All You Need Is Love.

People often tell me that all humans really want is to be loved. If that's true then once people find love why don't they give up on the rest of the world, sit on their couch and get fat?

Oh, that's right, many do.

Or sit on their couch with their love substitute, pot, beer, television, books, whatever. People do that too.

It appears that artists need to stay hungry to keep producing good work. It also appears that many artists subconsciously screw up their own lives in order to stay hungry. Does this mean artists are doomed to unhappy romantic lives? I have no evidence that would stand up to peer scrutiny but I'm pretty sure it's true.

Or maybe the art is a love substitute, when the real thing comes along the need to publicly plead for attention disappears?

Most artists are immature by nature, it is the child playing that makes it work. It's quite possible that it takes maturity to balance creativity and domestic peace, that to mature or not is the dilemma.

Perhaps these ideas should be discussed at art school so young folks can see clearly what they are getting into.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Bed Time Stories

She throws a sheet over the cage and the bird with the tiny brain believes her, it must be night, he goes to sleep. For her the bird ceases to exist while she can't see it, when she requires amusement again she will remove the sheet and tell the bird it is day.

If the bird were to wise up, let her know that he doesn't believe it is night just because she says so, if the bird were to expect more from the relationship than being her clown on demand, then she would accuse the bird of being unreasonable, selfish, even bitter.

This bird has flown.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

God And Music.

Today I heard some African American church music coming out of the disused shops across the road from where I'm staying. It was just guitar, bass and tambourine but man they had the hustle on. The preacher was wailing gorgeously, the women folk shouting in response, shouting harmoniously.

Call it god, the tao, the groove, whatever it is music can be inspired by it. Bach stated that all his music was a tribute to the grandeur of god. The Bach guy could write a bit, any aspiring songwriter would be a fool not to listen to him.

I wonder if this is the test for music? When I die will I be proud to present this work to my maker, to the universe? Or should the question be am I proud to present this music to the life I'm living, god or no god?

Bach wrote some music purely for entertainment, diversion. Not all music needs to be serious. If your god doesn't have a sense of humour ditch him right now, before you start strapping explosives to your own body. Humour and lightheartedness, dancing and wildness are gifts too.

I've played a lot of corporate gigs, background music for cocktail weilding socialites. I like it when they give me money at the end. I'm not proud of that work, I leave feeling empty. There is no god in that gig.

Let's hope I don't starve while I experiment with my new music test. I believe the chances are I'll play better and move on up. Call it god, the tao, the groove, I'm into it.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Wandering Thoughts.

"What's the point in poetry, why don't they just say what they mean?"

These words were spoken, seriously, by someone I once shared a house with. I was compelled to share the house, we shared at least one parent. There is no sign of the hereditary eye disease I have in either family line so one has to wonder? I was told my grandfather could shoot rabbits at distance with a twenty two, nothing wrong with those eyes. Oh yeah, and my father always felt like a stranger.

It's o.k. people, shooting rabbits in Australia is a good thing, they ard an introduced species without natural predators and can break farmers, especially in drought years. Mixametosis kept them down for a while but they even saw that off. A new virus was developed, while green folk were protesting it's introduction someone leaked it. I'm told they accidentally left a few doses in a country pub, clearly marked "BUNNY KILLER" with a picture of a dead rabbit, legs in the air Bugs Bunny style, and instructions for use. What a clumsy scientist!

I can't dig clumsy people. A bull in a china shop doesn't see anything of value, nothing to eat or fuck, punch bowls and dinner sets don't matter to him. So it is with clumsy folk and other people's goods and chattels.

Poor people only started getting married when they had goods and chattels to pass on, punch bowls and dinner sets, perhaps the tools of the family trade. They imitated the rich, a tradition carried on to our gorgeous middle class today. Now the rich imitate the poor so they don't look middle class.

My favourite joke ever involves a rabbit escaping the laboratory, spending a day and a night frolicking and eating wild herbs and shagging pretty young bunnies then returning to the lab because he is hanging out for a cigarette. Placing a rabbit in the human condition makes me giggle, we all return to the familiar, the familial too.

I guess I've broken the familial habit.

Enough.

