Reflections

Sarah Fuller Hall contemplates art and ideas

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Love is Hard

Bombadil set to release fifth studio album - Hold On

Although not long ago, Bombadil sang “Learning to Let Go,” their upcoming fifth album is called Hold On, and with it comes themes of clinging to memories while grasping for meaning. Many of the songs express discontent, but the lyrics are couched in a variety of music moods, some conveying somberness, others defying it.

Bombadil continues to reinvent their sound, incorporating more electronic effects and paring down instrumentation. It’s a different band than their younger incarnation which NC’s Indy Week once described as “an incredible sort of circus act”.

Their sonic streamlining coincides with the band having gone from quartet to trio following the departure of guitarist and founding member Bryan Rahija. He appears to have taken most of the band’s former folkishness along with him since while the new album combines a variety of genres, straightforward folk is not one of them. Even though Rahija stopped touring with Bombadil in 2012, he had an equal part in the creation of their 2013 album Metrics of Affection on which he and his compositions are still featured. The upcoming album is the first to emphasize the band’s trio identity.

Bombadil has been prolifically creating new songs and becoming more piano-centered. The trio -- Daniel Michalak, Stuart Robinson and James Phillips --  trade instrumental duties in performances, but have primary instruments. Michalak plays bass guitar and takes turns at piano. Robinson is the group’s main pianist with some ukulele departures. Phillips is the band’s drummer, but has been expanding more into other instrument territories. And all three sing; strong three-part harmonies and creative vocal interplay have become hallmarks of the band.

The key to identifying Bombadil’s musical style may be found in the art illustrating the album cover of Hold On. The painting by artist Jeremy Okai Davis appears at first glance to be only colors in shapes arranged on a grid. But if you keep your eyes trained on the painting and step back, the image of a face emerges, getting clearer the farther away you move.

Just as impressionism allows the eye to mix colors into shapes, the members of Bombadil contribute their own very distinct sounds and promote their personal music preferences, then let the listeners combine this for themselves and call it what they wish.

Impressionistic literature tells stories through sensory impressions rather than by objective reality and this definitely describes many Bombadil lyrics. Perhaps their genre could be called “pop impressionism.”

The new album’s opening track, “Coughing on the F Train” begins with trumpet fanfare, as if to announce “get ready to hear something different.” Michalak sings a stream-of-consciousness ballad, the plot of which is vague, but enjoyable nonetheless. Bombadil’s quizzical and curious lyrics have come to be expected, so that aspect of the piece is familiar, even if the musical setting is not.

When Michalak takes the lead we are treated to enigmatic stories as he plays with words, valuing them more for  their compositional properties than for their meaning or context, from the cynical  “Bill You For Your Trash,” to the plaintive “Seth.”

The song “Amy’s Friend” has had a life of its own in advance of the new album, having already become an audience favorite at live shows, and released as a single. It appeared on a Spotify “New Music Tuesdays” playlist and Folk Radio UK chose it as a “Song of the Day”. The song has an appealing simplicity surrounded by subtle touches of percussion and gossamer layers of vocals and whistling.

The album’s title is discovered in lyrics sung by Phillips in “Forgive Me Darling:”                   “I want you to know that I wanted to stay.                                                              I wanted to hold on for just one more day...”

Phillips has produced a solo album in the past, but this song is his first turn as lead singer on a Bombadil album while his penchant for electronica has influenced Bombadil’s output over the last couple years and on this album.

Robinson’s songs are all stand-outs with compelling lyrics in memorable musical settings. “Sunny December” is particularly effusive word-wise. Love is described in metaphors: it’s a disease, an ungrateful cat. Love is personified: it won’t smile, shine or care, and it is cruel, unforgiving, and spiteful.

The song’s poetry features oblique and slant rhyme with hip hop accents over a steady chordal accompaniment. It’s impressive that Robinson can play this measured, classical-sounding piano part while his singing follows the natural inflection of the words, a polyrhythmic feat, but one which he makes sound effortless. In an ingenious example of tone painting, the repeated accompaniment pattern is broken on the words “love will break you apart.” This interruption magnifies the desolation of that phrase.

“Love You Too Much” is a soulful testament of longing for lost love, and a showcase for Robinson’s vocal ability. On the chorus, as he sings                                   “Oh God, will I ever be past you?  Oh God, will I ever feel strong at last?               Oh God, will I ever move on from your touch?                                                       I don’t think so, but I do know that I love you too much.”

on each utterance of “Oh God” his voice descends seamlessly from a falsetto to full voice in eloquent dejection.

This was the song I most looked forward to on the album, having especially enjoyed and admired the live performances I’d heard of it. But I felt a little let down since the version on Hold On, while impressive, seems too precise and careful, lacking the more emotional conviction and improvisation that has been heard in live performances of this piece, such as this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1md4NmKCt_Y

In the song “Honest” Robinson is more than that, he’s brutally honest. The lyrics are invective, uncomfortably personal, but the piece is remarkable. A stark, repeated piano pattern with a persistence akin to a dripping faucet heightens the tension, until it unravels into spasms of brittle percussion and a Steve Reich-ish minimalistic repetitive loop of the words “where I lost my mind.”

The album’s capstone is “Framboise” featuring clever bilingual interplay and eliciting feelings of deja vu with its 60s pop vibe. A bonus is Bryan Rahija’s distinctive guitar playing on this track, harking back to the vintage Bombadil sound as a gift to fans who might be grieving his loss in the band’s line-up.

In “Framboise” smoothly interwoven vocal lines are punctuated by outbursts of harmony. The accompaniment rocks subtly back and forth as if the narrator is pacing while addressing the mademoiselle in both French and English. Since French is the “language of love” the casual listener might think of this as romantic teasing. But the trading back and forth between singers makes it sound like an interrogation, and translation reveals more mockery than romance. “Tu n’es pas fait main rassis comme le vieux pain” -- she’s being told she’s not “handmade” (special?) and stale as old bread. And the “fleur” in the next verse is not comparing her to a delicate flower, but saying she’s like a quickly fading bloom in a pot. The framboise of the title is not sweet like the fruity drink. Mais en fait, it is blushing, red as a raspberry.

In the song’s chorus, the girl is no longer addressed directly, but is instead discussed in third person as the narrator analyzes her motivations and tries to decide if she is worth the trouble. His interior monologue is joined by the voices in his head created by the vocals in the chorus. Overall, “Framboise” est très bon and needs several listens to take it all in.

Bombadil spends much of Hold On pointing out problems and complexities of ardor. Robinson sums it up with the last line of “Sunny December” where he sings “love -- is hard.” Then comes the album’s twelfth and concluding track, “Love is Simply” with lyrics such as “love is simply something simple” and “love is easily something easy,” regardless of what Robinson stated earlier.

Bombadil has provided a happy ending. The song’s lyrics are pleasant but cryptic, like a riddle, the answer to which might unlock the secrets of the heart. Accompanied only by unpretentious string quartet alternating between delicate pizzicato and refined legato, Bombadil sings “Talk is complicating, tongues are obsolete, books that are overrated, tell us we should never meet.”

Perhaps the secret is to be quiet and let music do the talking.

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Scott Avett Searches for Truth

by Sarah Hall

Julianne in Vain, oil on canvas, by Scott Avett

Scott Avett is well accustomed to crowds. He, and the rest of  The Avett Brothers band have been performing for arenas full of fans for years now. And Scott is used to baring his soul; his songs are personal and hold no punches.

It was a more intimate crowd--about 300 people--who had the opportunity to see and hear Scott Avett on Nov. 22, 2010. But he was not performing for this fortunate few. He was speaking to them about faith, his visual art, and about his search for truth. 

In 2010, I was serving as Executive Director of Center for Faith & the Arts in Salisbury, NC, a unique organization that seeks to give the public opportunities for spiritual enlightenment through arts encounters. One of its activities had been a yearly colloquy with an artist as guest speaker.

I had only been heading CFA for a few months when I suggested inviting Scott Avett to be the colloquy speaker. I was trying to widen the organization’s appeal. Up until then, the Center’s events seemed to be drawing a rather small number of older, erudite participants. I was looking for a speaker who would bring in a younger audience previously unacquainted with the organization.

The Avetts had a heavy touring schedule, and I didn’t really believe Scott would have time for what I was proposing. But I am from the “it doesn’t hurt to ask” school of life, and in this case it worked. Not only did he accept the invitation to speak, he also allowed us to display an exhibit of his paintings.

The reason Scott had been my first choice for this event arose from opportunities I had to interview him in both 2008 and 2010 while I was working as a writer for Salisbury Post. Both conversations were mostly about his paintings, but in the second interview he told me he had recently been reading sermons by his late grandfather, Clegg Avett, a Methodist minister, and also writings of Leo Tolstoy, including What is Art? Although this conversation had begun as just a newspaper interview, it had turned into a lengthy philosophical discussion which impressed me greatly.

One of my favorite things about being Director of CFA was that I also got be be editor of the organization’s magazine, Muse & Spirit. For our Fall 2010 edition, Scott Avett penned the essay “My Search for Truth.” This essay was the centerpiece of that edition, along with photos of Scott and his artwork. Many of those who attended the colloquy event came with their copy of Muse & Spirit in hand to be autographed. Others who heard about the event after it occurred called or wrote to CFA to request copies of the magazine which was the most popular issue to date.

I left my part-time position with CFA in 2011 in order to take a full-time teaching job, but until recently, the online edition of that issue and other past issues of Muse & Spirit were still available. Unfortunately, the links to these past issues have now disappeared with a revamping of the organization’s website.

Rather than allow Scott Avett’s words to vanish into a cyberspace mist, I am reprinting his essay here. I hope more people will have the opportunity to read and contemplate these statements.

This essay is being reprinted with permission of the author; he also granted permission to include images of his paintings.

My Search for Truth

by Scott Avett

When I was an art student, a professor told me, “If you are thinking about where a painting is going to hang in a gallery and what others will say and think of it before you have put the first brush to the canvas, you are missing the point entirely.”

Unfortunately, I think many young artists believe (or act as though they believe)  an artwork’s final destination is part of its reason to exist, and that is intertwined with the motivation to create the work. And it is probable that this ill motivation is present in all forms of artistic expression. This comes into play when I think of “truth” or genuine delivery in artistic expression. 

I have struggled in the studio with this distraction, but I feel confident that no work of mine that has been shown was produced with these poor intentions. And I believe this fact comes across to everyone who views my work, not just those with “art” educations. After all, the relationship between a viewer and a painting, or an audience and a performance, is a very simple and primitive engagement that has always existed and always will.

I do believe that the pollution of “creation with intent to succeed” (either financially or for reasons of notoriety) has never been more apparent than it is in the pop music of our time. Mainstream radio acts more as a pyramid scheme than an outlet for melodies and stories, ie: entertainment. This is terrifying.

