Last Musical Moments with Mom

Last night, Billy C and were jamming on our ukes with our friend Victor K on guitar. This was a different kind of jam for us as Victor is a talented musician. I'm not saying that we don't know other talented people, but when you say "take it, Victor," he takes it. In fact, when Billy C or I asked one another to take it, Victor usually took it. The only thing we took was credit.

We finished our set with "So Lonesome I Could Cry," with Billy C singing melody and me singing harmony. It evolved into a meditation of sorts with Vic taking solo duties as we strummed along.

At the end, we began talking about music and its spiritual essence--not the exact words Victor used, but close enough. The main point was that words couldn't really express what he felt. He told us how there was nothing like playing with friends just for the sake of playing.

It made me think of Mom's last couple of years. Do did some research on Alzheimer's and learned that musical memory is something that stays with us even as our other memories leave. Mom didn't have Alzheimer's. She had Parkinson's. But the same truth still holds--at least in her case.

I stayed with her one night at one of the facilities where she had lived. She had had a very bad day and the woman who ran this home didn't know what to do with her. So I stayed the night.

I didn't sleep much because about every half-hour or so, Mom would try to get out of her bed. At the time, she couldn't walk much and getting out of bed would have been disastrous for her. So I'd go over and take her hand and say "Mom, you don't have to get up yet." She'd say "Can I sleep for just one more hour?" I'd say "yes" and then stroke her hair as she lay back down. Eventually, she'd drift back off.

At around 3 AM, while still sleeping, she started singing. Now Mom had studied opera and had been an excellent singer in her day. She sang an aria and, considering she was lying on the bed, she sang in perfect pitch and kept perfect time, her foot tapping out the rhythm as it stuck out from under her blanket.

And she sang the whole thing. At full volume. Sublime.

A year or so later, as her disease progressed, we moved Mom into a rehab center for evaluation. Most of this time, she ate and drank very little and slept a lot. Sometimes, when awake, she would hallucinate. We would be sitting and talking (she, her bed), when she would suddenly get this look of horror on her face. She say "Don't let me go!" and I would hold her hand more tightly while the episode passed. I realized, finally, that she thought that she was walking with me and was losing her balance--that she was falling. So, when it happened again, I'd say, "It's alright, Mom. I've got you," and she'd calm down.

One day, I brought my uke by for a visit and found her asleep. I sat there for awhile, strumming a random chord progression. Lo and behold, Mom started singing with me--again, on pitch, even though my fingers traveled carelessly from chord to chord. No words, just notes. But I felt like we were talking, so I played until she came awoke and talked with me a little bit.

Soon Mom moved to hospice. We kept reminding ourselves that sometimes people go into hospice and they're still around for years.

Once in hospice, she began the three-month decline until her death. In the beginning, she'd drift in and out of consciousness. She'd be out most of the day because, at night, she would go into sundowning mode, staying too antsy to sleep. She said very little during most of my visits.

One time, again armed with my uke, I brought a fake-it book and played some songs for her, many of them hymns. I came across one I didn't know. It had a Latin title. I asked her if she knew it. She then awoke to lecture to me about an aria with a similar sounding title and then sang it to me--again in fill voice, in perfect pitch.

And then fell silent.

That was the last time she sang for me.

Now, I'm thinking of how Billy C and I used to play with our Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Erector Sets, sometimes building hybrid constructions using all three, while Mom had Madame Butterfly playing on the stereo as she did her housework. We didn't think much of it because we figured that's just what everyone's mother did.

Thanks for the music, Mom. I can hear you still.

Add a Verse

Just leave it where Jaysus flang it.
No reason to frame or hang it.
Forget who or whatever sprang it,
And leave it where Jaysus flang it.

Billy C, Ben, Jackson, and Me

The Folk Music Center celebrated its 50th anniversary last night. I didn't get an invite, but all of the other Canaries did.

Billy C either found or got his invite yesterday, so he e-mailed me and we decided to go.

I at first thought that it would be like a tiny reception with maybe some snacks and stuff. So I left the house without my ax. Billy C brought his, which is when the light pinged in my head: this is a FOLK MUSIC center, people will probably play music, people will probably be INVITED to play music. So, I went in unarmed, but I figured that I could borrow Billy C's if there was an invitation to play.

Then I realized, hey Ben Harper owns this place. This may actually be quite the shindig!

Harper's grandparents, Charles and Dorothy Chase, first opened the Folk Music Center and Ben, when he became successful, bought it.

So, now I realized this shindig might actually be a hullabaloo!

We got there and a line had already formed, just like open mike night. Ellen, Harper's mother and the store's manager, opened the doors, and, sure enough, this was set up to be a real party. As guests walked in, they received commemorative t-shirts--they even had one in my size. And a gourmet buffet had been spread in front of the guitar wall. Harper himself had just snagged a gourmet cupcake as he greeted old friends from town.

As I shuffled through from the door to where the eats were, I looked behind me and there was Jackson Browne. Other players were there, band members and such. The stage had been set up, so clearly there would be music.

Ellen announced that anyone who wanted to play could get up and play one song. A guy with a kazoo got up and played "Happy Birthday." As the first few players performed, I thought about going up myself, but the acts got better and better. I thought about doing "The Green-Eyed Dragon" a capella, but the acts just kept getting better. Then Ben Harper and Jackson Browne performed.

I should mention here that the Folk Center is not all that big and could hold, at best, maybe a hundred people for concert purposes. So, I'm standing maybe 15 feet from the stage.

So they were good and they stuck, technically, to the one song per person rule. At the end of his song, Harper thanked everyone for coming and I thought that was the end. And I decided that I was not going to follow them if it wasn't.

People kept going up. Ben returned to the stage often, sometimes with his mother, sometimes with other musicians. The evening ended with "Goodnight Irene."

A good time.

Rockin' Open Mike Night

It has been along time since I came away from an open mike night at the Folk Center feeling this good. A lot of good performers--a couple of duds--but this was the strongest evening in a long, long time.

Highlights:

Do sang her song about her health class that brought down the house. It was a lusty romp. A few kids were in the audience and she worried about the graphic language--but pushed through anyway. This is a pretty liberal crowd and, I think, for even those parents who might have found it objectionable, she answered pretty much every question a kid could come up with. I think some even took notes.

I followed Do with my song about the eco-system. I think I'm calling it "The Carbon Footprint Blues." Here is a sample of the lyrics:

Hummingbird hides while I hike the mountain pass

Hummingbird hides while I hike the mountain pass

He’s afraid to fly—he’d like to kick my ass.

Lizard reads the writin’ on the mountain slope

Lizard reads the writin’ on the mountain slope

Sets in the sun as he tri-i-ies to cope

Cause we’re trampin’, stampin’, leavin’ our footprints everywhere

We’re pollutin’, de-evolutin’, can’t drink the water or breath the air

Pissin’ off the birds and bees

Whoa! Mama Nature’s gonna bring us to our knees.

Yeah, I know. I need to record this stuff.

This 12-year-old girl and her younger brother took the stage. I sat expecting the usual cute kid kind of performance. Well, they ripped into this version of this Indigo Girls song. The little girl started singing and geez-o-pete she sang like a trouper. She had this beautiful, authoritative alto voice that blew everyone away. Then the boy broke into this guitar solo. They just set the house on fire.

Billy C sang his song about our grandfather and his chili--a really nice tune. It captures some of the essence of our grandfather. Billy C wasn't happy with the song afterwards--but I think it is pretty damn good. I just think it was one of those nights where one doesn't fully connest to the material. That, and maybe the song has to metamorph a little--but that just takes time.

Anyway, it was a good evening and really went by pretty fast.

Make A Horrible Noise

So at this past Sunday's uke circle, somebody whipped out "Stand by Me." This is another one of those early tunes that I think is pure poetry when done right. This older lady in the group took the vocal. She had this deep throaty voice--practically a tenor. When she finished, we just kept playing and Uke Forever did this sweet little solo and it was very quiet and meditative. I think we could have played that song for the whole two hours.

So I decided that I needed to learn the song in a key that fit my range.

So I get a version off chordie and take it to school so I can practice between classes like I always do. I'm having a little trouble with it because I'm working with tabs and I only sort of know how the song goes.

So, as I'm struggling and concentrating on the tabs and words in front of me, this loud, mooing kind of sound starts beside me and kind of startles me. I stop and turn to my right and one of my colleagues is standing there. She says, "I love this song," and continues this cow sound that sounds almost like singing only different. I tell her that I'm having trouble with it and let her sing while I play--thinking that maybe I'm o far off-key that I am causing her to sound bad but, no, she really does sing like a cow and is tone deaf to boot but apparently that doesn't bother her and she keeps singing while students who often stand around with me playing rhythm instruments kind of stop as if they have just witnessed some horrible accident and can't look away.

But I keep playing because I think maybe on some level that it is a noble effort and that, if not beautiful, it is at least sublime.

Piano

We are trying to get Mama C's house empty so we can either rent it or sell it, thus increasing her income for the years ahead, as her need for care increases.

Part of the process has been for her to give each of us items that should stay in the family for one reason or another. My sister got some china. My brother got Papa C's old tool chest--an old wooden chest--not a Sears and Roebuck tool chest filled with Craftsmen tools. Dad was a machinist and these are specialized tools that none of us could ever use. But it's a part of him. The first time I opened it after Papa C died, I was surprised to find three pictures fixed inside: one of Mama C, one of Pamela C, and one of his pal Clarence Matthews.

Clarence is a story unto himself--he has reached legendary status in our family and I would need my Papa C here to embellish the stories with dialog and other details.

But, I digress.

I got the piano. Mama C's upright piano. Right now, it sits in my living room near the sliding glass door, but well out of the way of incoming sun. Atop center sits old clock that, the last time I heard, sounded the time increasingly out of tune with each passing hour. Next to that, I have a framed photo of Mama and Papa dashing out of the church on their wedding day, their faces alight with smiles and youthful energy. To the left of the clock is my Oscar Schmidt uke and the last portrait of Papa C taken by Mama C's cousin Jimmy Rose.