I need a cigarette.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

I Love Being A Grown Up.

Tonight I ate sweet, salty, buttery popped corn for dinner. Well, actually, I ate a substantial slice of blueberry pie served with an equal amount of whipped cream for dinner, so the popped corn must have been supper. I'm now sitting on my bed eating gummy bears for, well, a nightcap.

I love being a grown up, deciding what I want to do and when.

Oh yeah, I also attended a street festival tonight. On the last Thursday of every month North East Alberta Street in Portland is closed to traffic and taken over by the locals to do whatever they want with. It is a delightfully naive event full of smiling faces and goodwill. Despite this it just wasn't for me. Too many people is just too many people for me.

So I came home, sat on the patio for a bit, came up here to my room to eat gummy bears. I'm allowed to turn my back on the crowd because I'm a grown up now.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

A Form Of Wit.

I have a friend who had the courage to be openly gay in conservative 1950's Australia. His old man was rich so he could get away with it.

His father held a very senior public service position, his mother would often require Cook to prepare lunch for distinguished guests. One day she invited the German ambassador's wife. So soon after the war this was considered very open minded behaviour.

The German ambassador's wife produced a string of thinly disguised barbs and jokes about my friend's sexual orientation. My friend took as much as he was willing to take then sat back in his chair and said,"the chicken was scrumptious, and you can get fucked you fat German cunt."

the reason I see this as wit is that it went straight to the heart of the problem. By starting with small, polite chatter about the food he imitated his antagonist's style, but then showed how hypocritical she was. It's also incredibly funny, memorable, the story makes me giggle more than fifty years later.

Wit doesn't have to be overly subtle or clever, the bluntest abuse can be witty if you set it up correctly.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Wit And Witticism.

The difference between elegant wit and glib one liners is like the difference between French and Albanian wine.

A real wine is complex, sophisticated enough to delight all aspects of the palate. It enhances good company. It is a deep physical and emotional experience so it remains fresh in the memory.

Cheap wine has a blunt approach to the front of the tongue and is only useful for instant gratification. It is made without love.

The television generation is accustomed to twenty two minute comedies where the soul purpose is cram as many gags in as possible. The art of wit is very nearly dead, and when it does appear the very nature of subtlety makes it easily lost.

The last few weeks I've been witness to a an ocean liner full of one liners. Occasionally I spend some time with a truly witty person and it's like a holiday. Like good wine it's not always available, it should be treasured when it is.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

iPodworm.

So I've joined the iPod generation. I know, I know, I should act my age, but my good god, what a device this thing is.

Right now I'm at Powell's Books in Portland Oregon, the world's biggest second hand bookshop. I'm in the cafe. I won't go on about Powell's, it attracts bookish folks so everything that needs to be written about it has been written, just accept that it is the size of a city block and full of used books and from what I can see beautiful, bookish women. Bookish women are my favourites.

I used to frequent second hand bookshops wherever I went. Now I'm legally blind the printed word is much less fun, I'm just here for the free wifi and the chicks. I am, however, carrying around Tolstoy's War And Peace on my iPod. Some kind folks have recorded it and allowed me to download it free of charge. When I'm not listening to James Brown I'm taking in The Art Of War.

It's hard to explain how glorious this is for me. I was a three novel a week man, would often read a book overnight instead of sleeping. I'm like a reformed drug addict having his first taste in a decade. Oh Prince Andre, if I were a girl I'd marry you, noble fellow you are.

I fondly remember the joy of a real book, it's a beautiful thing, but for now being able to carry a small library in my jacket pocket is as good as it gets.

Oh yes, if the enemy appears too meek and humble he is stronger than you and inviting you into a trap.

Oh yeah, and I can listen to Get Up I Feel Like Being A Sex Machine by James Brown on the bus.

On top of all this I can tap some icons and the little man who lives inside the iPod will read out your comments and e mails for me. I'm back in the real world with all you other folks.

I'm off to hear what Pierre does next.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Everyone's A Critic.

Someone smart, maybe Oscar Wilde, said that all criticism is autobiographical. The old school yard taunt that it takes one to know one is wiser than it sounds.