A song is written. It is uncomplicated, shallow and thoughtless and flashy with spicy rhythm, a simple melody that is easy to repeat, with tons of fun sounds. It’s ear candy.

A long list of people will invest in the song, feeling sure it will be playing on many stations many times, then advertisers and TV and movie folk pitch in, and soon you have a dollar-generating product trickling down and feeding these investors. The pyramid is in operation, and nothing much is really good about it, except maybe some memorable drives and summers with your teenage daughter’s favorite song repeating over and over and over, and finally you kind of admit the song is not all that bad because you associate it with this special moment you had with your family.

In the end, it is still as far from art as you can go, and no one is better for it.

In all types of art there is a choice. Create what you feel because you believe in it, or create what you think will be “successful,” looked-at or listened to. The difference between the two is this: with the latter, that which will be “successful” can only “succeed” for a temporary moment with you and your physical state, which is certainly temporary, and so is as worthless as the dirt that your body will decay into when it is underground. But that which is created in sincerity, that which reveals part of your soul without control and plan, WILL outlive all of us and be generated between men for years to come. And although the work may not succeed in number of viewers or audience, it still bears a life.

This being said, care and thought in what a creator creates is a plus. But I do not believe that because you feel something you will, without a doubt, go out and make a masterpiece. It doesn’t mean that.

I do believe you won’t produce a masterpiece without truth. This truth is a precious thing, a heart, a nucleus, a child that must be protected from the many distractions and trials that attempt to affect it. So much so that it even must be put away and neglected when necessary.

Self-portrait, oil on canvas, by Scott Avett

I don’t know why I go into the studio sometimes. I haven’t shown my art in years, at least not a proper show, but I believe that’s a good thing. I have only worked alone and with my own struggles and truths, and when I bring these works out I do feel quite revealed, exposed, which is something I find harder to feel than I used to. I don’t know why I go into the studio sometimes, but I go when nothing “real” is happening. And though I might leave the studio without accomplishing all that I’d hoped, I am allowing the truth to dictate my day. I would do better to help a neighbor than spend my day chasing a work that is in vain. 

Spiritually, I believe that love is the truth that is God that is the common denominator among us all. And I can view my life as I view my work ethic in art. Truth is not about success, and genres have no more useful purpose than to allow newspaper writers to identify what they are writing about. Genres in music, denominations in Christianity, religious faiths among the world, none are more right than the next and the teams that we compile in order to live “successful” spiritual lives are not working. Your faith, and all you need to feel happiness and security and love, lies within you. From there we find the heart that pumps the blood that drives the body to love, to be kind, to share and sacrifice. Art, painting, songs, movement -- these are simply extensions of this and a “voice” for this spirit to speak.

I can’t say I am an “artist” because I believe no one knows what that means anymore. There is no one definition because people won’t accept one. Does this mean everything and anything someone says is art is, in fact, art? This is beyond anyone to reason with and the truth is that without spirituality attached, art alone is not worth the trouble it would take to intellectualize this theory as it would, without a doubt, be maddening to most all in search of the definition.

I have always had something to say or show. Most of it, if not all of it, has been only my flawed attempts to represent truth. But it’s been a story that has unfolded over the course of my life.

I often can’t put a finger on what drives me to create. What force drags me to the studio at 6 a.m.? What pulls me out of bed in the middle of the night to jot down a story idea or melody? I just follow it, as it keeps me busy and well-worked.

Those who are proud of what they create, and who help others through it, should count themselves lucky, for this is the seed that grows the vine that traces the path that takes each of us on a spiritual journey with no end or resting place, a journey that can only be guided by the light of faith and can only lead to the flood of light at the final interruption of our life’s journey. 

Our hands and minds, legs and mouths, eyes and ears, arms and feet were all made with purpose, and though you may never find that exact purpose, it is your obligation to yourself and God to search for it, and to search endlessly for a perfection that, though you will never achieve it, you MUST seek. This is faith. This is spirituality.

The Fighter II, oil on canvas by Scott Avett

My purpose--my craft--gleamed when I was a child. I was offered hints as to what I might shine in. I was around some people who reiterated this. I squandered much of it as a young man. But not all, and my youth was certainly a practice ground for who I would be later. Now I practice being this person I want to be as often as I can.

It is tempting to try to sound intellectual and complex. These complexities are lies. The truth is simple, and knowledge, although exciting and enjoyable, can destroy a good life.

It’s odd that so many people say they don’t understand Rothko or Pollock when the truth is as simple as a color field or the shape of a paint splatter. In some ways, these are the most conservative and truthful expressions of art that have ever existed.

So with art and spirituality, I see parallels. Both are misread, both are distorted, both are exploited for money, both are misunderstood and misused. As I struggle to find my place in art and in spirituality, I am beginning to believe both are destroyed—not by the lack of understanding that seems to swarm around them, not by the non-churchgoer or the folk artist making unsaleable, offensive work with horrific scenes and poor composition, but destroyed by the millions of people who claim or subtly believe they are right and others are wrong, by the sale of an unfinished Renoir for $13 million because a piece has prestige but not quality or truth.

What I’m trying to say is that neither art nor spirituality is ever “figured out,” and they exist as a journey through each of our lives in different ways and in different degrees. Many believe that they are right, but they are wrong, there is no right. They can’t know the answer. They can only have faith and try.

The Underdog, oil on canvas, by Scott Avett

A creator of art can never stop developing and changing, nor can a spiritual man. In one of my grandfather’s sermons, he compared faith to a ship’s rudder being too tight or too loose, saying we must flex and adapt through life in a spiritual way.

Art is but an extension of spirituality, an expression of this journey through life that dips and climbs and challenges us all. Our faith carries us to the studio to do our work and our faith keeps us searching for perfection.

A life only exists in the moment of now. It has no need to exist in the past, which is over, or the future, which does not exist. Your life is like a blank canvas or a lump of clay. It can remain that way through luxury and idleness. Or it can be shaped through goodness and change, until you arrive at the masterpiece that is your life.

Motherhood, oil on canvas, by Scott Avett

Untitled, 2010

Scott Avett says the above painting was inspired by writings of Leo Tolstoy: The Kingdom of God is Within You and What I Believe: "Tolstoy tells of acquaintances he has who decide that life is all about enjoyment and comfort and that the honey of life is for tasting, then you die. He illustrates by saying it's like a person hanging off a cliff, holding on to a bush that is dripping with honey while a black mouse and a white mouse (symbols of day and night which equal passing time) are chewing away at its stem so that it will soon break. Underneath is a pit of fire and nothingness for he who believes nothing."

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An afternoon with David Childers

It was kind of David Childers to invite me over for a visit after I broke my promise to him. 

I had conducted a backstage interview with David not just once but twice with the intention of writing a newspaper article, but the story remained unwritten as I went from full-time writer to part-time, then to occasional contributor as newspaper space for arts coverage decreased. 

Also, David Childers is such a complex person, I didn’t know where to start or how to condense him into one brief write-up. He’s a musician, poet, historian, story-teller, painter, philosopher, father, and attorney at law.

Now I found myself approaching the Childers abode, accompanied by writer Jody Mace. We were armed with cameras, various recording devices, a notepad, and high hopes. 

Tucked away on a quiet Mount Holly street, the Childers’ vintage cottage was wreathed  by an impressive bevy of flowers, and butterflies danced around the brightly-hued blooms in such abundance it was like stepping into a Disney cartoon. David’s wife Linda was immersed in the blossoms, tending the garden. She welcomed us, and told us David was in the house.

Our knock prompted an eruption of barks on both sides of the door as indoor dogs sprang to attention and porch dogs angled for their chance to dart inside. David Childers, dressed in paint-speckled t-shirt and shorts, greeted us amid dog-wrangling and good-natured curses as he sorted the inside and outside dogs and shut the door behind us.

The hallway walls were lined with paintings, as were the walls of the living room. There  were David Childers originals mixed in with works by other artists. The colorful display rivaled the blazing glory of the garden outside the house. 

One of the first artworks we encountered upon entering was “Apparition.” The eerie portrait is painted on a sheet of glass, and David had incorporated the oxidation on the glass into the image. Light shines through the painting creating a spooky glow. I tried to photograph the piece, but a picture doesn’t do it justice.

The first time I met David in person, I immediately noticed his eyes. They seemed especially bright, like two windows to a mind that was sparking with ideas. His leisurely Southern drawl and relaxed, good ol’ boy exterior appears to mask an interior that’s on fire, constantly creating music, poetry, and images that travel from his brain to brush to canvas, glass, wood or whatever material is at hand. His art is simultaneously primitive and profound, like the artist himself.

I had been listening to David’s recordings and admiring the inspired lyrics couched in arrangements encompassing laid back folk, hard-driving rock and all styles in between. His songs seem to come from a place where the sacred and secular collide, keeping one foot in a honky tonk and the other foot in church. And the Devil always seems to be waiting around the corner.

For decades, David made a name for himself after hours as a singer and prolific songwriter, recording 10 albums including those with his bands Mount Holly Hellcats and the Modern Don Juans, all the while maintaining his law practice specializing in Social Security disability clients. Then in 2007, feeling burned out and dissatisfied, David declared the Modern Don Juans were over and he retreated from performance.

But he didn’t abandon songwriting. Soon he was working behind the scenes with Bob Crawford - the Avett Brothers’ bass player had carved some time out of his busy tour schedule and had lured David out of music exile to collaborate. Soon they were joined by David’s son Robert on drums and guitarist Randy Saxon to do some recording at the Childers home. Shortly after that, they got together at the Old House Studio in Gastonia to record Bob’s song “Angola” written for the Jeff Smith documentary Six Seconds of Freedom about the prison rodeo held yearly at Angola Prison in Louisiana.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NtBpg23REs

The collaboration didn’t end there. David and Bob share a love of history, and at some point, talk had turned to discussion of the Battle of King’s Mountain which had taken place in 1780 at a site not far from the Old House Studio. The frontiersmen who helped the colonial forces win this battle were called the Overmountain Men. David and Robert Childers, Bob Crawford and Randy Saxon are all descendants of men who fought that battle. So it seemed appropriate that they adopt that name for their newly-formed band when the Overmountain Men’s album Glorious Day came out on the Ramseur Records label in 2010. They followed this up in 2013 with the album The Next Best Thing.

The new band brought David out of his short-lived musical retirement, and soon he was front-and-center on stages again. I caught up with him at Isis Music Hall in Asheville, and he invited me backstage to continue the conversation we had started a few months earlier at Cat’s Cradle in Carrboro. We had plenty of time because David and his band thought the show was starting an hour earlier than it actually was, so they arrived too soon and had time to kill. Bass player Dale Shoemaker was performing with David that night, and he was hanging out backstage also.

