In the moment between his letter sliding through the slot and landing on the pile of other letters in the box he realized the most beautiful love letter he had ever written was untrue.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
The Audition.
Everyone I knew I'd run into at the Monday night gig of guitarist Ross Hannaford and his all star band, Diana Kiss. We called it going to church. Every blues, jazz, rock and reggae musician would drop in to The Esplanade Hotel in St. Kilda, a club house, and the best band in town.
The guy who owned the bar down the road from my place decided he wanted Ross to play in his establishment, and me to play with him. I've no doubt he offered Mr. Hannaford a little more cash than he offered me, and a bottle of Wild Turkey to kick off the rider.
I stuck out my hand, spoke my name, Ross ignored my attempt at introduction.
"We'll play an E blues, a blues, in E, you know what I mean?"
Without another word he started the tune. The great man was clearly not enthusiastic about this young bloke, holding a flute nervously, about to share his gig. We played, fortunately I was familiar with blues, about the only style I knew well. We played well, the small crowd went off.
The guitarist turned to me, stuck out his hand, spoke his name, asked mine, announced me to the audience. Apparently I'd passed the audition.
For a young, inexperienced musician playing with Ross Hannaford was like praying with Jesus. Every audition since has been easy in comparison.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The guy who owned the bar down the road from my place decided he wanted Ross to play in his establishment, and me to play with him. I've no doubt he offered Mr. Hannaford a little more cash than he offered me, and a bottle of Wild Turkey to kick off the rider.
I stuck out my hand, spoke my name, Ross ignored my attempt at introduction.
"We'll play an E blues, a blues, in E, you know what I mean?"
Without another word he started the tune. The great man was clearly not enthusiastic about this young bloke, holding a flute nervously, about to share his gig. We played, fortunately I was familiar with blues, about the only style I knew well. We played well, the small crowd went off.
The guitarist turned to me, stuck out his hand, spoke his name, asked mine, announced me to the audience. Apparently I'd passed the audition.
For a young, inexperienced musician playing with Ross Hannaford was like praying with Jesus. Every audition since has been easy in comparison.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, June 1, 2012
Jack Kerouac On Departure.
“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
It is easily done.
Sitting alone on coarse airport carpet, plane delayed but it doesn't matter because in your mind you have already gone, in this moment of departure all that lies ahead is the unknown.
The unknown is all that ever lies ahead, the act of leaving makes us notice it.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
It is easily done.
Sitting alone on coarse airport carpet, plane delayed but it doesn't matter because in your mind you have already gone, in this moment of departure all that lies ahead is the unknown.
The unknown is all that ever lies ahead, the act of leaving makes us notice it.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Spoiled Rich Kids.
For a blessed but short period I was a spoiled rich kid. I'd left school early, took jobs for pocket money, lived frivolously and irresponsibly knowing there was money at home. It was fantastic. That period of my life didn't last nearly long enough but it did provide me with the ability to spot a spoiled rich kid at a distance. In the music business I meet plenty.
The ability to stick one's hand out, look the other way, look back to find a wad of cash stuffed into it does come at a price. The spoiled rich kid has to learn how to play nice, to pretend that he or she cares about something or someone other than him or herself, often for minutes at a time. There are dinners to attend, pretences to uphold,
I once worked with a fellow who would be moaning about poverty one day, compelled to fly to Jamaica to help out an amateur cricket eleven the next. His life was split, bum musician, jetsetter, he'd cancel gigs to attend society weddings every fortnight or so. As a result he was never one thing or another, never knew himself. A classic dilettante, a sweet guy, a crazy mixed up spoiled rich kid.
Spoiled rich kids never stick at anything. I've manage to maintain this standard if not the financial security. Aimless wandering is a tough habit to break. The only thing you can rely on is that a spoiled rich kid will let you down, they are consistent in this only. They don't mean to, there is just always that easy option, why stick at something if you don't need to?
There was a time when rich people were satisfied by being rich, middle class angst about doing something with one's life has ruined all that, now spoiled rich kids are expected to at least appear to be doing something. I don't know why? If the kid isn't going to spend his entire life being split in two it is best to cut him or her off from funds completely or to give them an allowance, let them drift in peace.
Today when I encounter spoiled rich kids at work I tend to leave them to it. Nothing good can come from working with them. They are better friends than workmates. Besides that my envy overflows, oh how I yearn to be a spoiled rich kid again!
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The ability to stick one's hand out, look the other way, look back to find a wad of cash stuffed into it does come at a price. The spoiled rich kid has to learn how to play nice, to pretend that he or she cares about something or someone other than him or herself, often for minutes at a time. There are dinners to attend, pretences to uphold,
I once worked with a fellow who would be moaning about poverty one day, compelled to fly to Jamaica to help out an amateur cricket eleven the next. His life was split, bum musician, jetsetter, he'd cancel gigs to attend society weddings every fortnight or so. As a result he was never one thing or another, never knew himself. A classic dilettante, a sweet guy, a crazy mixed up spoiled rich kid.