I've noticed that when people go on the attack they aim for the things they once liked about you. They are aiming to cause pain but often they miss because their targets are more important to them than the person they are trying to hurt. If someone tears apart my work I don't mind so much. If I attended their place of employment and told them their work was inconsequential and futile they wouldn't take it on board, why should I?

If they aimed at my character it might hurt more. I guess character is shaky ground for the sort of people who take pleasure in other's pain. Status, wealth, these are soft tissue for bullies. They mean nothing.

So when I get into the push me pull you game I'm talking about myself too. I'm letting the smallest part of me come to the fore. It's not the part I'm most proud of.

Call me a crazy hippy, but giving out love in word and action is an autobiography that I can be happy with. Takes a lover to know a lover.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Flamenco Sketches.

In the 1950's Miles Davis recorded an album named Kind Of Blue. I can't tell you the year or label, I'm a musiciian not a model train collector.

I recently downloaded a track from that album, Flamenco Sketches. It is a simple two chord groove on piano, bass and brushy drums. Miles makes a melodic statement of sorts but there is no real tune, just free playing over some chords. To record and release such a track back then must have taken acres of self belief, everyone else was recording songs.

Today on the bus the kid beside me was trying to look all ghetto and playing the silly oontz oontz music so loudly on his headphones it was driving me loony. I had a giant pimple on the bridge of my nose from wearing the wrong sunglasses at a sweaty gig, I'd spent the morning involved in a ludicrous e mail argument with a fool, which made me a fool, I wasn't at my best. I slipped my headphones in and tapped on Flamenco Sketches. Miles reached out over fifty years and set me free. A zit, a spat, a loud moron, they all seemed so small, and Miles a giant.

Whenever I doubt myself, wonder if creating music is important, I should remember this moment. I know self doubt is foolish but it happens. Right now I can promise there will be some sweet recordings coming out of Sydney over the next few months, some Parkstreet Sketches, thank you Miles.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

What's The Fun In Cookies?

What's the fun in cookies when there is always cookies in the jar?

The fellow who posed this question was talking about sex. His theory was that if you have a regular partner who is always available then some of the thrill of sex is lost. As a man who has been single a long time I don't think I can agree, but I know what he meant.

When cookies are a luxury, when they have to be pursued, when decisions based on quality versus quantity have to be made cookies are more fun. Do you go to your favourite cafe and hope they haven't sold out of those stupidly expensive brownies with the macadamia nuts or just grab the brand name packet from the supermarket, knowing they are always satisfactory? Do you eat the whole packet in a sitting or try to make them last for a week?

Where this funny analogy falls down is that sex with the same partner can be like eating the same cookie every day but finding it sweeter and more satisfying every time. A jar full of that kind of cookies is what I'm searching for.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Floods And Neighbours.

If the people of Pakistan are wondering why affluent nations aren't climbing over each other to offer humanitarian aid after the floods there they might have to look at their own culture.

Pakistan is a gender apartheid country, women are subjugated by a medieval religious and cultural system. This is as sick as racial apartheid, if not more so. It is 2010, one half of the population being in service to the other half just isn't on.

The Pakistani government allows terrorist schools to operate, it's own secret service has undertaken terrorist actions in India. Militants who are the enemies of the affluent nations who could help Pakistan are given sanctuary. This is no way to win international friends.

Pakistan sold nuclear technology to Iran. There is not one country on earth that thought this was a good idea.

Being a crap international citizen reaps certain rewards. As always it is the common people who suffer for their governments actions, but people often get the government they deserve. Many of the cultural problems come from the people. Again I say it is 2010, everyone else on the planet is waking up to the idea that women are equals to men, it isn't cultural imperialism to expect civilized behaviour of every nation. It should be a requirement for membership of the united Nationa.

If your neighboyr has been an arse for years you aren't so inclined to leap to his aid when something goes wrong. The world will
help, but there should be conditions on that help. Tolerance of medieval regimes should be denied when they want to access the wealth that freedom earns.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Rockstarry And Jetsetty.

Today I tore an airline name tag off my guitar case, used the white elastic string to tie my hair back while I shaved. I felt very rockstarry and jetsetty.

Sometimes these small private jokes with yourself can help you through a bad day.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Deleted.