Our conversation had turned from music to visual art. I was asking David about his fascinating, primitive-style paintings I had seen in an online gallery. Dale seemed to find it amusing when I asked David where his work work was exhibited. It turns out there isn’t much of his art on display. He said he had  something hanging in the Barking Spider Tavern in Cleveland, Ohio. “if they hadn’t gotten mad and taken it down.” 

I told David I would like to observe him as he painted. He said I was welcome to come watch.

“You’d better bring your Off,” laughed Dale. 

David said he does his painting outdoors. “I’ve probably incorporated a few ants,” he added.

A couple months later, I decided to take David up on his invitation to visit his outdoor studio. I contacted him and set up a date. I asked Jody to come, sine I knew she was interested in having David perform a house show; she is founder and organizer of the Common Chord house concert series.

Earlier, Jody and I had a conversation about the fact that she’d noticed when musicians go through periods when they are ill or not performing for other reasons, many seem to turn to visual art as a means of expression. It’s as if when they can’t let their feelings out in song, they feel compelled to get them out on canvas instead. David was a good example of this. He said he had made himself sick from working 60 hours a week then traveling all over the East Coast playing gigs on weekends. When he declared that he was leaving the music business, he began to produce an outpouring of paintings. 

It was many of those paintings that Jody and I were now viewing in his home. David left the room to get us cold drinks, and we used the time to admire the art gallery. When he returned, he set my drink on a piece of paper that appeared to be lyrics for a new song. I was worried about the wet ring left there, but David seemed unconcerned.

Jody writes an online feature called “One Song” where she interviews songwriters in depth about one song of their choice. When I set up our visit, David agreed to do one of these interviews. When I asked what song he would like to talk about, he said, “George Wallace.” 

Most performers use the “One Song” interview as an opportunity to promote a current project, so it was surprising that David had chosen a song he’d written a decade before, and one which he no longer performed. But as he talked about the song, we got to know a lot more about David, and about a topic weighing heavily on his mind.

Jody wanted to film him as he sang the song, so we went out on the porch for better light. Even though he hadn’t performed the song for years, David sang all the verses and every word to “George Wallace” effortlessly from memory: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prksN1IGNQI

The song “George Wallace” is from the 2006 Modern Don Juans album Jailhouse Religion. David had to stop performing it because listeners were missing the point of the song and interpreting it as some sort of racist anthem instead of what it actually is, a song with Wallace representing the last gasp of old school racism and lyrics hopeful for a dawn of a new age and the end of segregation. 

“I guess it was too much trouble to actually listen to the words,” David sighed. In New York, people walked out of the club when he performed the song. Then there was the shirt incident.

Some fans presented a t-shirt to him with a picture of Wallace on it and words from the song’s chorus: “George Wallace knew that’s how it had to be.”

“I was thinking, no, no, no, you don’t get it,” remembers David. “ ‘The way it had to be’ meant what Wallace had to do to get elected.”

But since some audience members were thinking David was saying segregation was the way things should be he stopped performing the song.

David looked out from his porch toward the horizon, as if he were watching a movie of himself in 1968 when he and his brother attended a political rally for Wallace at the coliseum in Charlotte. He told us he was a teenager whose beliefs didn’t align with Wallace’s, but they attended the rally because they were young, and it was exciting, like a party, and Faron Young was performing. Years later, when David expressed his musical remembrance in the song “George Wallace” he wrote “I heard him in Charlotte in ’68. I hated his guts but his speech was great.”

David and his brother, Max, typically dressed up when they went out, and they were wearing sports jackets and ties and had short hair, “so we kinda fit in” he chuckled. But a few months later David attended the peace march in Washington, DC, and he worked the streets in support of Eugene McCarthy.

He said that when he wrote the song, he was feeling more optimistic about race relations than he does now. He believes that when Obama got elected it “ripped a big scab off this racist thing” and brought back “infections in our society” that he thought were healed. He worried that we are not much better off now than what he remembers from the Wallace era.

“God, man, those people could hate. They still do. They hate so hard.”

Then David treated us to more music, the beautiful song “Another Dawn”. Fortunately, Jody still had her camera running, so you can see the performance, too, and hear the afternoon cicadas that accompanied him. And if you look closely at the window, you can see David’s wife Linda working in the garden: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfdRQ2U-dhs

This song has unique and incredible lyrics, including “...I’m so glad to be here to see another dawn...I’m safe at home in my haunted mansion to greet the light of day; mourning dove and pterodactyl flash across the sky. Dracula and Gustav Mahler sing my lullaby...”

After our private concert, we moved to the outdoor shed which serves as David’s open air studio. A small painting he had done shortly before we arrived lay drying on a table.

He resumed painting on a work-in-progress. It looked like colorful stacked houses, but the doors and windows resembled eyes and gaping mouths. The painting already had a title: “Timbuktu.” 

David said he had seen a photo of Timbuktu houses on a hillside and they “looked like skulls.” And he thought about that region’s role in the slave trade.

There was another small building nearby, and on its weathered red door was a bumper sticker that said, “I DON’T BELIEVE RIGHT WING FANTASIES.” David saw me looking at the door.

“You can go in if you want to,” he called. 

So I opened the door and found the perimeter of the room filled with paintings, and a large table in the center of the room supporting a multitude of tiny toy soldiers engaged in battle. David told me the scene depicted was Les Bataille des Quatre Bras. He said this casually, as if everybody has a building in their backyard where they construct battle scenes. (When I got home I looked it up. It was a strategic battle which took place two days before Waterloo between Wellington’s army and the Armée du Nord under Marshal Michel Ney.)

David put “Timbuktu” aside and placed another painting-in-progress on his easel. It showed three human figures with faces in different shades. The middle face especially stood out because of its bright scarlet hue. I asked who that was in the middle with the red face.

David replied, “I don’t know. Might be the devil.”

A large hand-painted OBAMA sign was leaning up against an inner wall of the shed, a reminder of the past election. Beneath it, we could see a big painting covered by a plastic sheet. David dragged it out, removed the plastic, and leaned it against the outside of the shed. Painted on the 4x6 piece of plywood were three larger-than-life unearthly figures, pictured from the waist up, standing shoulder to shoulder. The middle guy had horns.

“There he is again,” I thought. “The Devil.”

David told us the painting is called “Emerging Gods.” We told him it should be hanging in a gallery, not buried under plastic in his shed.

When we returned to the house, David let us each pick two small paintings to take with us as souvenirs of our visit. Our conversation continued. 

I asked him if he approaches a painting with a finished project in mind. He said he has an image in mind, but “sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t” and often other images “emerge through the process.”

He motioned to a painting nearby: “This piece right here, called ‘Golf Course,’ I had no idea what it would be when I started. It’s kinda weird. I look at it now and think ‘do more to it,’ and there’s another voice saying ‘leave it alone.’ I started with a pattern and that’s what came out of it.”

Jody asked if the creative process of painting is similar to the process of songwriting. David said he finds painting easier than writing a song, although there is a point with songwriting “that feels so good, when you finally realize you’ve got something that maybe’s gonna work for you.”

But he says songwriting is a harder process for him partly because of the performance aspect, and that he hasn’t been showing his paintings much to the public. He added that songwriting is made easier by collaborating “with some good people” like his son, Robert (who, by the way, is the spitting image of his father) . 

“This record we’re doing now, really the theme of it is ‘Jesus Christ.’ It’s very interesting. My son claims to hate religion, kinda like I do in a way. We argue about it a lot. Suddenly, he’s wanting to do songs about Jesus, not in a mocking way, but getting down to what he’s really saying, stuff I like about Jesus - the man’s fairness, justice, the man who demands truth - all those things.”

David added that this next album will be different, a departure from his Americana ballad idiom. Instead, he and his son are exploring a compositional method based more on rhythm than on chord changes.

So with music once again taking over a major part of his time, there is less time for painting. Plus, there is his law practice.

“I can’t do so much painting right now because I’ve got to do my job, which is also quite enjoyable. I’m very blessed. I get to do a lot of enjoyable things.”

I asked, “Well, what if a demand develops for your paintings and you start doing them for money?”

His answer was quick: “I’d paint my ass off.”

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Bombadil- building us a pyramid: "Tarpits and Canyonlands"

A resurgence in sales of vinyl records has been brought about by music aficionados who tout a depth of sound superior to more modern music delivery systems and prefer a tangible product over digital downloads.There are also those collectors who appreciate the cover art as much as the recording itself. 

“Record Store Day,” which has been held on the third Saturday of April for the past seven years, is an international recognition and celebration of the bastions of vinyl, and 2014 saw a huge turnout for this event.

So what better vehicle than vinyl to commemorate the re-issue of an album by Bombadil, a band that has also experienced setbacks and recovery?

In the summer of 2009, Bombadil’s fans eagerly awaited the release of their second full-length CD for Ramseur Records:Tarpits and Canyonlands. Reviewers predicted this album would elevate the Durham-based band to the next level. But suddenly their musical momentum didn’t just put on brakes; it was completely derailed.

Bassist Daniel Michalak had been plagued with aching arms caused by neural tension for two years, but he had played through the ever-increasing pain until his hands failed him. And on the last day of recording Tarpits, keyboard player Stuart Robinson announced he was leaving the band to pursue other interests.

Resting his stubborn hands in hope of recovery, Daniel continued to sing with the band as he and remaining bandmates, guitarist Bryan Rahija and drummer James Phillips, adapted arrangements and tried to continue. Stuart was persuaded to play one more last show, then another last show. But it was all difficult and exhausting. It became apparent they would not be performing a release show to usher in their new album, nor would they be touring to promote it. 

The advent of Tarpits did not go uncelebrated. On July 11, 2009, in the band’s home-base city of Durham, NC, a party was held to introduce the new album at The Golden Belt, a renovated tobacco warehouse turned event center. The gala was free and open to the public and included food and drinks, ping pong, performances by Durham musicians from bands Luego and The Tender Fruit, and an invasion by Scene of the Crime Rovers- a raucous, improvisational marching band of which Bombadil’s Bryan was a member.

The celebration also featured an art show. Illustrator Robbi Behr of Idiots’ Books had created not only CD cover art for Tarpits and Canyonlands; she produced an  illustration to accompany each track. These were coupled with the song lyrics in a booklet packaged with the CD. The original paintings were were on display that night gallery-style and available for purchase. (Check out Idiots’ Books at http://idiotsbooks.com.) 

There were raffle prizes, and thank-yous. Then it was time to hear Bombadil’s latest opus, the reason for the party. Tarpits and Canyonlands was played over speakers, but instead of listening in rapt attention, partygoers returned to talking and eating and drinking and celebrating the musical work which had, unfortunately, been relegated to background music.

This does not reflect the quality of the album, but has more to do with the habits of today’s society. Recorded music is so omnipresent, most people just treat it as part of their environment, and usually go on with their business - or in this case, partying - without really paying attention to the music they are hearing. Sadly, this habit has also become more and more common in the the case of live performances.

