Epistemic Ingemination

Here’s Jonathan Jackson’s time-lapse of the Pearl Jam taping at ACL. I was the stage manager on that one; that’s me in the black shirt and long light blue jeans.

I miss doing big road work sometimes…

Pearl Jam / Austin City Limits TV Taping / Time Lapse from Jonathan Jackson on Vimeo.

Truer words never spoken.

[Addendum, after a couple of emails]

Yes, I still want to be Keith Emerson.

Missed it. Yesterday was Greg Lake’s birthday.

Baby played me Lucky Man on the radio; I’ll just have to refer you to this. In any case; Happy Birthday. Changed my world, This English Man, he did.

This kind of thing is what makes it all worthwhile in my little world.

I think that I’ll just let my partner-in-the-dance Eddie Wilson take the helm today… he says it better than I can hope to.

It took all day Thursday for Wednesday night sink in. Earl Poole Ball’s musical talent, combined with his years of experience at the helm of modern American music is turning the rekindling of “Sittin’, Singin’ and Supper” into pure magic.

Old friends and new joined in the round robin of picking and harmonizing and they played like Threadgill’s Old Number One was Carnegie Hall.

Chojo Jacques is back in Austin after three decades and came by to visit Randy. Thirty-five years haven’t done Chojo any visible damage. I recognized him before we could shake hands. His fiddle playing is about as good as it gets. He recently released a CD with Billy Bright and has been touring with Slaid Cleaves.

Stonehoney and Josh Zee of the Mother Truckers made newcomers to the Hump Day Supper Session wonder if they’d waked up in Heaven. When they sang perfect four-part harmony on a version of “She,” Gram Parson’s love note to Emmylou, it was especially poignant given that Earl was the piano player on the original recording with Gram.

Barbara K and Rich Bowden performed a couple of beauties including the gorgeous Blaze Foley classic, “If I Could Only Fly” with Threadgill’s own beautiful veteran manager, Melanie Bounds.

The audience was filled with the kind of people that keep me from ever staying away for more than a heartbeat; Stan Alexander, who hooked me on music at Threadgill’s in 1961, promised to bring his guitar this Wednesday; Ann Seaman, working on a film follow up to her huge biography of Madelyn Murray O’Hare; Dorothy Martin, sister of pal Don Hyde, one of the most important and overlooked figures in the development of Austin’s counterculture; too many more to mention now because I have puppy duty in the park and it is a glorious day. Hallelujah and I hope to see you on Wednesday evening and any time between now and then that you happen upon a hunger.

P.S. Stonehoney said they are putting together a Gospel Brunch set and I let them promise to the heavens that they intend to show up and play. I didn’t break it to them that Brunch is before noon on the morning that immediately follows Saturday night. We’ll see.

Chojo will be there on Sunday morning (11-1) as well; it’s going to be extraordinary. We’ll be doing the Wednesdays for a long, long time, 7-9 PM. Add ‘em to your weekly sanity maintenance routine. It’s pure, real Austin music wonderfulness.

So, it’s the summer of 1970; I am newly 12 years old, at my uncle’s house in Dallas with Not A Lot To Do; it was a great vacation. One afternoon, I go and poke around my college-freshman cousin’s record collection. He was off at South Padre with his custom dune buggy. Or something similar.

Anyway, I came across an album with a very disturbing cover. Cool. I put it on. Listened to both sides. Listened to both sides again. And a third time.

You have to understand that the #1 song in the country was “Close To You” by The Carpenters at that time; it was what I knew. This thing kicked me in the side of the head like a mule, and changed the game forever.

Saturday, Oct. 10th, 2009 is the 40th anniversary of the release of the album entitled “In the Court of the Crimson King (an observation by King Crimson).” I still have it on vinyl, and in great shape. One of my few material possessions that I’ve taken care of over the years.

Enjoy.

King Crimson – In The Court Of The Crimson King

Not to go all Youtube on you this week; I’ll back off.

