John Martyn becomes solid air

I didn’t expect to hear about the death of John Martyn on NPR, but that’s how I got the news. I thought about him, and how much his music has meant to me for almost 40 years. I immediately called Richard Pittman, my friend of so many decades. It seemed to be the right thing to do; Richard introduced me to John Martyn. And he discovered Martyn quite by accident.

It was the fall of 1971 and I had moved to Chicago to go to school. After a short stay in an apartment in a bad neighborhood near Uptown, I moved in with Richard and Paul Gregory in a much better place farther north. A budding guitar player at the time, Richard knew a unique sound when he heard it. And the fact that Martyn sang like a demented angel just added to the mystery. We lived just blocks from Loyola University, and frequented bookstores and record stores (as we quaintly called them oh those many years ago) near the campus. Martyn’s Bless the Weather was released that fall. Richard told me he saw the cover and he knew something magic was going on inside. He was right. I still get a strange feeling when I hear “Head and Heart” – it is a great love song with a tingly mystery to it.

Over the next few years we both bought everything Martyn recorded, going back to fill in his first few LPs, including Stormbringer, recorded with his wife Beverly. Richard lived alone a few years later and it was on a trip to see him in Chicago (after I retreated back to Indianapolis) that he played me Solid Air. Honestly, it was like nothing I had ever heard. The title cut, of course is soulful and lighter than air itself. “May You Never” is the kind of anthem, a prayer really, that at that young age I associated with true love – which I assumed would always elude me. And then there is “The Man in the Station”. Like we would do in those analog days, we picked up the tone arm on the turntable and played that song over and over.

Over the next decades I would buy Martyn albums (and then re-issues on CD, then RE-MASTERED, re-issues on CD, and now digital downloads). Some of it is syrupy crap, but some of it still excites. I guess that John Martyn represents why music is important to me. I didn’t hear him on the radio – you still don’t except on the occasional bizarre packaged radio show from the U.K. I heard about him from a friend, and I explored his music on my own. Over the years I copied his songs on to cassettes and CDs which I gave to friends and strangers alike. Now, many, many of his songs can be found among my playlists in iTunes.

I am sure that with so many recording sessions and live dates to pull from, we can expect countless post-mortem releases of his music. I hope some of it will include previously unheard tracks from the late 1960s and early 1970s. A lot of it will not excite me, some of it, I am sure, will. I have already purchased (OK, downloaded) a re-made Live at Leeds. I don’t like a lot of Martyn’s live recordings, and you can debate whether they are worth the money. But this one features some of the fun stage banter and bit of clever improvisation. Sample it when you have time.

Sometime down the road, perhaps, we can talk about the Nick Drake connection. But not today. I need to put on “The Man in the Station”.

An interesting football tale

This piece in the New York Times is fascinating on several levels. As one source notes, it points out that there was indeed an NFL before the dawn of the Super Bowl. The steps pro sports had to take to stay in business during the height of World War II is a little-known part of the home front. This is news, of course, since teams taking part in the playoffs this season were so thin on their rosters back then that the league combined them for a couple of seasons. The Steeler-Eagles combination is kind of cool if only for the nickname -- The Steagles.

But what got my attention was the covers of the game programs that accompanied the article. I love this era of graphic arts in the United States. These examples are very much like the college programs of the same era. A publishing company out there produces calendars featuring similar game-day program covers as the monhly art. They produce them for most major schools. I always look at them, but never want to pony up the $20. Apparently, the same style was used in the pros, as these examples seem to show.

My favorite is the 1943 program that ties throwing a grenade with the same ease as tossing a football. World War II, now that was a popular war!

So long, Music Mill

Should we be surprised that the Music Mill, an Indianapolis music club, will close its doors in a few weeks? Probably not. It had a lot working against it. For years, Indianapolis was lacking a medium-sized music venue that any city its size would feature. Holding about 700 people, the club was in a very un-hip office park/strip retail area and totally lacking in charm on the outside. It did have a decent attached restaurant that, when you dined there on the evening of the show, would earn you first admission into the music hall. A nice benefit.

The music hall was pretty charmless, basically the inside of a run-of-the-mill building that could hold a bank, a garden center, a Mexican restaurant or a Hallmark Card shop. It featured a stage, and black painted walls and ceiling. It had a bar, but much to the chagrin of Hoosiers, it prohibited smoking. That, as far as I am concerned, was one of its biggest assets.