And so it was a somewhat anticlimactic finish to a bittersweet celebration, a “sad birthday,” which, interestingly, is the title of what has become one of the most popular songs on Tarpits:

“In the hall we're celebrating what is called ‘sad birthday.’ You're the host, it's up to you to make the toast on this cursed day...”

Bombadil fans had already heard, and clamored for, many of the songs on this album in previous live performances. And so there was a loyal group of listeners eager to buy Tarpits and Canyonlands, and there were appreciative reviews. But with no tour, it was difficult to gain new listeners and sales.

A video posted on Bombadil’s YouTube channel a year later featured dozens of unopened Tarpits CDs in stop-action animation, arranging themselves like building blocks in different patterns to the sound of the CD’s opening song, “I Am:” 

“I am

lost in the sand

building you a pyramid”

Watch it here: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8wwhw7fDwM&feature=kp)

It felt so wistful: a year-old box full of unfulfilled potential in each cellophane-wrapped disc. The video ends enigmatically with a bunch of belts slithering across and tangling like snakes, obliterating the CD pyramid. 

The band members had scattered geographically while Daniel pursued healing with zeal, trying numerous therapies and gradually mending. 

The compositional process of Bombadil has always been highly collaborative, but each member has their distinctive musical stamp. Their albums are collections of surprising and disparate song creations, not just because they experiment with numerous genres and instruments, but because of the varying contributions of the individual band members.

To say their albums are like puzzles with the band members each contributing pieces would not be a good illustration since the pieces of a puzzle don’t usually stand alone as art work, but are only useful when contributing to the final result. Each  member of Bombadil is perfectly capable of functioning independently as a successful songwriter.

A better analogy for Bombadil is chocolate cheese cake. Chocolate is wonderful all by itself. Cream cheese is versatile and independently delicious. Eggs have been called “Nature’s perfect food.” And graham crackers can be fully appreciated without being ground into a crust. These ingredients don’t depend on each other to make people happy. But when you mix them all together into a chocolate cheese cake you have something quite tasty and special.

While separated, the band members did not stop creating songs and growing  as musicians and poets, and they stayed in touch. Then, to the delight of their fans, they emerged from hiatus with an album in tow: All That the Rain Promises. Stuart had returned to the fold, and Daniel was making a remarkable recovery. They spent 10 days in a barn in Oregon’s Happy Valley recording this simpler, well-crafted album, and reviews were good.

The band found the book All That the Rain Promises and More: a Hip Pocket Guide to Western Mushrooms in the Oregon barn, and appropriated its hopeful title for their album since their storm had passed.

In summer 2013, the Bombadil renaissance continued with the release of another album, Metrics of Affection. There were video premieres in Paste and Rolling Stone, and they were interviewed on NPR’s “Weekend Edition. They have returned to touring and full-time music-making, and recently signed on to High Road Touring’s impressive roster.

Even though Bryan’s guitar and voice are still integral parts of the last two albums, in the midst of the comeback he stopped performing with the band in order to attend graduate school. Perhaps Bombadil’s past travails helped them better learn to adapt; they shape-shifted into a trio, re-arranged past songs and continued on their way.

A growing fan base from the successes of Bombadil’s last two albums has also helped bring renewed interest in Tarpits and Canyonlands. Ramseur Records has announced that they are celebrating the fifth anniversary of the album by re-releasing the CD, plus they are pulling out all the stops making the album available in an impressive vinyl package.

According to the description on the band’s website, http://bombadil.squarespace.com/store/, the package includes two 180 gram, colored 12-inch vinyl discs re-mastered from the original analog tapes direct to 24/96 at 45rpm, producing the highest sound quality possible. The discs are housed in a custom triple-jacket gatefold with string closure holding 14 art prints on high-quality matte paper,  suitable for framing. The package also includes a full album download, with a bonus: the song including “Barcelona” which was recorded during the Tarpits sessions but not previously released.

Songs from Tarpits have been popular mainstays of Bombadil’s set lists throughout their comeback. The plaintive “Reasons” and the perceptive “Marriage” have been heard often, the latter even covered in a video by Scott Avett. The exuberant “Oto the Bear” has delighted listeners and had its own popular t-shirt. “So Many Ways to Die,” which is actually a profound argument for life, has had a life beyond the concert stage thanks to this clever video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_U4ybU1KVcQ&feature=kp . 

The song “Honeymoon” may be the band’s biggest hit to date with the most downloads and its frequent position as grand finale of many Bombadil shows. Its clever lyrics are coupled with musical scoring that steadily builds in intensity and excitement, bringing audiences to their feet to dance, or in ovations demanding encores.

In 2009, the opening track “I Am” seemed to suggest a lost artifact. In 2014, we can appreciate the brief “I Am” more as a motivic and minimalistic prelude to the song “Pyramid” at the album’s apex. And “Pyramid” sounds like a prediction of, or metaphor for, Bombadil’s resurgence:

“...building you a pyramid 

lost in the sand, lost in the sand 

nomads they will find you 

your locks will never hold 

prophets will forget you 

history is painted gold”

Those prophets who foresaw the demise of Bombadil and wrote them off were wrong. And listeners wandering in a musical desert happened upon Bombadil and were rewarded with treasure.

Egypt’s ancient pyramids have weathered storms and are still around because they were built on solid foundations, and the walls support each other, pointing upward. Bombadil is still standing for similar reasons, and aiming toward the stars.

photo by Todd Cooper 

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Do we need art?

“If you plan on being anything less than you are capable of being, you will probably be unhappy all the days of your life.”   -Maslow

Everyone who has taken a psychology class has probably encountered Maslow's pyramid. Abraham Maslow, considered the father of humanistic psychology, introduced his "hierarchy of needs" theory in a 1943 paper entitled "A Theory of Human Motivation." He said humans will seek to satisfy progressively higher-level needs once basic needs are met.

In Maslow's pyramid, the base consists of physiological needs, such as breathing, eating, drinking, sleeping. Then there are ascending tiers: safety, love and belonging, esteem. When the previous four levels are satisfied, the need for "self-actualization" comes into play. Maslow defined this as someone's need to do what they were born to do.

"A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write if he is to be ultimately at peace with himself. What one can be, one must be," said Maslow.

He stated that unless these creative urges are satisfied, the person will be restless, tense and on edge.

Could this same theory be applied to an entire city? Might the strength of a city's art community indicate the city's overall condition?

I believe the level of artistic participation acts as a barometer of that city's health. If you have a lot of people creating and consuming art, that means you have a community where people are having their basic needs met. They have food, shelter, jobs. They feel safe.

But there's a danger in adopting Maslow's model and taking it too literally by believing you have to take care of the first four levels first and then, and only then, seek self-actualization. There are people who complain about money being given to the arts when there are other community needs they deem more important.

At the same time, most people start yearning for self-actualization way before their other needs are met. The "starving artist" is a real and common occurrence, not just a romantic figure in literature and movies.

Tchaikovsky composed glorious music in spite of his notoriously low self-esteem. Van Gogh lived in poverty and his mental illness led to suicide. Thank goodness they didn't wait for all of their needs to be met before they created their great works.

For many people, art is the only island in their sea of poverty, the only oasis in a desert of mental despair. Its therapeutic uses are well-documented and valuable.

Young people who participate in music, art, theater, dance activities after school are less likely to become involved in drug use and gangs. Those who take part in the arts during school, as part of the curriculum, are more likely to stay in school.

These young people's lives would be greatly diminished if we were to wait for them to be properly fed and clothed and have a happy home life before we start allowing them to have arts opportunities.

Do we need art? We don't. We also don't need libraries, sports, churches, television, computers or pets, if we equate the term "need" with physical well-being. An individual does not need art to sustain life. Neither does one need sex to survive individually. But to survive as a species, we need both.

“Chinese New Year Mandala” (encaustic with inclusions on wood)

artist: Karen Frazer

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Cities

I have spent the entire week in Atlanta, but I have not gone to see any of the sights. I have been staying in a 19th floor condominium, and the only times I have ventured outdoors is when I make my daily trip to the concierge and parking lot to update my parking pass. But it's OK, I have good company: my two-month-old granddaughter. 

My daughter returned to work this week, and she and her husband were not quite ready to put the baby in daycare, so I agreed to be live-in babysitter for a while. Baby girl has been excellent company. I'm sure if she could talk she would say the same about me.

Atlanta is a fun city, but there is nothing out there I want to see or do badly enough for me to have to deal with a carseat and haul an infant and  diaper bag and stroller around. I got a little exercise yesterday by pushing baby and stroller back and forth between the living area and kitchen area which are about 20 feet apart. Occasionally I mixed it up with some three-point turns between furniture. The baby had a blast. It was like a carnival ride for her. 

Last night there was a storm, and then the sky over Atlanta turned  incredible shades and then there was a double rainbow. Here is a picture  my son-in-law took from the balcony, but a photo couldn't really capture the sight, and you can only see one rainbow:

Anyway, the sight of that sky, and the sight of my granddaughter are much better than anything else I might see in the city. I am a small-town girl, and I have never functioned well in large crowds or traffic. Just ask my daughters who were passengers in my car when I tried to drive in NYC. I will never try that again.

I have enjoyed my trips to Washington, DC, though. It feels easier to navigate there than most cities and there are great, free, museums and galleries. When one of my daughters lived in Washington while working in the Library of Congress, I could walk from her apartment building to the Smithsonian in about 15 minutes and spend several days exploring on foot.

But I did have to drive occasionally in DC, and take the subway. I wrote this poem about the experience:

Washington, DC

Please, man who will not let me merge,

Take pity on me, a stranger in your city,

Unfamiliar with the design and flow of your avenues and highways,

And who only desires to arrive unscathed,

Not first.

Keep singing, young girl on the Metro.

Please keep singing to your little brother

About the rabbit who bullies field mice in the forest

Until the Good Fairy intervenes.

The riders around you smile at your song.

But when you grow up, if you croon to someone on public transportation

Nobody will think it is as sweet as they do now.

So sing while you have a chance.

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Not so quiet on the set

I see that one of my favorite bands, Holy Ghost Tent Revival, is in the midst of a Kickstarter campaign to raise funds for their next recording project: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/85290175/right-state-of-mind

I hope you will check them out and donate to this worthy cause.

This got me to reminiscing about the opportunity I had about 5 years ago to appear in a HGTR music video, an event I refer to as my "16 seconds of fame" since that is how much time I am seen in the video even though I spent over 10 hours on the set.

Afterwards I wrote an account of the experience. Here it is:

Not So Quiet on the Set (March 2009)

My newsroom phone is like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates. When I check my messages, I never know what I'm going to get.

Often it's a complaint. Sometimes a news tip. Never, until recently, had it been someone asking me to play a part in a music video.