Today I deleted my last entry in this blog. I try to be honest here, even if I'm not thrilled with something I've written I leave it alone, it was how I felt on that day, at that moment. In this case I believe I was being unpleasant, unfair and uncool, possibly even hurtful.

We all display poor judgement occasionally. In this case the person I wrote about actually just wanted someone to pay attention and went the wrong way about it. Now she knows I will take the time to hear her she is making more sense.

I think the blog I deleted said more about me than her, it's better disposed to wherever deleted stuff goes.

Parkstreet.

Portland Oregon Bliss.

So it's half past eight on a Monday and I decide to slip up to the Star E Rose Cafe for a quiet dinner.

Around the corner to the bus stop, next bus due in twenty minutes. The timetable in Portland is just a rough guide, when the bus actually turns up depends on how many people have stopped the driver for a chat. Mine arrives three minutes later.

I alight at NE Alberta, head east, dodging the bikes and dogs. I feel like I'm in Madrid, all the people coming out when the heat of the sun has passed. I play peek a boo around a pillar with a shiny black kid, his Mama doesn't seem concerned, partly because she is right handed and could knock me down with a left, partly because she has no problem with her child meeting other humans.

The door of the Star E Rose is closed, I assume to keep the air conditioning in, it's still thirty degrees Celsius. When I enter there is a girl in shorts so tight they should be classified as underwear, she is on the small stage telling a story about the first time she received cunnilingus whilst on crack. She turns and looks at me as she's talking, wiggles her tush, smiles at the effect on me. How sexy are the girls in this town? Not the type I'd take home to meet Mum, which is another thing I like about her.

Turns out it is a story telling night where anyone can get up and tell a tale about their first time at anything. It's soon over, that crowd disappears and the usual late crowd drifts in. I finish my quiche and salad, head outside to take coffee in the night air.

Hollie is there, smiling the enigmatic smile of the truly atoned. She can't speak, waves two fingers at me, wants a cigarette. The gesture is languid and erotic and I'd give her anything but I know that right now she only loves me for my cigarettes.

"Hey, it's the saxophone man!"

Big Johnny D is there. We grin at each other. We don't know each other but we know each other.

"You coming to my blues jam tomorrow night?"

"Wouldn't miss it man."

We grin some more.

Veteran bass player Gerald turns up.

"Hey, saxophone man!"

Apparently this is my name now. We also grin inanely at each other. Everyone is happy to see everyone. Brandon shows, I half expect him, come to practise his flamenco playing. Phillip, who I've just met, spent eight years in Madrid and is blissing out. There is definitely a Spanish air tonight. I play a couple of tunes, I'm feeling good.

The cafe closes, we sit on the pavement for a while, drift off happily, agreeing to meet again for the blues jam tomorrow night. Heading back west I pass a heavy metal rock venue, gorgeous rock chicks smoking out the front, spitting occasionally. The Nest is projecting Monty Python's Holy Grail on a giant wall. I giggle at the Knights Who Say Ni.

The bus arrives on time. Spooky. Home by eleven, two and a half hours of bliss for this saxophone man.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Insomnia And Tea Parties.

Last night events conspired to make me learn stuff. The remote control for my television wasn't working and I couldn't sleep. The channel I was on went to educational programs overnight so I now know considerably more about American History than I did one sleepless night ago.

I particularly enjoyed the Boston Tea Party event, what a gloriously symbolic action. What concrete courage from the participants, can you imagine the punichmenta of the day?

Legend has it that one of the party goers filled his pockets with the valuable tea as he hurled the chests overboard. His fellow conspirators forced him to strip off those pockets and the clothes that surrounded them and walk home naked. They realized that honour was important to such an action. Even though the tea was to be ruined by salt water to steal any would have lessened the quality of the action.

Those naming their political stance after the original
Tea Party have much to live up to. Those who are just gaining noteriety through it, exploiting the tumultuous political and economic era, should be stripped of their clothes and made to walk home.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Dazzling?

I was walking behind her. Her dog stopped to say hello. I said,"hello dog", she looked at me and smiled. The words came out of my mouth before I could think to stop them, like an idiotic geyser.

"Wow, your smile is dazzling!"