But Stevie changing the Grammys (and the world) in ‘75 is the real thing. Look at all of the White Peoples clapping, while they get the mirror held up to ‘em. In time. With the Colored Help. For perhaps the first time ever.

Introduced by Andy Williams, of all people.

Magnificent.

This is muy great, approaching genius.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you Laurel and Hardy. Backed up by the Gap Band.

Hey! I’m 51 years old today. I’ve now lived to reach 17 three times over. Perhaps I’ll finally get out of my adolescence on the fourth round…

Kerrville was just wonderful. I have to recommend Blame Sally again to you; they are just extraordinary. One of those bands that keep growing. (My original review of their music was here… that one still gets hit regularly, and the reason is a google search for Blame Sally. It stands and applies as written, but it is also eclipsed by the same band three years later.) Visit their site; buy their music; support them. Artists like Blame Sally are the reason that I got into this business, and the reason that I am still in this business, and that is no hyperbole.

The whole Kerrville vibe is a tonic for the soul. It’s about music. Compared to, say, an NAB or NAMM, or the old New Music Seminar or the current SXSW, it’s striking. There aren’t any rock stars; there aren’t any poseurs; nobody is handing out glossy press packs and dropping names. It’s about music, and songwriting, and craftsmanship, and above all, Art. Eddie Wilson once said that the neatest thing about the old Armadillo was that “lifestyle was considered to be an art form.” That fits nicely. It was both a gift and a privilege to be a part of last weekend.

…

So… my birthday present to myself is going to consist of looking at the stars and pondering a completed half century. I’ll let you know if I find anything out.

Be excellent to each other.

Ryan and I went down to the Farmer’s Market at the Triangle yesterday, and bought a couple of one-pound organic grass fed ribeyes, just because. I grilled ‘em over pecan and mesquite w/ corn on the cob, and made some green beans alongside, also from the market. I’m still in afterglow; that steak was one of the three or four best I’ve ever eaten. Yum.

So, I’m off the Kerrville this weekend to do some audio work. If you have XM radio, I’ll be mixing live broadcasts on channel 15 — “The Village” — from 7:00 PM to midnight on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

The lineup will be superb; one of my favorites, a band called “Blame Sally” is playing; it’ll be a pleasure to see them again. The Limeliters (!) are going to be there. Terri Hendrix, Bruce Robison, Trout Fishing in America, Ray Wylie… just a whole bunch of my favorites. I’m a very lucky guy to be able to get paid for doing this stuff. (Shh. Don’t tell them that I’d be willing to pay them for the privilege…)

Oh, yeah. I haven’t seen this week’s Chronicle yet, but I am pretty sure that they’ve published my letter to the editor on the new sound ordinance. It’s on their website, anyway. It’s just a cute li’l snarky thing; enjoy.

Finally, for some reason, a wonderful story popped into my head this morning. I searched the archives and found it on a twenty-year-old disk. I’ll leave you with that for now. See you on Monday.

The Fisherman and American Businessman

The American businessman was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied only a little while.

The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.

The American then asked, but what do you do with the rest of your time?

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life, senor.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You Should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds buy a bigger boat with the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But senor, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15-20 years.”

“But what then, senor?”

The American laughed and said that’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.

“Millions, senor? Then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

Go out there and do something kind and unexpected for someone today, okay?

They say that things come in threes, but… man.

This week we lost Poodie Locke. We lost Bud Shrake. And we lost Stephen Bruton. Three giants, and all of them genuinely kind human beings. Every one of them by now has been pulled to the head of the line and issued an all-access pass by St. Pete, guaranteed.

If there’s a rock ‘n’ roll heaven, well, that band just added one of the best guitar players that this planet ever produced — and they now have a helluva road manager, too.

And you can be sure that Bud & Ann Richards are sitting at the front table, drinking beer, doing shots of liquor and welcoming everyone who passes by with smiles and open arms.