So it was surprising one morning when I got a cryptic message left by P.J. Leslie, bass player for the band Holy Ghost Tent Revival. Something about filming a music video, and there was a part for me. Not many details - just enough to be intriguing. I called back, and was put in touch with the director, Gene Smith. I found out the setting would be a '50s dance, that filming was in the old gym at Greensboro College, and they wanted me to play the part of a chaperone.

I imagine the casting meeting between director and band went something like, "Now where will we find a middle-aged woman willing to take off a full day of work on a Tuesday to be on a film set all afternoon and evening for no pay? Hey - maybe Sarah Hall."

Two weeks earlier, the band had released a new CD, for which I had written a glowing review. This was perhaps a test to see if my enthusiasm was sincere, or just music reviewer hyperbole.

They may have figured that since I showed up in a club in Asheville to interview them the day after their CD release, I was just as likely to drive to Greensboro for filming.

They were right. I'm always looking for interesting experiences, and I like to be helpful.

In one of my past lives, I was a college music professor. Most of my writing dealt with theoretical analysis and historical research. My earliest journalism efforts were reviews of symphony and chamber music concerts.

When I came to work full time for Salisbury Post, my three under-utilized music degrees made me the default person on staff to cover all things musical. As a music journalist, I have not only interviewed classical artists, I have been backstage with Jimmy Eat World and Rogue Wave, discussed visual art with Scott Avett, sat in a nightclub chatting with Chris Barron of Spin Doctors, and hung out with a heavy metal band.

Last summer at Bonnaroo, I tried to look casually important sharing the media trailer with guys from CNN, Rolling Stone and Spin. 

"Life is strange," I thought as I lay in my tent listening to Metallica performing, a half-mile away, as raindrops bounced off my tent. I drifted off to the strains of "Creeping Death" and awakened to the sounds of Disco Biscuits a few hours later when my tent flooded.

After years of writing about long-dead composers, I've found it enjoyable to interview living musicians,particularly indie rock bands.

I admire the musicians who defy convention, pursuing their art without giving in to music industry demands to make them more marketable.

The band Holy Ghost Tent Revival is one such group. They've grown their own sound, combining folk, swing, rock, funk and bluegrass thrash into an appealing mixture.

My interest in, and promotion of, indie bands has become a mild obsession and sometimes expensive hobby, especially when it involves traveling to performances. 

My main concern about participating in HGTR's filming was not the time it would take, but whether they would have a '50s costume to fit me. I am an average-sized for a woman my age in the current decade. But I know that women were smaller back then.

The director's letter said some costumes would be available, but for people to bring their own if possible. For some reason, I waited until 90 minutes before I needed to leave to search out a costume.

Adrenalin and intuition converged as I was drawn as if by a magnet to the Salvation Army Store. Looking frantically about, I spied a polka-dotted dress with a flared skirt. It might have come from Lucy Ricardo's closet, or maybe Donna Reed's. 

And it appeared to be my size. I paid for it without trying it on, but I started to doubt my instincts when I was barely out of the parking lot. 

So I stopped at the Meroney Theater, to look for another option in the Piedmont Players costume room. Everything was too small. As I prepared to leave, someone entered with a box of borrowed items. On top was a pair of lensless vintage women's glasses, lovely etched designs on its horned rims. I slipped them in my purse and wrote "glasses" on the sign-out sheet.

Before heading for Greensboro, I stopped briefly at home and put on the polka-dot dress, which fit perfectly, and white socks and loafers. I put on the glasses as I entered the gym. One of the first people I encountered was set dresser Rachel Goodman from Charlotte, part of the professional film crew. She raved about my costume.

But the wardrobers said I needed to look dowdier, so a baggy sweater was added. I had little makeup because I wasn't supposed to look good. My hair was already okay for the part, I was told. 

(I hadn't realized I had the hairdo of a 1950s schoolteacher.)

I knew little of the story line, only that I was supposed to be a killjoy dance chaperone. The script called for a hip young man teacher to stop me from breaking up one couple.

I had reported by 1:30 as requested. Unfortunately, much of the volunteer cast seemed in no hurry to arrive on time, or in some cases, even at all. I was glad I brought a book to read as I sat waiting for filming to commence. 

A crew member attempted to herd those already costumed into a section of bleachers. She turned to me and said, "Since you're, um, older than the others, do you think you could keep them in this area?

So not only was I playing the part of a teacher, I was expected to act like one in real life. I taught middle school for four years, so I drew upon my inner teacher. I tried to look authoritative, but discovered I was about as ineffective as I had been in my real teaching career. My weak protests, intended to keep my charges corralled, went unheeded as cast members drifted away.

About five hours later, I was shown where to stand on the gym sidelines. I asked a young man near me if he was the actor portraying the male chaperone. He said no, he was the guy who gets beat up in the parking lot.

"Ah," I said, noting this small piece of the as of yet indiscernible plot.

I found a job for myself. I was stationed near a prop shoe-stand holding '50s-era prop shoes. But the extras kept leaving their own shoes there, so I took it upon myself to move modern shoes out of camera range.

I was filmed assuming an expression of alarm then storming out of frame, as if going to break up a couple. Then more waiting around. The male teacher actor never showed. I was chaperoning this whole dance by myself.

I asked director Gene what I was supposed to do in the last scene, since we didn't have the guy teacher to stop me gently, as if to say "let kids be kids." 

Gene said for me to just have a look of resignation like, "Oh well, I was young once." 

Guitarist Matt Martin, broke from the bandstand and ran over to me and said, "You know what would be really funny? If the teacher were to drink some of the spiked punch." Then he ran back.

Another piece of the plot ó somebody spikes the punch.

During the 8:30 p.m. "lunch" I talked to art director David Blankenship. He grew up in Salisbury, attended N.C. School of the Arts, then went into the film industry. His credits include "The Rachael Ray Show," "The View," and "All My Children." 

Then I drifted back over to Gene the director, who was calmly eating spaghetti.

"Matt suggested that the teacher drink the spiked punch," I told him.

"That's great!" Gene said. 

There was a flurry of activity as crew members obtained, sterilized and filled a punch cup. I was filmed taking sips and looking rather pleased.

It was discovered that an extra had apparently gotten bored and left, putting every scene in which he had appeared in jeopardy. For continuity's sake, you can't just have people in the background vanish. A massive manhunt was launched and the reluctant actor was captured and returned an hour later. 

My last scene was shot by 11:45 p.m. I had spent more than 10 hours on the set, so when the video was released, I was glad to see I hadn't ended up on the cutting room floor. I appear a total of 16 seconds.

A Charlotte screening party turned out to be a going-away party for Gene who was moving to Georgia (which seems to be getting ahead of North Carolina in the film industry). 

Gene told me he has a friend who is Matt Damon's personal wardrobist. Gene likes to run his stuff by this guy for advice and comments, so he showed him the video.

What was his favorite part? The teacher's glasses.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmsWxZeHgWQ&feature=kp

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Predicting the future

Have you ever witnessed the beginnings of celebrity, but didn’t realize it until later?

Of course seldom does anyone appear destined for fame from the beginning. When Leonardo da Vinci was a child, his father might have told him to stop drawing on the walls. Tchaikovsky’s parents paid for his piano lessons, but then steered him away from music and toward civil service. Oprah could already read by age 3, but she endured decades of poverty and hardship before Oprah’s Book Club became just one part of the mega-star’s empire.

Lots of famous singers were in middle school chorus at one time. And you’ve probably heard well-known actors tell about getting their start in high school productions of “Our Town” or “Grease.” Their cast-mates probably didn’t realize they were sharing the stage with future Hollywood actors.

Salisbury artist Barbara Richmond told me that when she taught kindergarten in Chapel Hill in the 1950s, James Taylor was one of her little students. I’m thinking there must have been something special about him, even then, for Barbara to remember him all those years later when he became a pop sensation.

When I was covering entertainment news on a regular basis as a writer for Salisbury Post I often interviewed musicians passing through Salisbury who were just starting out. When I watched Pokey LaFarge on the David Letterman show last summer, I remembered fondly the first time I saw him play for a handful of people at The Blue Vine. And it was nice seeing Jake Hull performing on Jay Leno’s “Tonight Show” a few months ago. It doesn’t seem that long ago that Jake and his band, the Momentary Prophets, played in Salisbury and even camped at my house a few times.

The reason I am bringing this up now is because the band Mipso is performing in Salisbury May 2 at Salisbury’s Lee Street Theater. They are rising stars; you should catch them while you still have a chance to see them in a fairly intimate venue. I was reminiscing about the first time I heard them when they were starting out: hence my rambling about my not being able to necessarily see into the future.

The first time I heard Mipso they were not on a stage. They were in a garage, surrounded by tools, paint cans and extension cords. 

Jim and Susie Avett had invited me to a barbecue and bonfire at their Concord farm one night in November 2011. Jim said they were having a few friends over, and some would bring their instruments for informal picking, and also three students from UNC were going to be there to play for us.

I had gotten to know Jim a couple years earlier when I wrote an article about him and his music, and he let me tag along to some gigs and hang out on the farm. I also attended a few of the gas station gatherings where Jim regularly played music with his buddies. 

I was happy and honored to be included on the bonfire guest list. I was accompanied by then Lifestyle editor Katie Scarvey to the event where there was lots of great food. It was surprisingly fun watching various large objects heaved onto a roaring fire. Then we retreated to the garage for a short jam session, followed by a performance by the three UNC students, Joseph Terrell (guitar), Jacob Sharp (mandolin) and Wood Robinson (upright bass) playing under the name “Mipso Trio.” 

If I’d realized I was witnessing the beginning of celebrity that November night, perhaps I would have paid more attention, and taken more photos. Maybe I was too full of banana pudding, or too much smoke clouded my senses. I do remember thinking the Mipso guys were probably standing in the same spot where Scott and Seth Avett had practiced their music while growing up on this farm. I thought the Mipso guys were talented and smart and good-looking and funny (especially when they sang “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman”) but I didn’t really think our paths would cross again or that I would be hearing them in the future.

Then a few months later my friend Jody Mace asked me if I’d ever heard of a band called “Mipso Trio.”

Jody is a writer who lives in Charlotte, and our lives had totally separate orbits until we somehow became acquainted through the magnetic force of our eerily similar musical tastes. She had come across a Youtube video of Mipso Trio purely by chance while trolling the Internet, and instantly liked what she heard.

I told her as a matter of fact I was acquainted with them, having heard them in Jim Avett’s garage, a statement which made Jody jealous. But Jody had put them back on my radar, and soon I was the owner of Mipso’s new CD, “Long, Long Gone” and I even found myself traveling all the way to Chapel Hill (with Jody and Katie) to hear them perform at Cat’s Cradle. When I saw them completely sell out the 750 capacity venue I realized they had an even bigger following than I had imagined. 