In a city with only one other non-mega venue, The Vogue, the Music Mill was a great setting for B-level bands, narrow tastes and rising acts. I saw two pretty good shows there, The Duhks, the once-great Canadian country/bluegrass/jam outfit, and Chris Hillman with Herb Pedersen. In both cases, the crowds were small and enthusiastic. The ticket prices were reasonable and we sat close enough to feel the music as well as hear it. You could also purchase your tickets in person at the club’s box office with no service charges, which was a huge savings

Will Indy have a small music venue anytime soon? Probably not, given the current financial landscape. When we do, maybe the next business men will be smart enough to get it out of the mall and into a neighborhood where there are places to drink and dine before. Not that there is any lack of eating options between Castleton Mall and Keystone at the Crossing, but the area does not inspire people to hang around for a drink or coffee – or even to hear other music. I’m thinking Mass Ave.

Hey Teddy, bite me!

An email from my friend George (my new friend George, not my friend George of many decades) followed our discussion of Teddy Thompson and his new CD. George forwarded to me an article on Teddy. I was enjoying the piece until I read the following:

Teddy Thompson doesn’t mince words when talking about modern country music.

“It’s diabolically bad,” he says. “It’s literally the same song that could be produced for a bad pop record, except that it has Carrie Underwood on it and a pedal steel guitar. It’s appalling.”

I was really looking forward to buying and listening to the CD until I read this. Now I hope he chokes on his own ego. Really, by age 31 he should know that if your path to success has to include stepping on others then you aren’t much of an artist – or a human being. Maybe he should consider that he is knocking literally millions of music fans, some of whom might someday give him a listen. (And let’s face it, he is knocking AMERICAN music fans.) Will he not appreciate new listeners to his music if they have ever listened to Kenny Chesney or Reba?

Does he understand that the reason North Americans took to the English folk music that has ultimately spawned him was that they had been exposed to rockabilly-cum-country-cum pop from the likes of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Buck Owens, et al? And that the musicians who drove the U.S. folk movement came from the same mountains, valleys and small towns that now embrace the kind of county music he finds appalling? Can’t he figure out that C&W and the folk music that made his dad a beloved idol are from the same branch of the popular music tree? (Without the desire by American music fans to expand their tastes, his pop might today be playing on London Tube platforms for coins.)

I have sampled his new CD and frankly, Teddy isn’t the next Jimmy Martin or Ernest Tubb. He wouldn’t have been good enough to be a Buckaroo or even carry Buck’s guitar case. Would he have been “appalled” at the work of Jim Reeves, Charlie Pride, or Marty Robbins? They relied on the recording studio and moved country music into the mainstream. Maybe he should beg to open for someone like Marty Stuart, who works to keep true country music alive. Spend a year with someone who “gets it,” then complain.

Teddy, give a listen to the Robbie Fulks collection of 13 Hillbilly Giants. He didn’t go for easy covers or well-worn songs. He dug deep and did some serious work on capturing the feel of little-known, but well-crafted tunes. Robbie made them his own without knocking current artists. Fulks has issues with Nashville, but they have to do with the industry, not the talent.

So, Teddy, just play your music, do it well, and keep your smarmy opinions to yourself. And if you don’t like this, meet me behind the Ryman and I will be glad to kick your smug British ass.

How hot is it?

Many years ago I heard a guy refer to a particularly warm day as "hotter than the hinges of hell." What a great metaphor. It's slightly hotter than that today here in Hoosierville. Which led me to look for pictures of Satan to put with this post. Found a good one. Enjoy the day. Stay in the shade. Drink lots of liquids.

Trying my hand at the technical thingy

This is a picture of me. Big surprise. It was taken in Yellowstone National Park few years ago. The air was pretty damn thin up there. I suppose that if I had to choose only one place in the United States to visit on vacation, it would be Yellowstone. The variety of environments, the vast size of the park, and the classic American sights -- like Old Faithful -- make it a one-of-a-kind experience. I have been to the park when the roads are still blocked with snow, and that was in June. I have been surrounded by bison and have been close enough to moose and elk to get amazing pictures.

Where it all begins

Thank you for joining me. I hope this can become a place to share ideas, share a piece of pie, joke, smoke and invoke the power of the gods of music and words. Music and words, when combined they become a force so powerful that it could only be used for good -- or EVIL!