Spoiled rich kids never stick at anything. I've manage to maintain this standard if not the financial security. Aimless wandering is a tough habit to break. The only thing you can rely on is that a spoiled rich kid will let you down, they are consistent in this only. They don't mean to, there is just always that easy option, why stick at something if you don't need to?
There was a time when rich people were satisfied by being rich, middle class angst about doing something with one's life has ruined all that, now spoiled rich kids are expected to at least appear to be doing something. I don't know why? If the kid isn't going to spend his entire life being split in two it is best to cut him or her off from funds completely or to give them an allowance, let them drift in peace.
Today when I encounter spoiled rich kids at work I tend to leave them to it. Nothing good can come from working with them. They are better friends than workmates. Besides that my envy overflows, oh how I yearn to be a spoiled rich kid again!
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Vocabulary.
It is possible his doctor should have chosen his words more carefully because all Toby heard was that this new medication may "enhance" the effects of alcohol.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, May 31, 2012
The Real Gig.
It was the best gig he ever performed.
They'd broken up a few months earlier, stayed vaguely in touch, one eye on getting back together, well, one eye each. He'd written a song for her, the song claimed that all he wanted was to truly sing the song, truly love the girl. She was the girl.
They met at a cafe, spoke a few words, spoke mostly in silence, walked a way down the road to a park, to sit on the edge of a fountain. He wasn't nervous, she had never judged him, even when he deserved to be judged.
He opened with Billy Bragg's The Price I Pay For Loving You The Way That I Do. It was a cheap shot at a captive audience. Then he played her the song written for her, the first he'd ever written.
It was the most real performance of his life, before or since. It was simply real. He was singing the song for the girl to the girl. It doesn't get more real.
Every misunderstanding, angry word, ill feeling melted, then dissolved. With one song they knew each other again, could see a way back.
Today he sits opposite the cafe where they met that day. He recalls the best gig he ever performed, wonders if he can perform an encore, for a different girl? Can he make it real again?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
They'd broken up a few months earlier, stayed vaguely in touch, one eye on getting back together, well, one eye each. He'd written a song for her, the song claimed that all he wanted was to truly sing the song, truly love the girl. She was the girl.
They met at a cafe, spoke a few words, spoke mostly in silence, walked a way down the road to a park, to sit on the edge of a fountain. He wasn't nervous, she had never judged him, even when he deserved to be judged.
He opened with Billy Bragg's The Price I Pay For Loving You The Way That I Do. It was a cheap shot at a captive audience. Then he played her the song written for her, the first he'd ever written.
It was the most real performance of his life, before or since. It was simply real. He was singing the song for the girl to the girl. It doesn't get more real.
Every misunderstanding, angry word, ill feeling melted, then dissolved. With one song they knew each other again, could see a way back.
Today he sits opposite the cafe where they met that day. He recalls the best gig he ever performed, wonders if he can perform an encore, for a different girl? Can he make it real again?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Slow Down And Feel.
"Slow down, you move too fast, You've got to make the morning last."
Paul Simon.
If you desire too much stuff you never have enough money. If you desire to do too much you never have enough time. Hurrying is a form of suicide, by rushing from one thing to the next you never take the time to feel anything. If you don't feel anything you are dead. Not feeling is kind of the definition of dead.
Of course there are real life pressures, compulsory hurry. Even God took a day off to chill after a long week of creating everything. Rest is what makes activity real.
I vaguely remember the last time I hurried. I was late for school, in the early 1980's. Along the way I realized I was late, in the minds of my teacher late was late, ten minutes, twenty minutes, just late. I took a few minutes to stop for a smoke, arrived later but relaxed, ready to accept the verbal assault of a small minded man.
There is no point to a series of unconsidered experiences. One experience blurs into the next, these experiences mean nothing. Five minutes watching the astonishing athletics of a seagull is a joyful experience. Noticing a seagull as you rush to your next appointment inspires no feeling, is in fact wasted life.
The fact is we control our own time. The helpless, headlong rush towards death is an illusion, a delusion. You'll be dead soon enough, desire less, make the morning last, feel something.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Paul Simon.
If you desire too much stuff you never have enough money. If you desire to do too much you never have enough time. Hurrying is a form of suicide, by rushing from one thing to the next you never take the time to feel anything. If you don't feel anything you are dead. Not feeling is kind of the definition of dead.
Of course there are real life pressures, compulsory hurry. Even God took a day off to chill after a long week of creating everything. Rest is what makes activity real.
I vaguely remember the last time I hurried. I was late for school, in the early 1980's. Along the way I realized I was late, in the minds of my teacher late was late, ten minutes, twenty minutes, just late. I took a few minutes to stop for a smoke, arrived later but relaxed, ready to accept the verbal assault of a small minded man.
There is no point to a series of unconsidered experiences. One experience blurs into the next, these experiences mean nothing. Five minutes watching the astonishing athletics of a seagull is a joyful experience. Noticing a seagull as you rush to your next appointment inspires no feeling, is in fact wasted life.
The fact is we control our own time. The helpless, headlong rush towards death is an illusion, a delusion. You'll be dead soon enough, desire less, make the morning last, feel something.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
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