She looked at me, bemused, bewildered, besomethinged. Who says dazzling? What am I, some sort of 1950's Vegas talent agent?

Dazzling! Good god Kent, your game needs work.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Race Relations.

When a cool old black bass player tells a skinny white kid from Auatralia that he has some cool licks it's a pretty good buzz. It's really about the man's cultural background, I was playing his music, his racial background is just a part of that.

When I'm walking home at two in the morning and a black kid, and he was just a kid, leans out of a car and says,"I smell white people" I see a different side of the race problem here in America. How to explain to this moron that I'm from the other side of the world, that his politics are pertinent to his culture but not me personally? There is no way.

I believe that part of the problem is an introverted view of the world. When all you see is what is right in front of you everything looks big. From a distance you can see that many problems carry the same weight, that yours aren't special or overly important.

Music gave the bass player and I a common ground, something bigger made our differences unimportant. The kid in the car had no view outside his own 'hood. When I look at all the places on this planet where the folks won't stop fighting it always comes back to the same small view of the world.

Hatred is a choice, driven by the fear that you are not the moat important person in the world.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Balloon.

Just when I'd huffed and puffed enough to inflate my big red shiny balloon of cynical along comes someone wonderful who promptly pops it with her positive.  My cynical has always rung hollow because I always knew she would come along.

A simple prayer, to be wise enough to choose a woman who will be my doing not my undoing for she has the power to be either.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Hippy Hippy Fakes.

Wash your hair and stop talking about yourself! Yeah, I'm a cranky old man some days. I hear these trust fund hippies with their half baked religious ideas misquoting the greats and producing fuck all and I get cranky.

None of my business, right? It is my business when they talk loud and inflict their ignorance on me,it is my business when they offend my olfactory, it is my business when they promote their childish, technically deficient art projects at me.

I'm no square, I've lived a bit, played some music that was outside the green zone, even spent some time reading books that aren't narrative. I fully support those that choose their own path, I just can't dig spoiled rich kids who disguise their posh upbringing so they can fit in with other pretend artists. Who made the rule that rich people can't make art? Who decided that acting poor is cool and a great excuse to bludge off one's fellow man?

No, I won't give you a cigarette for a crap poem, I'll give you a pack if you wash your hair and stop talking about yourself.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Cruel To Be Kind.

The act of shooing a bee away is an act of kindness. Encouraging intimate contact will just bring pain for one and death to the other.

It can sometimes be the same with humans.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

As Good As It Gets?

I've been listening to Colin Hay's song Beautiful World. He celebrates the simple pleasures that make his life sweet, but poses the question,"is this all there is?"

"And still this emptiness persists, Perhaps this is as good as it gets?"

I meet people who love every minute of their lives. I have to wonder if they are hiding something or if something is hidden from me? What am I not getting? I've lived a bit, seen a bit, loved a bit and lost a bit, like anyone else, for an eighteen year period I did it harder and faster than most, despite a long list of experiences I still haven't found that easy slip into happiness or the wisdom to recognize it when I do find it.

Perhaps this is common to many writers and performers? The expression that makes them happy is in the fantasy world of a stage but most of life occurs off stage. I'm never nervous about performing but real life freaks me out.

I wonder if the answer is as simple as retiring from music and taking a real job? Is the job the symptom or the disease? I can't see it happening, I am an addict. And what else would I do?

I also wonder if being a detached loner us such a bad thing? We accept extremes in every other aspect of human nature, maybe some were made to slot in and other's to sit back and write about it? Maybe it is my perception, falling for the romantic lie of finding a family, a love, a place?

Joy is nothing without sadness, maybe the happy, comfortable people need people like me to balance the world?

Perhaps I am Terra Australis, the distant island continent that keeps the world from tipping over?

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Glamour Of Touring.

Touring with a band largely consists of sitting in a car and smelling the farts of one's bandmates. That sounds like more fun than it is.

I'm not touring, just playing around a different town, but my jacket is beginning to smell like a touring jacket. Sometimes we play in places where it would be foolish to put one's jacket down so it gets worn on the sweaty stage. With only one jacket packed it doesn't stand much chance of seeing a cleaner until it gets back to Sydney.