This just… feels like a much smaller world today.

Went into Walgreen’s again tonight. They were playing “Carry On” by CSN&Y on the store muzac.

I’m now officially “Old.” I’m in the frickin’ Walgreen’s demographic.

Wow, that post about my high school band director below has gotten some traffic. I guess that we all had at least one teacher that we clashed with on a visceral level. I initially noticed a bunch of Austin-local views, probably contemporaries who know who I was talking about. I’m seeing significant hits from Europe and Japan now. Amazing. And amusing.

So let’s give equal time to the ones that helped me through my checkered public school experience. This time, I’m naming names.

Donna Banik: my seventh grade English teacher at T.N. Porter Jr High. Earth goddess, poet, dewey-eyed idealist, and a fine educator. She fostered a lifelong interest in wordsmithery, a lifelong love of the English language. (And a lifelong weakness for beautiful, intelligent, long-haired brunettes.)

Bernard “Bernie” Owens: 11th grade history. An uncompromising patriot and an uncompromising political liberal whose love of this country and its history was infectious, and the infection remains to this day. We became good buddies, and ate lunch together occasionally. Also a man of ethics; he flunked me. Not because I didn’t know the material — I’d practically memorized the text book, he made it so interesting, and he knew it — but because I didn’t do any homework that final semester. A quality educator on many, many levels, not the least of which was in teaching me that there are rules in this world, and they apply to friends as well as strangers.

And, above all, LaFalco “Corkey” Robinson.

Old jazz beatnik, extraordinary music teacher, wise counselor, good friend, and a person who changed my life. I had the luck of walking into his band hall at the old Austin High after fleeing the marching regimen at Crockett High School. I told him that I didn’t want to march, that I wanted to learn music. The next thing that I knew, he’d arranged for me to play piano and string bass with the stage band, trumpet with the concert band, string bass with the orchestra, and had me in advanced music theory, too. We all ended up with the finest high school stage band in the country, and several of the people in that class have gone on to be very successful artists, working with the finest musicians on the planet. Me included, although my artistic palette ultimately ended up being synthesizers and audio consoles.

There are more, of course, but these three people made a huge difference in my life, and I give my profound thanks to all of them. I hope that, some day, they see this.

I’d like to commend to you a wonderful read (and a dangerous time sink, heh.) It’s an exchange over at The Well from last summer between Joe Nick Patoski and Ed Ward, generally about the writing of Joe Nick’s then-new Bio of Willie Nelson. But the nature of the two (both are serious Texas Music journalists) makes for some extraordinary reading.

Make a good cup of coffee and step into their world over at:
The WELL: Joe Nick Patoski: Willie Nelson, an Epic Life

Here’s a example of some of the places that it goes:

I like to cite the Doug Sahm composition, “At the Crossroads,” a song
he wrote in the late 60s when he was in San Francisco, pining for
Texas. Texas really is at the literal crossroads – halfway across the
US if you’re traveling the southern route, on the western edge of the
Old South, at the front door of the American west, sharing the longest
part of the border with Mexico, Latin America, and the Third World,
sufficiently far enough from either coast to be provincial, and big
enough to have its own distinct culture, of which music is the finest
of the fine arts. More important, it’s like Sir Doug said, “You just
can’t live in Texas, if you don’t got a lot of soul.”

And:

The music aspect is hard to pin down. Most folks associate Texas Music
with Willie, Waylon and the boys. The funny thing was, when Willie
started blowing up in Austin in the early 70s, no one knew or used the
phrase “Texas Music.” Since then, it’s become a sound, a radio format
that’s popular in these parts, and an all-purpose appellation that can
cover anything from Texas country like Willie through Pat Green and
Roger Creager, to the Texas tenor sound in jazz, jump blues as first
defined by T-Bone Walker, the sophisticated R n B of Bobby Bland, the
country blues of Mance Lipscomb and Blind Lemon Jefferson, the city
songster blues of Lightnin’ Hopkins which can be directly linked to the
singer-songwriter tradition popularized by Townes Van Zandt, Guy
Clark, Nanci Griffith, Robert Earl Keen, and Lyle Lovett. Texas Music
in the rock and roll realm is Buddy Holly, who invented his style in
the isolated vacuum that is Lubbock Texas, Roky Erickson and the 13th
Floor Elevators, who in the great Texas tradition went ‘way overboard
in their interpretation of psychedelic music (understand, we’re crazy
from the heat), ZZ Top, who took the boogie beat to the great unwashed,
and modernists from Joe Ely to At the Drive In to Future Clouds and
Radar. Then there’s the Mexican influence on Tex-Mex, Tejano and
conjunto and even pop (think: “Tequila” by the Champs, “Talk to Me” by
Sunny and the Sunliners, or even Augie Meyer’s “Hey Baby, Ke Pa So”).
From Lydia Mendoza and Narciso Martinez who made records for Bluebird
back in the 1920s to Little Joe y La Familia, Selena, Flaco Jimenez,
and Esteban Jordan, the Jimi Hendrix of the Accordion, the Latin
element of Texas Music is as old as the tradition of the corrido, which
spread news through Spanish-speaking communities in song instead of in
print or on television. Corridodistas in San Antonio are still writing
topical songs today and having them played on KEDA AM, Radio Jalapeno,
the only conjunto station in the nation.

And:

Texas culture is broad based because there are so many cultures
within, but the essence is defined by the three traditional cultures -
African-American, Anglo-American, and Mexican-American. The voice of
each has been loud enough and distinctive enough to be heard,
regardless of segregation laws and other social pressures, and an
essential element of each has been music, the one art immigrants could
bring with them and keep with him.

Musically, Texas culture is based on stringed instruments and
storytelling – the songster – with an openness to adapt to technology
and outside trends (thus, the accordion embraced by Mexican conjuntos
and Steve Jordan interpreting Vanilla Fudge’s “You Keep Me Hanging On”
back in the late 60s as accordeon psicodelico; or Willie doing
Stardust). That crossroads thing is important since there’s so many
musical crosscurrents at work, so is the willingness to try something
new and completely different.

Non-musically that culture best translates into openness (visitors
always remark we’re so friendly; wait til you get to know us), being
loud and obnoxious, which I believe is partly due to our tendency to go
crazy from the heat, being iconoclastic (read the passage on the
original Iconoclast, William Cowper Brann of Waco), individualistic,
ambitious, persuasive (there’s that salesman thing again), and willing
to take risks, which goes back to being on the frontier; back then,
you’d have to have been crazy to settle anywhere west of the 98th
parallel, and yet people did.

Loyalty plays a huge role, too, but good loyalty, like Willie’s
devotion to his band and crew and vice versa, rather than blind loyalty
that fake Texans like Bush exhibit.

In a way, this book is trying to undo the damage done by Bush to the
Texan brand. He ain’t one, he never was one, and if he passes, it’s in
fake places like Washington DC or Dallas (I can say that because I’m
from Fort Worth).

It’s just a wonderful, freewheeling conversation between two noted Texas Music History Geeks, and I’ve found it to be fascinating. Had to take a minute to tell you about it; I still have several more hours of reading to do…

I was recently enraged by a marching band contest.

Just a normal marching band contest; they weren’t glorifying Hitler or Ayn Rand or anything like that. Just some kids walking around in patterns on a football field to badly arranged music.

Which I thought was weird, because — well, my reaction was weird. I picked at it for a while, discovered a scar, rediscovered some long-unfinished business, and ultimately the following email exchange happened:

Hello, [name unimportant] -

For some reason, you popped into my thoughts today. Our paths crossed at Crockett in ‘72. I was the first freshman admitted to your Varsity Band there, on the recommendation of [junior high band director]. I was also the first freshman kicked out of the Varsity Band there. Went on to a different high school, a teacher who taught music, and a satisfyingly successful career, both as a musician and as an audio engineer. Didn’t have to step 8-to-5 even once during that career.