At that time they were still full-time students at UNC, but they’d already decided to do music full-time after graduation. Their fame was mounting, so having to keep up with classes and make good grades was like trying to keep a lid on a boiling pot, performances opportunities spilling out all over while they just tried to keep things simmering until graduation.

Mipso got their diplomas in 2013, and they’ve been on the go ever since, traveling to Japan and China as well as around the US, sharing shows with the likes of David Holt and Steep Canyon Rangers. They’ve released another album, “Dark Holler Pop” which has garnered acclaim and scored the #8 slot on the Billboard’s bluegrass chart. 

Since I’ve returned to teaching college music, I face classrooms full of aspiring musicians. I wonder if any of them are musical celebrities of the future. Time will tell.

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DARK HOLLER POP The Music of Mipso

By Sarah Hall

Many popular bands have arisen out of North Carolina’s fertile musical landscape in recent years, but few have sprung up as fully-formed, professional and polished as the acoustic new-grass trio Mipso.

Musicians Joseph Terrell, Jacob Sharp and Wood Robinson ascended quickly to prominence in the UNC-Chapel Hill area, packing venues, recording an EP and then a full-length album, all the while remaining successful full-time students.

After graduating this past May, music became their vocation, and they have pursued the professional music path with zeal.

Since commencement, they have toured Japan and China in addition to traversing the Tarheel State, and now they have released a second full-length album, “Dark Holler Pop.”

Mipso hasn’t jumped on the indie-bluegrass-rock-punk bandwagon.

Unlike some groups that aggressively stretch their acoustic instruments to the limit, bending genres and breaking strings, Mipso selects and refines elements of current musical styles while enthusiastically embracing string band heritage.

As their new album’s title implies, they take pop to the past, shining a light into the dark hollows where old love songs and sad ballads dwell.

But while those traditional songs that came out of the woods largely recounted murder, infidelity and revenge, Mipso’s lyrics revolve around the modern human condition, themes of home, travel, love, human frailty, faith and doubt.

Terrell is primary songwriter for this album, and he’s an avid storyteller and fluent poet, accompanying his lyrics with his virtuosic guitar-playing. Terrell’s “A Couple Acres Greener,” the CD’s opening track, evokes restless emotion musically and lyrically.

He’s acutely aware that life is fleeting, and conflicted about the tug of war between enjoying the present or planning for the future: “I want my story to begin. There’s a time to save up and a time to spend.”

Terrell’s lyrics range from sublime to subtle humor, such as in the clever “Red Eye to Raleigh” where he suffers literally from a broken heart, with injured ventricles and aching atriums.

His song “When I’m Gone” is a stand-out on the album, with a rare, mournful beauty, and a style so rooted in the past you might think you are hearing a new arrangement of a traditional folk song.

Terrell could be a reincarnation of one of the balladeers who graced the stage of the original Grand Ole Opry.

That might explain his writing of this chorus: “When I’m gone, don’t you think of me. Don’t you place a rose upon my stone. Promise me you’ll never weep, tell the children I’m asleep, and sing holy, holy, holy as I make my journey home.”

Terrell has entrusted the vocal lead for “When I’m Gone” to bandmate Sharp, whose mellifluous voice is a perfect match for the song’s gently gleaming nostalgia.

In concerts, I have seen audiences transfixed by his pure, unique tenor, ranging from rich folk inflection in his lower tones to the remarkable weightlessness of his high range.

Sharp’s mandolin provides acoustic counterpoint to the group, and he contributes as a songwriter as well.

His “Do You Want Me” clings tenaciously in one’s ear, and it’s a good choice for closing out the album as it moves from straightforward folk into a bluesy outro, leaving the listener humming it afterwards.

Terrell and Sharp share composing credit on one of the most well-crafted songs in the collection, “Rocking Chair Blues” where a lazy pentatonic melody is suspended over a slow 6/8 waltz rhythm.

You can feel the rockers creaking on the porch boards; the steady pattern is only interrupted by swooping close-harmony vocals preceding the words “Every step off the front porch is a step into rocking chair blues.”

Rounding out and supporting Mipso’s distinctive sound is Robinson’s reliable upright bass. Whether providing steady bluegrass support or embellishing with jazz-influenced licks, he is the group’s heartbeat, sometimes felt more than heard, seeming content to stay out of the limelight, moving to the fore only when needed to contribute to the group’s tight and exciting three-part vocal harmonies.

Mipso was joined in the recording of this album by fiddler Libby Rodenbough who, for a while, toured regularly with the group.

Also featured on the album are Phil Cook of Megafaun, Chris Roszell of Big Fat Gap, Bobby Britt of Town Mountain, Chandler Holt and John Teer of Chatham County Line, vocalist Josh Moore, pianist James Wallace and Emily Frantz and Andrew Marlin of Mandolin Orange. Marlin is also producer of the album.

If you enjoy fresh acoustic folk by a new generation of troubadours, Dark Holler Pop is for you.

If you listened to Grateful Dead’s “Dark Hollow” in the 70s, this album is for you also. Before Bob Weir sang about that place “where the sun don’t never shine” and before Bill Monroe’s “Dark Hollow” and before Bill Browning appropriated songwriting credit in the 50s and before Clarence Ashley recorded “Dark Holler” in the 1920s, an anonymous Appalachian singer sang it.

Go way back there, and do you know what you’ll find? The genesis of Mipso.

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Leaving Salisbury

Recently I did something I had never thought I would do. I moved away from Salisbury.

I admit that when my husband Greg and I moved to Salisbury right out of college, I figured it would be a temporary home while we decided what we really wanted to do with our lives. Then suddenly it was three decades later and we were living in the sixth house we had inhabited in Rowan County, we had three grown daughters who had flown the nest, and my husband was retiring after being a band director for 31 years at the same middle school. At some point we had settled in and put down roots.

While Greg remained steadfastly employed by the school system, I had trouble deciding what I wanted to be when I grew up (and I’m still not sure). I taught music at the college level, then elementary school, then middle school, then returned to college teaching. In between and overlapping these jobs I kept going back to school, worked  some retail, was education director for Salisbury Symphony, started a music school, wrote as a lifestyles reporter at Salisbury Post, founded an artist collective, started a community youth chorus, and ran a nonprofit arts organization. And almost all of my adult life I was a church music director, mostly at John Calvin Presbyterian Church where I guided the music mission for 22 years.

I met a lot of people, Salisbury natives and transplants. Something I heard stated many times over the years was that one isn’t really regarded as a true Salisburian unless he or she was born and raised there. I was never sure what special Salisbury benefits were being withheld from me, but apparently there are some people there feeling a lack of acceptance. I wondered if that was really a “Salisbury thing” or if maybe that same observation is said in all towns and cities when discussing acceptance of outsiders. Since I had never lived anywhere else since college, I didn’t know.

I do recall an incident a few months after we moved to Salisbury. I decided to join the Choral Society as a way of making friends. At the first rehearsal, the lady seated next to me looked my hippie clothes and lavender shoes up and down, then said, “You aren’t from around here, are you.” 

My oldest daughter is the reason we moved to Salisbury. Greg and I had gotten married halfway through my junior year at ASU, and we lingered in the mountains a few more years working on graduate degrees. Then I was awarded a fellowship to do doctoral work in music at Michigan State, and we started making plans to head North. But about a month after my acceptance at MSU I began feeling perpetually nauseous, and realized we were going to be parents. 

At first I insisted that we not change our plans. But I didn’t just have morning sickness, I had all-day sickness, and it weakened my attitude, especially when I considered we would be trying to attend school and raise a baby over 600 miles from the nearest helpful relative. And we really needed health insurance. So Greg accepted the first job offered to him - band director for Corriher-Lipe Middle School in Landis. And the rest is history.

Since most of my jobs and volunteerism have involved the arts either directly or indirectly, I have encountered lots of area artists, actors and musicians. And this leads to the other refrain I kept hearing people say about Salisbury, that the arts community is large and vital, but they just can’t seem to get along with each other. And this lack of cooperation is holding the city back from truly being the “Paris of the Piedmont” that it could be. 

I’ve heard it described this way: Imagine Salisbury as a stage and each arts organization as a ballet dancer. The curtain goes up on a beautiful set, and everyone oohs and ahhs, but then the dancers, each highly trained and talented, all start performing different ballets. Pretty soon they would be colliding instead of dancing  together in synchronicity to form something beautiful.

Over the years I have witnessed conflict, competition and jealousy among Rowan artists and arts groups. But here again, I’ve never been a part of another city’s or town’s arts community, so I can’t say for sure that it’s a Salisbury thing or just an artist thing, or maybe even a human thing.

I was having a bad week last January when I decided I would like to move and try a change of scene. I will spare you the details of my bad week because I don’t want to sound whiny, but it included disenchantment and a car crash and personal conflicts. Then I heard my inner voice say, “maybe it’s time you moved on.”

One reason I think I have had so many jobs is because of that inner voice. It seems to pipe up whenever I don’t feel like things are going my way, and it eggs me on as I impulsively change course. But until now, it had kept me navigating around Salisbury. This was the first time I felt strongly propelled out of town.

I decided I should be teaching music theory in a college or university, in spite of my lack of Ph.D. I chose Western Carolina University as my target since that would put me geographically closer to two of my daughters, and because I love the mountains. I wrote to WCU’s School of Music offering my services as a theory instructor without asking my husband what he thought of the idea. My inner voice never consults Greg in matters of importance, for some reason.

Incredibly, those in charge of hiring at WCU decided they did indeed have a need for my services. I received an email from the head of the School of Music on an evening when Greg was out playing trumpet someplace. I sent him a text saying I found a new job and we would be moving to the mountains. His texted response was “cool.” 

The excitement wore off a little as I dealt with all the issues of getting rid of our belongings and putting the house up for sale. And then I got some lyrics to an Avett Brothers song stuck in my head: “Disappear from your home town, go and find the people that you know. Show them all of your good parts, leave town when the bad ones start to show...When you run make sure you run to something and not away from...”

Now I am living in the mountain town of Waynesville, another arts-rich community. When I talk to people who have moved here from other places, they say  they like living here, but then they tell me ways in which people from Waynesville are “different.” 

And so here I am well into middle age embarking on what feels like a sociological study comparing norms among indigenous town-dwellers and artists in various communities. I’ll let you know the results of my findings 31 years from now.

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The measure of a band - Bombadil releases "Metrics of Affection"

by Sarah Hall

Throughout history, no subject has been explored more in popular song than love. But Bombadil proves there are still fresh things to say on that topic with their fourth full length album, “Metrics of Affection.”

As the title suggests, this collection of songs seeks to gauge devotion while exploring the parameters of commitment. The lyrics are very personal and sincere, celebrating the highs and lamenting the lows that occur in every relationship, whether romantic or platonic.