Everyone departs on tour with good intentions, this time it will be different, this time I'll make time for the laundrette. Within a fortnight dirty underwear is being thrown out and clean underwear purchased from a shop. One ends up with one pair of skanky jeans, a smelly favourite jacket and an overcoat. The other stuff in the duffle bag comes and goes.

We all end up smelling like floral hotel soaps and shampoos, and each other's farts.

It can be a sweet nomadic life for a while. The diet is actually dangerous, the lack of sleep unhealthy, the lack of routine disturbing, but at least the fart gags keep us laughing along the way.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Complete.

So I completed two songs this week, a rare feat for me. I believe the ditty is funny and the love song the sweetest I've written. I didn't overwrite the love song, it's a simple impression of the progress of a relationship that goes right. Obviously I was drawing on imagination not experience.

Here on the patio at Tiny's I'm surrounded by couples. The pair in front of me are sweet and honest, they'll never run out of things to say to each other. The couple beside me are trying pretty hard, they will run out of things to say to each other. The two earnest young men behind me are discussing art and life choices and saying "you know" a lot, and they do know, they are real friends.

I'm sitting alone, pondering, as complete on my own as any couple.

Songs make me happy.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Eggs.

A bar that serves breakfast all day is a beautiful thing. That they do it for three bucks is even more attractive. And when the cook breaks one of my sunny side up eggs he doesn't throw it out, he puts it on the plate alongside the extra one he cooks for me I just fall in love with the honesty of the place, why waste it when the hungry bloke out the front will gladly eat it?

The Jolly Roger in south east Portland is just a typical American bar but I love it.

And the waitresses are lovely.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Role Playing Games.

If all the world is a stage one may as well play one's role fully and convincingly.

Mr. Cranky Bus Driver analysed my weekly ticket, snatched it from my hand, analysed it again. He deliberately laboured over finding his holepunch, assertively clicked out the section I'd neglected to scratch off properly. He gave me the full stare of disapproval as he returned the ticket I'd paid for. I had no idea what was going down, looked inquiringly, was met with disdain. The stare down ended when he closed the bus doors and lurched off down the road, a failed attempt to make me fall over. I've been on buses before mate, you'll have to do better than that.

I rated his performance an eight out of ten. He could have held the stare longer, perhaps been a little more menacing, perhaps surled up his surly a notch. My acting was lackluster at best. I never really became Incompetent Bewildered Passenger

Overall it was a good show.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Sissy Jazz.

I heard a jazz band last night, or a band that called itself jazz but was just miming and playing without spirit. I felt like I should be pressing a button to select my floor. It was like a pretty girl lying on the beach in the perfect bikini and the perfect make up, not about to dive in. With this band no one was getting wet.

Maybe I'm a purist, expect too much, but I'd still prefer to hear any musician playing from the heart than a technical genius playing by rote.

The word jazz denotes a tradition of playing on the edge, pushing the limits of music and musician. Safety isn't an option. Some bands should call themselves nostalgia music instead of jazz.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Body.

A young man will get to know a woman's body. An older man will get to know a woman by getting to know her body.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Flying Solo.

I played a short solo set last night. After a massive weekend of reggae drums right up my jacksie the gentle pace was welcome. Most modern music requires strict timekeeping. The freedom to pause, to let the song breathe in and out is a joy. Classical musicians rehearse this flexibility with time, but a solo singer/guitarist can let it flow naturally.

After playing so much here I'm feeling very confident, able to sell a song. I don't want to play alone all the time but occasionally it is a tonic, a release from playing to the beat of all the other drums.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

A Rose By Any Other Label.

On Wednesday night I played in a pub. A fabulously drunk young woman called me Eightiestown, due to my ridiculous hair. On the weekend I played with Earl and the Reggae All Stars. For two days I was an honourary Reggae All Star. Same guy, different perspectives.

Here in Portland I've been a singer/songwriter, a folk act, a dancing reggae fool. The only name that matters is the one I give myself. Naming oneself is difficult.

I Guess I'll start by thinking about how I perceive myself and how accurate that perception is. I'm pretty sure I've never really known myself. I'm also pretty sure no one else can know me until I do.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet