destruction?" Admiral Nimitz's reply shocked everyone within the sound of his voice. Admiral Nimitz said, "The Japanese made three of the biggest mistakes an attack force could ever make, or God was taking care of America. Which do you think it was?"

Shocked and surprised, the young helmsman asked, "What do mean by saying the Japanese made the three biggest mistakes an attack force ever made?" Nimitz explained:

Mistake number one : The Japanese attacked on Sunday morning. Nine out of every ten crewmen of those ships were ashore on leave. If those same ships had been lured to sea and been sunk--we would have lost 38,000 men instead of 3,800.

Mistake number two : When the Japanese saw all those battleships lined in a row, they got so carried away sinking those battleships, they never once bombed our dry docks opposite those ships. If they had destroyed our dry docks, we would have had to tow every one of those ships to America to be repaired. As it is now, the ships are in shallow water and can be raised. One tug can pull them over to the dry docks, and we can have them repaired and at sea by the time we could have towed them to America. And I already have crews ashore anxious to man those ships.

Mistake number three : Every drop of fuel in the Pacific theater of war is in top of the ground storage tanks five miles away over that hill. One attack plane could have strafed those tanks and destroyed our fuel supply. That's why I say the Japanese made three of the biggest mistakes an attack force could make or God was taking care of America.

Anyway you look at it--Admiral Nimitz was able to see a silver lining in a situation and circumstance where everyone else saw only despair and defeatism.

Trombone Shorty and All That N.O. Funk

First of all, I am dedicating this post to my old Cal roommate. Tyler was my "trombone brother" in those carefree college days. He is back in the woodshed, working his on his trombone chops, after a successful business career. Tyler is a huge fan of Trombone Shorty; I think they have even hung out on occassion.

Yes, yes - Trombone Shorty, aka Troy Anderson. He is only 25 years old. He plays both trumpet and trombone like a man with hundreds of years of study under his belt. TS grew up in the Treme' neighborhood of New Orleans. He is a stone N.O. guy, a grad of the New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts. He has been playing in bands since he was six years old.

TS came to Chicago last Wednesday night. Tyler flew in for the event; a group of us gathered. The Park West was full and the decible level was very high. There are six players in Shorty's band - baritone sax, tenor sax, guitar, bass and two percussionists. This band had the polish and precision that comes from playing 250 gigs a year. They provided a flawless foundation for Trombone Shorty's wild improvisations. The band also pulled a stunt durng their encore that we used to call "the Big Switch" - all the players picked up different instruments and played (Shorty on drums, the drummer on guitar, the bass player on trumpet. etc.). These guys are professionals.

Young Troy is a phenom. He is built like a welterweight boxer and dances with a boxer's masculine grace. Since I am an old trombone player, I have a deep appreciation of Shorty's towering mastery of a balky horn. Some of his excursions had me howling in amazement. His trumpet work is equally stunning - he has speed, range and power, and he also can use circular breathing to play continuously for long periods of time - a very flashy, crowd-pleasing technique. I can't think of anyone else that has conquered those two instruments so completely. I was flooded by the flow of his musical ideas.

TS is a great singer, too. His tribute to James Brown was a real eye-opener.

My main beef about the show at the Park West was the sound mix. The bass was way too heavy and devolved into an indistinct rumble that muddied up the sound of the band. Of course, I miss the days when musicians played with dynamics. The relentless volume is near-deafening and becomes stupifying after a while. And the crowd was as loud as the band.

I sound like a grumpy old man. As the t-shirt says, "If its too loud, you are too old."

I don't know if a talent like Trombone Shorty will ever cross over into the mainstream popular culture. He is certainly striving to get there.

Just another day in the Loop

We have hit that warm stretch of early fall, popularly referred to as "Indian Summer." I am not sure that this description is still considered to be politically correct, but I don't know what else to call it.

There are no trees to speak of in Chicago's Loop, so we don't see the leaves turning color. As the days shorten, you notice that it is darker when you step off the train in the morning and darker when you step back on at night to go home. You are grateful for the lingering warmth because the big freeze will be on us soon enough.

A splinter group of the "Occupy Wall Street" movement has taken up residence at LaSalle & Jackson, near the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago and the Chicago Board of Trade. They, too, were enjoying the fine weather, banging on drums and yelling at guys in ties. It is a small group, expressing generalized dissatisfaction with the status quo. It is hard to figure out what their goals might be. Sometimes you just need to bang drums and yell - beats sitting at home, unemployed and grumpy. One fellow was carrying a sign - "Lost my job - Found an Occupation." That sums it up, I guess.

I went to a breakfast session held by a downtown business group. There was a panel of three economists and investment strategists. They all said that the U.S. is not in a recession yet, but the growth trajectory is so low that many people aren't noticing any change. One of the panel members fulminated about the Baby Boom generation, how the debt crisis is directly linked to the same lack of character and self-discipline in that group that led to an explosion of illegal drug use. He believes that things will gradually get better as younger people move into power positions in government and business. Hmmmmmmm. The panel broke up, we all networked over coffee for a bit. I could be mistaken, but it looked like some people had a slightly panicked look in their eyes.

I saw a guy collapsed on the sidewalk as I walked to the train on Thursday evening. He was bald and overweight. He fell at Monroe near Canal. I think he was dead. The paramedics were working him over but they didn’t seem like they were saving a life - they lacked that "911" urgency. I think I heard one of them say “He’s gone.” If so, RIP, stranger.

Last Thursday was also the day that the obituaries for Steve Jobs were printed. I have always thought that it is dumb to mourn for a famous person that you have never met, but I couldn't avoid it. He was the best of the Boomers.

For some reason, I was happy when Thursday ended.

Pain Can Be Funny

The old saw, "Comedy = Tragedy + time" is absoluetely true. I think of the old Monty Python routines regarding the Spanish Inquisition or the Black Plague - how horribly insensitive! Why are we laughing? Because everyone who suffered these unspeakable horrors, and all the people who knew someone who suffered them, has been dead for centuries. So we can guffaw when we watch the "Bring Out Your Dead" scene in the Holy Grail movie.

It is a lot tougher to laugh about something horrible that happened recently - like the 9/11 attacks or the Japanese tsunami. But I can imagine my great, great, great grandchildren having a jolly time making fun of the silly little messes that all of us ancients managed to get into during the olden days.

It is easier to laugh about your own pain, of course. I can laugh about my teenage angst now, but it was deadly serious and horribly tragic when I was living through it. I can laugh about all of my failures in business, but the stress of those experiences nearly killed me. I can laugh about the bones I broke when various accidents befell me (doing a header off my mountain bike, getting slammed in the ribs by a rapidly opening car door, etc.), but I don't remember finding those injuries to be funny when they happened. So the elapsed time between tragedy and comedy can be shorter if you are the sole protagonist.

I think that this weird method of coping, laughing when contemplating past nasty stuff, is part of our evolutionary adaption. Without the ability to laugh at these things, life might get so dark that living is no longer worth the effort. We laugh to survive.

What a Country!

We packed my third-eldest daughter off to college last week. The family decided that we would make a road trip of this necessity, so we packed up the Volvo wagon, loaded in the rat dog, and headed east from Chicago at a fairly leisurely pace. Our destination was Boston, then back around to Worcester, Mass, home of Clark University. I had quite a lot of windshield time, and we paused to take in a few tourist destinations. The picture above comes from our quick visit to Niagara Falls (the U.S. side). I expected this over-hyped location to be a disappointment, but it was not. My girls, wife and I were all amazed by the scene - noise, stunning falling water and mist. Many, many Japanese people, too.

We also stopped at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland and spent a night at a wonderful B&B in the Berkshires. We ate at a restaurant in a converted railroad station in Le Roy NY (birthplace of Jello) and hung out at Ralph's Diner in Worcester MA. (a rock club/bar/diner with awesome burgers). We slept in an out-of-the-way motor lodge in central Massachusetts and got up at 3AM to watch the Perseid meteor shower from the field behind the country motel, free of light pollution. We hiked in a wonderful state park outside of Worcester and saw a small lake full of water lillies. We visited a dive bar in the basement of a Quality Inn outside of Erie PA and heard an incredibly cheesy "lounge lizard" band. We were generally treated with great kindness by total strangers everywhere we went.

Yes, the USA has lost its AAA-rating from S&P. We may be heading into the second part of a double-dip recession. The political environment in our nation's capital is poisonous. It has been a hot summer, too wet in some places and too dry in others. There is turmoil, war and bloodshed in a couple of dozen locations around the world. It is easy to feel uneasy. But after my road trip, I can't help but marvel at the vastness and variety of America. What a country!

In spite of strong evidence to the contrary, I think we will be OK.

Heading South to Humbolt Park on the Bike

The morning of July 4th is a great time for urban bicycling. There is very little traffic, and there is time to absorb your surroundings. Chicago has quite a few bike paths for a big city, so the intrepid bicyclist can have a comnbination of street and park views.

Heading west from my house, I picked up the North Shore Channel Trail. This path runs eight miles between Green Bay Road in Evanston to Lawrence Avenue on the northwest side of Chicago. I picked up the trail at Main Street, about 2 miles from its origin. The path wanders along side the North Shore Channel, which was originally built as a drainage canal around 1908. The original purpose of the drainage canal was to flush the sewage in the North Branch of the Chicago river down the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal. The 'ol channel can get a little ripe at times, but it isn't as disgusting as it was in years past. You can even see folks conoeing on the turgid waters, and there are fish that manage to survive in there (I wouldn't recommend frying them up for dinner, however). The first couple of miles run along side busy McCormick Road, past several large public scuplture pieces (this is the "Sculpture Park" maintained by the City of Skokie). When you head south of Petersen, the trail becomes a pure delight. It ducks under the Petersen, Bryn Mawr and Foster streets which allows bikers to avoid traffic lights and cars. There are acres of parks, playgrounds, tennis courts, baseball diamonds and even a couple of swimming pools. The trail and its setting are marvelous; you even get to ride past the only waterfall within the Chicago city limits.

At Lawrence, you pop out into Albany Park, a decent neighborhood and the heart of Chicago's Korean community. I kept pedalling south on California Avenue to Montrose. Horner Park is at that intersection - a 55 acre space with nine softball diamonds, tennis courts, basketball courts and a fieldhouse. The park is named after Henry Horner, the first Jewish governor of Illinois, who served from 1933 until his death in 1940. Horner Park is one of the cornerstones of the Irving Park neighborhood. I rode through it and kept going. The northwest side of Chicago is a very mixed bag. Logan Square is pretty much fully gentrified now, but head a bit south of there and you get into some interesting urban grittiness. And if you keep heading down California, you run into Humboldt Park.

Humboldt Park really is two places in Chicago. The first is the neighborhood of Humboldt Park, a Puerto Rican enclave that is the only offically recognized "Puerto Rican Neighborhood" in the mainland United States (New York, with its huge Puerto Rican population, doesn't recognize any of its neighborhoods as "Puerto Rican."). The area gained this status beginning in the 1950's, when a major influx of Puerto Ricans replaced the Germans and other residents of the neighborhood. The second place tied to the words "Humboldt Park" is the 207-acre paradise that anchors the northwest side. I love riding my bike through this oasis; it has ponds, streams, nature preserves, a boat house and the only Chicago beach that isn't on the shore of Lake Michigan. It is also the temporary home to a cadre of homeless folks. They are in the shadows, sacked out under bushes or on benches. Some pitch tents to establish more a more formal abode. Since the surrounding neighborhood has a significant amount of poverty and drug-related activity, the park is a refuge for many less fortunate types.

Humboldt Park has to be one of the most interesting urban parks in the nation, and I don't think it gets much respect.

It was about a 22 mile ride, round trip. The scenary varied from verdant and serene to pot-holed and industrial. I saw well-to-do folks in Ravenswood Manor, hipsters in Logan Square and trembling drug addicts in Humboldt Park. This is the City of Chicago. It is a formidable enterprise.

Dave Brubeck and Sons on Fathers Day - Ravinia Festival, Highland Park IL

It is a great thing to have great friends. My old buddy, John Raitt, couldn't use his Ravinia tickets last Sunday (Father's Day evening) so he tossed them over to me. My dear wife and I saw one of the most amazing and poignant jazz concerts in history - Dave Brubeck and his 4 sons - Darious, Chris, Dan and Matt, performing together in the wonderful outdoor setting. Dave turned 90 years old in December of last year, and while he seemed to be fighting jet lag, his playing was beyond belief. Dave has a unique piano "voice," instantly recognizable to a semi-serious jazz fan like me. I put him in a small group of players that have established a voice - Thelonius Monk, Bud Powell, Bill Evans and Herbie Hancock are part of that fraternity.