The album is musically outstanding, a testament to the time and painstaking effort that has gone into the creation of Bombadil’s latest opus. They produced this album themselves, recording it at home. Without studio time limits they were able to coax the work into unfolding rather than forcing it to be completed. Their attention to detail has not gone unnoticed.

In a recent New York Times article, writer Val Haller chose Bombadil to represent the vanguard of neo-folk. Their music is accessible and rooted in folk appeal, but at the same time ventures into other, more modern, areas of musical exploration.

Bombadil has transformed to the point where they don’t seem like the same band that a few years ago entertained audiences with catchy songs performed on an array of instruments which they traded among themselves in carnival-like manner. But even then, at the heart of their songs were intelligent lyrics couched in delightfully unique arrangements. Now they perform in a simpler fashion, placing more emphasis on the poetry of their lyrics and allowing the listener to appreciate the nuance and brilliant details.

Each member of Bombadil contributes his own personal style to songwriting and performance. Bryan Rahija is a storyteller and an accomplished guitarist with a style heavily rooted in traditional folk. Stuart Robinson’s classical training is evident in his virtuosic piano performances accompanying his Byronesque lyrics. Daniel Michalak alternates between bass and keyboard and creates enigmatic, lyric-driven songs that manage to sound simultaneously simple and profound. Drummer James Phillips brings precise pulse and punctuation, and as the group’s recording engineer, he has enhanced this album with more electronic effects and production techniques than found on their previous recordings.

“Metrics of Affection” encompasses the band members’ strengths and varied musical tastes, including elements of folk, bluegrass, pop, classical and hip-hop. The blending of seemingly disparate styles is most striking in the song “Isn’t It Funny” where a vocal chorus reminiscent of three-part Kentucky harmony alternates with rap over a hip-hop beat. While that may seem jarring in description, it is actually musical genius. Michalak, who, following the release of their second album, was sidelined from performing for many months while suffering from painful neural tension in his hands, unleashes the frustrations of that experience like a competitor in a poetry slam. But he’s interrupted by the recurring hymn-like sequences where he can, as the song states “sit down and reflect...” upon the words of the chorus: Isn’t it funny to think about the things that make us sad, like losing dreams, and kisses that don’t mean anything, and family, and the one time your best friend lied.

The time Michalak spent pondering the nature of life and affection manifests itself in various forms throughout the album in lyrics he has authored both alone and in collaboration with other band members. “Angeline” is upbeat and optimistic, “Learning to Let Go” couples a bright pop accompaniment with words of resignation and “Boring Country Song” describes incompatibility in musical metaphor set to a relaxed beat. “Escalators” manages to harness stream-of-consciousness lyrics into two-part musical form. The slower, free introductory section evokes fatique caused by one's own relentless thoughts: “If I lay down on an escalator, would you step on me, just a rug, tired of hugs and relaxation? I've given up on my autobiography. Cold coffee and a pillow days that feel slow are enough for me.”

But the poet cannot remain in this state of torpor since the music advances into a more regular upbeat groove and paints a picture of perpetual motion which, like an escalator, moves up and down in a steady stream. Michalak delivers lyrics like tuneful rap

Do you ever think about the future

what holds those invisible sutures together

is the doctor in

whatever happened to spontaneity

it's my deity

and I'm in charge of me

let's see how far we can walk with our eyes closed

each step raises the bar of uncertainty

but fortunately

our feet are wheels that ride the maze

that is my life my hour my days

punctuated by the band's bursts of vocal harmony and enhanced by trumpet obbligato.

Rahija is not currently touring with Bombadil while he pursues graduate work, but he is well-represented on the album. His “Born at Five” is a moving three-minute summary of an ordinary man’s life. The delightful “When We are Both Cats” has a folky sound created by open C guitar tuning and a meter that could accompany a Virginia reel. Adding to the fun is cat-like tone painting by cellos. The piece feels so happy it’s hard to believe it’s a song about lost love.

In “One More Ring” Rahija expresses the emotions that are stirred up by finding small reminders of a past relationship: “If I find one more ring of yours mixed up among my things, I just might sell all my belongings to make sure I've cut all of my strings.” The song's vocal line ends unresolved, illustrating that when it comes to love, beneath the appearance of recovery there may still be an open wound.

Robinson’s songs “Have Me” and “What Does it Mean?” are both simply beautiful and heart-breaking.

His solo piano work, “Patience is Expensive” at the album’s halfway point serves as a musical interlude between two acts, a relaxing intermission. It is also left up to Robinson to conclude the play of passion that is Metrics of Affection, and he does so with the remarkable song “Thank You.” The vocal line floats suspended over a softly churning piano accompaniment with an Ave Maria-like tenderness. The setting brilliantly illustrates how gratitude can sustain you through the chaos.

And so, how do you test love? Bombadil may have proposed the best test in the song “Escalators,” asking -

If I were to lay down on an escalator, what would you do?

a. Pick me up. b. Step on me.

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Watch out! Teacher packing heat!

The recent shooting tragedy in Newtown, Conn., followed by numerous suggestions that teachers be armed with guns, caused me to reminisce about an experience I had during one of my former lives, as an elementary school music teacher. 

Early one morning, my school was put in “lock-down” mode because a father of two of our students had planted an explosive device in his wife’s car. She was unharmed because the bomb was discovered before it did harm, but the man was on the loose, and it was feared he might show up at his sons’ school and wreak some sort of havoc.

The school stayed on lock-down the entire day. But my classroom was not inside the school building. I was teaching in a mobile unit, set apart from the school. And I was not invited to enter the fortress that day. In fact, I was told that I would teach as normal, in my usual classroom. The reason for this decision had nothing to do with the fear that the students’ educational experience would be diminished if they were not able to participate in their weekly music activity. It was because some teachers whose classes were scheduled for music that day complained that if music classes were cancelled they would not get their planning time.

So I remained a sitting duck, teaching classes full of little sitting ducklings all day long. Every 40 minutes a class was paraded out from behind the locked doors of the school proper, walked across the open space, sealed inside the music trailer, then retrieved at the end of 40 minutes and paraded back to the confines of the locked school. I taught eight classes. And the two sons of the possible shooter were both in classes I taught that day, so if he had wanted to abduct one of them, it would have been easier to swoop in and snatch while they were out in the open, or he could have easily broken into my sunny, window-filled trailer. It seems like the school personnel could have at least allowed me to teach somewhere inside the building, but I guess I was too noisy.

The father was  eventually captured at some place far from the school, and  I never heard anything else about him.

But what if he had decided to break into my trailer, where I was the only adult with 25 children in my care? The mobile unit had no closet to go in, and there weren’t any student desks for the children to hide under. It was just wide open space where students sat in rows on a carpeted floor. I think there was one table and a teacher desk. If there had been a gun in the desk drawer, and I did manage to get to it, and I did bring myself to try to shoot at the attacking dad, I’m sure I would have been just as likely to have injured a child, or myself. I am extremely clumsy.

Shortly after that, I left teaching for a while, and returned to graduate school to do Ph.D. work in music education. My classes did not include gun safety. In fact, I don’t recall any discussion about classroom protection. I think it was all academics. That was in the pre-Columbine days.

I never finished the Ph.D. but I did get a second Masters degree, and I returned to teaching, this time as a middle school chorus instructor. A note was discovered at the school with a “hit list” of students and teachers whom some seventh grader was apparently planning to snuff out. Metal detectors were installed at the front of the school, students were searched, lockers were searched, it was front page news, and then it all faded away and life went back to normal. I don’t think the note-writer was ever identified. I don’t recall anyone suggesting that we needed to bring in weapons to deal with the situation.

There is nobody any more peace-loving than me. And for most of my life, I had remained calm and collected and patient. But teaching middle-schoolers brought out a side of me that I didn’t know existed. There is no creature quite as rude as a middle school boy trying to demonstrate to his cronies how stupid and sissy singing is. I would feel anger welling up in side of me, and sometimes I had trouble keeping myself under control. My usual method of expressing my displeasure was to bang on top of the piano with my fist, which of course only hurt myself, or occasionally I would direct a well-placed sarcastic barb toward a heckler, then I would wonder if the student would go home and tell his mother what Mrs. Hall had said and get me in trouble. They never did.

I’m afraid that if I’d had a gun in my desk, there might have been times when I would have been tempted to get it out and wave it around in an attempt to get them to stop talking, open their books, and sing De Colores or a song from Fiddler on the Roof without rolling their eyes.

After four years, I left public school teaching again. But then the need for a full-time salary and benefits caused me to sign on to teach elementary music once more, this time commuting to a nearby city where I taught in a low-income, high-incident environment. The lock-down drills at this school did seem somewhat pertinent. But as I was crouching in a dark storage room with crying first graders, and I was whispering assurances to them that it wasn’t real, we were just practicing, I wondered if all we were doing was just unnecessarily scaring children and robbing them of their trust in the world.

The incident at Sandy Hook Elementary was horrible. But I’m not sure that it would have been made less horrible if there had been weapons in the school. It could have led to even more carnage from “friendly fire” with weapons in inexperienced hands. 

The NRA’s executive vice president, Wayne LaPierre, says the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. Most of the people who work in schools are indeed good guys. But good guys are also more likely to hesitate to pull a trigger and take a life. I know that even if I were facing a crazed gunman, I would probably freeze from uncertainty. 

Last year there was a fifth grade boy who seemed to think it was his mission in life to torture the music teacher. He refused to participate, made obscene comments, threw spitballs at me, broke erasers off pencils so he could pelt me with little pieces of rubber when I turned my head. I would write discipline referrals, he would go to in-school suspension, but he would come back just as mean as before. I called his home and left messages, but got no response. The principal had said that “if no weapon was involved” he didn’t want to hear about it. And spitballs and erasers were only hurting my feelings.

I did finally exact my revenge. The fifth graders were going to a camp for a weekend field trip. In our mailboxes, all of the teachers received a list of names of 5th graders who were not able to go on the trip because their parents could not pay the $80 cost. We were asked to contribute to help make it possible for these students to go.

The boy who had been making my life miserable was on the list. I paid the entire $80 for him to go. I had decided to kill him with kindness.

Later that day, the tough boy came to my room and hugged me. His teacher told me later that he had asked for permission to go to my room and thank me, she hadn’t told him to do it.

This year I am teaching college, where I have had nothing at all thrown at me (yet).

But if I ever go back to teaching public school, the only heat I plan on packing is a warm heart.

[sfhreflections]

Jake Hull is no fool

by Sarah Hall

Just when you thought Christmas was over, here is another gift, and more tidings of great joy.

Jake Hull has brought forth a new album, “The Fool,” and it's a present for you to hear and keep, free of charge.

Just go to www.facebook.com/TheGreatVictory/posts/382461591843825  and “like” the page to receive a message with a free download code. You can have the EP for free and share it as you please. 