There is another picture I am tempted to dig out and put on it--one of a young Mama C as a teenager sitting at the same piano in her parents home. The same clock is there--as is a bust of Beethoven. This is from her days as a young singer of local notoriety. The piano still looks new, as does she.

The piano I have still has a fine tone. But it looks a little worse for the wear. Along its once-perfect smile of a keyboard, one key sits broken like a missing tooth. The tapestry that once protected the insides from dust is torn (I don't know what this is called, but it is tacked behind the carved face board of the piano and was once made of beautiful fabric. I've googled for images that might show you what this looks like, but can't find any).

I made many of those tears as a small child. I imagine I found and imperfection and began exploring it. In spite of Mama C's pleas to leave it alone, I still explored the tears when I found myself alone with the piano. Why? The same reason I drew on the newly painted walls of my bedroom or ate the paper wrapping from the cupcakes Mama C bought from the Helms Bakery truck.

So, while I don't play the piano, it is a part of my history.

While most of the memories of Mama C accompanying herself on piano blend together into one, two stand out for me. The first comes from my childhood, when Billy C was a tween and I was probably in 5th grade. I think Papa C and Billy C were arguing over something--hair, friends, whatever. 'Midst the din, Mama C inexplicably started playing loudly and singing a song hymn and when she got to the refrain, got up and patting Papa C's chest, sang loudly "Bless this house firm and stout!" Or something like that.

The other was right after Papa C died. She was sitting alone in the living room (I was in the den), playing a song they had heard when they went through Marriage Encounter together.

A Yardbird by Any Other Name, Part Two

I found myself with some unexpected free time this evening, so I drove to Redlands for the meditation class. Lately, I find it quiets my mind so I can sleep at night, what with all the thoughts in my head arguing with me at the end of the day.

Rest easy. I'm not hearing voices. It's just the various issues of family and work and unresolvable problems keeping me up.

I usually go to the class in Rio Nada, but I teach Thursday nights this semester and discovered that the same teacher teaches another class on Wednesdays.

During the drive there, I listened to the new Who CD. I like it a lot, although I admit that I have trouble getting past "Man in a Purple Dress." I keep replaying it.

This CD made me re-visit what I will call "The Yardbird Question." As you may some guy named An Opinionated Old Bastard chastised me for questioning whether or not the new Yardbirds had the right to call themselves the Yardbirds.

This new Who CD has convinced me that anyone who was in the Yardbirds or the Who, unless legally prohibited from doing so, probably has the right. I get the feeling that some of these bands, especially when they reach their sixties, certainly have a legit need to re-visit themselves.

This CD comes with a bonus CD and DVD of the two remaining Who guys, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltrey, performing at Lyon, France (I got this at Best Buy for . Roger doesn't swing the mike as wildly as he did, and Pete's guitar theatrics aren't as constant, but the passion is still there. Zak Starkey, Ringo's son, is a mighty fine drummer too.

It reminded me of the Pay-Per-View event of some years ago where the then three surviving members performed Tommy, with a cast of guest performers. I got to see it free because I was living at the Gribble house and my landlord-sometime-roomate had a pirate cable box.

These guys also kicked ass at the concert Paul McCartney organized after 9-11.

Not too long ago, when my mother still lived in her house and we'd all visit for Sunday dinner, I found my nephew in her bedroom listening to a CD of Tommy. This room was my bedroom at one time, and I told him that,in that very same bedroom, I heard Tommy for the first time.

This didn't impress him, but it made me feel like I was a part of some great spiritual continuum.

A Yardbird by Any Other Name...

Driving home from work, I turned on my XM radio and found myself listening to a live performance by the Yardbirds, one of my favorite bands of the 60's.

Except that none of the original lead guitarists--Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, or Jimmy Page--were there. And, of course, Keith Relph was still critically dead, having been fatally electrocuted in the 70's. I remember hearing, by the way, that he left the group because he was going blind. I don't know about that.

It turns out that only two of the original Yardbirds, guitarist Chris Dreja and drummer Jim McCarty, are in the new line-up. Beck played a cut or two on the new album.

They sounded good, but were they really the Yardbirds? The spokesman, I assume one of the originals, introduced the familiar hits as songs "we" did back in the 60's. But the new lead guitarist is a young guy in his 20's. So he didn't "do" anything back in the 60's.

So I don't know. While the two original Yardbirds certainly have the right to recreate the music of their old band, shouldn't they call themselves by a new name?

The same thing has happened with the Doors (two original members and a couple of new guys) Creedance Clearwater Revival (two guys who didn't write any of the hits, but at least have the grace to bill themselves as Creedance Clearwater Revisited).

Two of the surviving Who are touring as the Who. But all of the Who were pretty high-profile within the band and remained legends long after the Who broke up.

Anyway, these new Yardbirds sounded really good. And I guess they have the right to bill themselves as more than just a tribute band. And I guess for them to be marketable, they have to use the name Yardbirds in some way.

But are they the Yardbirds?