I am astonished that this man has not lost any of his artistry to age. He started playing the Ravinia Festival in 1955; he has graced the stage at least a dozen times. Brubeck's story is well-known; the idyllic California boyhood in the East Bay Area and on a ranch, the switch from veterinary medicine to music in college,the WWII service in Patton's army, the studies with Darius Milhaud, the French classical composer. I can remember some folks sneering at Brubeck's music - accusing him of cultural appropriation, intellectualization of the jazz idiom and so forth. To this I say, "Horseshit." You can like his music or hate it, but you can't deny his impact. The man has created some of the "greatest hits" of jazz - "Blue Rondo a' la Turk," "Take Five," "In Her Own Sweet Way," " Unsquare Dance" and several others. He brought odd meters to the attention of the American public. His record, "Time Out," went platinum in 1959, giving Elvis and Buddy Holly a run for their money. A lesser known fact - he was a quiet but determined advocate for racial justice. He integrated his quartet in 1958 when bassist Eugene Wright became a member; Brubeck cancelled dates at clubs that objected to integrated bands,. He cancelled television appearances when the station management wanted to keep Wright off-camera. These are the types of actions that helped to break down the evil system that dominated the United States for much of the 20th Century.

At Ravinia, Brubeck did his hits - but he also pulled out a couple of surprises. "St. Louis Blues" sounded fresh in the hands of the Brubeck clan. "Someday My Prince Will Come" became a poly-rhythmic, counter-punctual, dense and exciting collection of multiple melodies, odd meters and chord voicings - pretty radical, in fact. "Black and Blue" featured Chris Brubeck's bass trombone - the cat has serious chops - with Matt on cello taking the bass line since Chris put down his bass to pick up the 'bone. "Take Five" was very interesting - the melody was carried by Matt's cello. Now Matt can really play; it is clear that he is a serious classical player. His jazz work is formidable. I haven't heard the cello in a jazz quartet context, so the sound was odd, but not unpleasant.

As the evening progressed, the Dave seemed to tire somewhat. He let Darius play the aggressive piano lead on "Blue Rondo a' la Turk." But when the nonagenerian settled in for a solo, the years fell away. He also was an effective and amusing story-teller between tunes. The encore was a brief and very touching version of Brahms' Lullaby, with chord voicings that made the little piece brand new and uplifting.

The four Brubeck brothers all met the challenge of their father's musicianship. Dave would occassionally stand up at the piano and gaze at his sons making music, and he would smile. They bowed at the end of the second set and left the stage with their arms draped over each others' shoulders. It felt like the folks at Ravinia had been invited to an intimate family celebration.

And as the patriarch and his sons ambled off stage, I found myself thinking about my own son, Ben. He is a successful educator now, living far from me. I miss him. I salute him.

I look forward to celebrating Dave Brubeck's 100th birthday

Father's Day

Human relationships can be puzzling. Why do we love or hate each other? Is it right to expect others to help you? What is one’s obligation to family members? To friends? To strangers that need assistance?

It may be best not to think too much about these questions. Maybe it is best to embrace the “Golden Rule” as an organizing principal and just take action. “Analysis leads to paralysis” as the saying goes. Or put another way, don’t ask “What is the meaning of life?” Ask “How should I live?”

Let’s consider fatherhood. I am a father – I have four children. They are all interesting individuals. I have intense emotions when I think about my children. I use the word “love” to describe those emotions, but that word has been over-used and trivialized. I can’t really come up with an alternative word or phrase that fits, however.

Let me describe a fatherhood experience.

On Father’s Day weekend each year, there is an art fair in my neighborhood. It is called “Custer’s Last Stand” because it is centered on the intersection of Custer and Main Street in Evanston IL. My youngest daughter (now age 15) loves Custer’s Last Stand. Last year, all of her friends were out of town during the weekend that the fair was scheduled. To her chagrin, I was the only available companion. So we walked to the event and perused the art stalls, the food stands and the music stages. After an hour or so of walking about, we bought ice cream cones and sat on a curb in the shade at the very south end of the fair area. As we ate our cones, about 8 people we knew wandered by and greeted us. Some were my friends, so I introduced them to my daughter. Some were my daughter’s friends, so she introduced them to me. It was a quietly marvelous time.

This might have been my best Father's Day, and no one bought me a tie.