As for me, I unwrapped this present a little early, and I’ve been listening repeatedly for weeks. “The Fool” is like one of those packages where you take the lid off the box, and there’s another box, and you open that and there’s another box, and this goes on and on until you find something small and precious and valuable. Jake’s songs all seem to hold simple, beautiful meanings at their heart, wrapped in layers of poetry and shimmering instrumental combinations.

The album’s somewhat self-effacing title, “The Fool” is also the name of the first track, a song that takes flight with giddy abandon, as if Jake has been finally set free from whatever has been keeping him out of the public eye and away from listeners’ ears this past year. After achieving appreciation and acclaim with the group Momentary Prophets and then Later Sun, Jake has returned with a solo project that was worth the wait.

I am unable to choose one favorite track from among the six delightful choices on this album, but I have managed to narrow it to what I consider the two that especially stand out: “Echoic” and “Parting Song.”

“Echoic” is poetic gem and an unabashed plea for understanding. It begins plaintively, with a gentle counterpoint including cello, guitar, hammered dulcimer and soft drumroll crescendos like distant thunder. Above this are these words: “Guide me/For I cannot see anything but stars/I stagger at the sight/A field of distant giants/Shine defiant, shine on/To break the spell of night/ ...They echo on forever. 

What we don't see keeps us all/ Open-eyed, wide-eyed we gaze/ Up to what we cannot know/ What we don't see keeps us all/ Pressing our palms closed we pray/Up to what we cannot know...”

The music accelerates and builds as the lyrics confront pain, tragedy and sorrow. A descending melodic fragment that was introduced pensively by the cello earlier in the song is transformed into a diving motive that resists resolution, bursting into chordally extended diapason instead of resting on tonic. Jake’s musical construction has brilliantly underscored his climactic lyrics: “And in the years that pass as time runs on/ And leaves my body deep in the ground/ Even from far away I'll blaze with light and be/ Part of a greater/ Part of a whole/ Part of a calm I can't describe.”

“Parting Song” has an uncomplicated accompaniment supporting a story of uncommon beauty. There’s a recurring two-part refrain. The first part says:”Father, father, father/ I'm farther, farther, farther/From the future that I'm after/ The future where I'm better/ So teach me, teach me, teach me/ To make that future reach me/ To move along but not to stir/ The dust that settles in my wake.” 

When father answers in the second half of the refrain, the tune is simple and comforting, like a lullaby. “He said, I"ll be there to meet you at the bend. In the road you think you travel all alone/ You're not alone/Time is not kind/ Time will never mend/ You're just choking on the pain/ You think you own.”

                                      Why is Jake Hull giving his music away? Wouldn’t it be wiser to sell it and try to recoup the expenses that production of an album has incurred? According to his invitation, Jake is celebrating, and he wants the world to celebrate with him. He says: 

  “I'm giving away music. Joyful news:1. It's Christmas and whatever that means to you, may you be happy. 2. I'm getting married later this year to my best friend and most daring, loving supporter Liz. 3. Life is always great and our victory over sorrow will continue into the new year.

To celebrate all this, I'd like to give my music away to as many people as possible. Whoever you know, whoever you think likes anything about life, send them here... Be well, be loved, and be infinite. Happy Holidays. Jake”

And besides, Jake is no “fool.” He knows the important thing now and for his musical future is for The Fool to be heard. In this economy, the few dollars it costs for a potential listener to download music can stand in the way of ever being discovered.

I agree, and believe, that if music fans will accept this musical present and share it with others, it will be a gift that keeps giving, with joyful, repeated listenings.

You can hear the songs here:

http://jakehull.bandcamp.com/

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How to Succeed at Marriage Without Really Trying

As of today, I have been married 33 years. When I posted that fact on Facebook, my friend, Steve, referred to a column I wrote about my husband back in 2007. I was flattered that he remembered something I said in a column five years ago. 

After searching the newspaper's online archive I found the column. I think I got more comments on this one than any other column I've written. Somebody in a restaurant told me their Sunday school teacher had brought the newspaper in and used my column as the basis of their Sunday school lesson. Appalachian State's alumni office even picked it up and ran it on their website.

Here it is:

My husband Greg and I married young, between college semesters. It was a simple Christmas wedding, without benefit of pre-marital counseling or much advice.

We spent our honeymoon in New York City. Arriving at the Raleigh airport a little late, my new spouse dropped me off with the luggage, then he parked the car.

Upon our return from the four-day trip, we discovered the car had been towed, because Greg had not noticed the "airport employees only" sign. The honeymoon seemed really over.

My husband possesses the trait of not noticing things to a high degree, exceeded only by his ability not to listen.

He honed these skills as he was growing up by ignoring his sister. Then he easily transferred this knack for cluelessness to marriage.

Marching band at Appalachian State brought us together, as it does so many nerdy couples. Before each football game, our band would perform "The Star-Spangled Banner," using an arrangement that began with a single trumpet, then built to a dramatic crescendo as more and more instruments joined in.

Greg was that lone trumpeter. When I saw him face thousands of spectators each week and play perfectly, I thought "What a man. I've got to get to know him better."

He seemed so brave. Now I know it's because he doesn't worry about things or particularly care what people think about him.

The human mind is a mystery. How can my husband, a highly-rated chess player, understand the intricacies of the Trompowsky attack and predict his opponent's moves well in advance, yet be unable to remember which cupboard we keep the dishes in?

He performs frequently as a trumpeter, never forgetting a gig, always showing up on time. But when the children were babies, one of my greatest fears was that he would set them down somewhere and forget where he left them.

He says weeds and flowers all look the same to him, so he ignores both, or mows both. Sorting laundry also appears baffling to one who treats all colors and fabrics equally.

Early in our marriage, if I would say "When are you going to ____" (fill in a chore) he would say "Arbor Day," knowing full well that I had no idea when that was. I'm still not sure. I think maybe it's sometime in April.

If I would scold him for doing something lame-brained, he'd say "Aren't I cute?" Honestly, that makes it really hard to fight about something. In recent years, he has made frequent use of the non-excuse "my bad" to extricate himself from situations, admitting fault without having to really discuss anything.

He says he does know when he's done something stupid though, because that's the only time I call him "Honey."

My husband isn't exactly what you would call "romantic." I still remember when I awakened him with a kiss and reminded him it was our 13th anniversary, and he said, "Yes, our marriage just entered puberty."

He once signed my Valentine card "Greg Hall," as if to be sure I wouldn't get him mixed up with any other Gregs who might give me a card that said "To my wife on Valentine's Day." (His excuse: As a teacher, signing notes all day, he's used to putting his first and last name.)

He gave me an anniversary card that said on the front, "From both of us," prompting me to ask "From you and who else?" (His excuse -- he thought the picture was so pretty, he didn't notice what it said.)

In spite of everything, or because of it, we have been married for over a quarter of a century. So the Greg Hall method seems to be working. Since he doesn't care if he wins an argument, he always lets me have the last word. This makes fighting impossible.

A few months ago, when I berated him for not peeling the potatoes for dinner, he said, "You're my potato." Since I thought that was sweet, it immediately diffused the situation. He obviously felt he had really hit upon something, because he has continued to employ this tactic, almost daily. He takes whatever I'm discussing and inserts it in the sentence "You're my _____."

I'm his jacket, his spoon, his pillow. I must talk about food a lot, because I'm his sandwich, pancake, green bean, salad dressing, dessert and Apple Ugly.

That last one wasn't so nice. He thinks it's funny to use this indiscriminately. When I asked him to buy the big kind of garbage bags, he said, "You're my big bag."

Last week, when I was contemplating whether or not to watch the Al Gore DVD, Greg said, "You're my 'inconvenient truth.'"

That's actually a pretty astute observation of marriage in general. Sometimes you just have to face the facts.

Of course, if I told my husband to face the facts, he would say, "You're my face."

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Treehouse exile

I had such high hopes for my Treehouse last year. I intended for it to be a a unique, semi-private space for interesting people to share art and ideas. And we did a few good things.  But life kept getting in the way. Right after signing the lease on the space, I accepted a job, teaching music at an elementary school way on the other side of Charlotte. The next 10 months are sort of a blur to me now of getting up before dawn to make the 45 mile trek to a place where my efforts would be marginalized and I would be verbally abused daily by children, then I would creep back home in the afternoon through the I-85 road construction. Many days I pulled off at the rest stop in Concord, exhausted, to take a nap before finishing the trip home. Often it was a race to get back to my house before my piano students arrived.

We did have some good times in the Treehouse: a cool parade-watching party, a fashion show of re-purposed clothing, one poetry reading, a couple of gallery exhibits, house concert performances by Martha Bassett, Paleface, Eric DiMarzio, Jeremy Vess, and Dave Myers. 

Earlier this year, on top of my Charlotte job, I agreed to return to Looking Glass Artists Center (formerly "collective") as the "Executive Director". Even though it is a volunteer position, it soon became a second full-time job. It became evident that something had to give, and that something was the Treehouse. I turned it over to friend Nancy Gaines, which was a good decision, because the space came to life with dance and music. I'm glad to see it's in good hands.

So now I just visit the Treehouse, I don't hide up there. And I changed the name of my blog to "Reflections" to tie into to Looking Glass since that seems to now be the center of my universe. But that's a good thing because LGAC will be hosting lots of great shows and art, and I welcome the opportunity to reflect upon these happenings.

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Back in the Treehouse

Wow. Where did that six months go? As soon as I got my Treehouse ready for guests, life seemed to just cave in on top of me. Sure, we had a couple of great house concerts, and a nifty poetry reading. Then silence. I had to temporarily abandon my little project. But now it's trying to spring back to life in spite of everything. We even have an art show there right now: Acrylics by Andell McCoy

(above is a nice example of Andell art)

AND THATS NOT ALL. On August 10 we will be hosting both an ART SHOW by Paleface and a HOUSE CONCERT by Paleface. So go right now and mark that on your calendar.

Check out the art and music at http://palefaceonline.com

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House concert and tag sale this Thursday

We at the Treehouse are planning our first event there. It is happening this Thursday, starting around 7:30 PM and it's a joint project with Photography 1851, which is the studio below us, at 506 S. Salisbury Ave. in Spencer, NC. There's going to be music downstairs in the photo gallery, and hopefully a fashion show, and up in the treehouse we are having a tag sale to raise money to install lighting for the future upstairs gallery. Admission is free and refreshments are free. But we hope you will want to purchase some fashions or interesting objects from the tag sale to help our cause.

Our performers Thursday night are David Lamanno at 7:45; Jeremy Vess at 8:30; Eric DiMarzio at 9:15; and David Myers at 10.

We'd like to know who is coming. So if you want to attend, send an email to Sarah at [email protected] and we'll put you on the guest list.