I know that you’ve won an impressive number of awards in the meantime.

Are you pleased with your career as a “music” educator, Professor?

Cheerio,

r

The reply:

Randy -

I am satisfied with the many whom I have positively
impacted, and deeply regret that you are not among
them.

Best wishes for continued success.

And mine:

I’d definitely say that you positively impacted my life; it just was not a positive experience at the time. You taught me the dangers of getting into personality clashes with people who have absolute power; you taught me the folly of becoming an unwilling mechanism in someone else’s craft, and you illustrated the state of arts education in this country to me, early in my career.

All of these realizations have served me well, and I thank you. I mean that sincerely.

Best wishes,

Randy

Oddly, I genuinely meant that sincerely; that’s an absolutely true statement. But others were not so strong; I know of at least five talented people who gave up music entirely after being crushed under the heel of that “educator.” One of those, a brilliant and funny and easygoing brass player, drank himself to death by the age of thirty. Who can say “why?”, I know, but sometimes little things mean a lot, later on. He certainly didn’t have a lot of charity for his high school band director later in life.

That “teacher” went on to be the director of a music department at a world-class university, and was well known worldwide for her marching band. No doubt, she has a satisfying wall of awards and accolades in her home. But, sorry, she is culpable for the metaphorical trail of dead that she left behind, too.

This little exchange was not any kind of victory for me; it was a spur of the moment thing. I didn’t accomplish anything by making an elder well-decorated career education administrator feel bad about herself; I certainly don’t feel any sense of vindication. I am not necessarily proud of the exchange. But I am not unhappy that I instigated it; Sic semper evello mortem Tyrannus.

In the end, it just needed to be said. My son is that age now, and I am trying to navigate him through the industrial stamping-press that we call public education in this country. I am watching him as he gets mangled by the machinery, and it makes me angry. And I don’t have the answers that I should.

He’ll be strong enough, too. But no one should have to be.

Maybe, in the end, it’s like the Verve said: “It’s just sex and violence, melody and silence.”

I’ve updated my MySpace calendar with my musical goings-on for the immediate future.

Stop by and say hello at a show sometime.

I am getting ready to head to Memphis, to do a bunch of audio stuff for the Folk Alliance Conference. I’ll probably post some stuff before I leave on Sunday; I’ll also try to pseudo-live-blog while I am there.

In the meantime: Dance, Chirrens, Dance.

These are some of the ones that caused me to do what I did.

Jessica — The best rock piano solo ever starts at 2:29. Chuck Leavell. A minute and fifteen seconds that changed everything.

Green Eyed Lady — solo at 2:53. Ends at 3:45. Jerry Corbetta defines what rock organ needs to be. Everyone else scrambles to catch up.

Squonk — the whole song. Tony Banks actually played all of those keyboards. While holding down the bass line at the same time. I still want to be Tony Banks.

Streetwave — solo at 2:55. Monophonic synth at its most expressive, ever. I’ve never figured out whether it was played by David Foster, Larry Williams, or Steve Porcaro, but my guess is Steve. Just magnificent work, in any case.

Lucky Man — solo at 3:23. The one that started it all. Keith Emerson plays the first solo as ballsy as anything a guitar can do. I was immediately hooked; this piece quite literally changed my life. Less than a decade later I was geeking synclaviers and touring with rock stars. (Thank you, Rick.)

Let’s revisit. How perfect can six and a half minutes be?

I went over to Threadgill’s North tonight to hear Charlie Pritchard play his last October Monday thing. Charlie is an amazing guitar player. One of those guys who can make “Hot Cross Buns” interesting with the flourishes and the little finesses that only a master can do.

Earl Ball was playing keyboards with ‘em tonight. One of the all-time greats. As the clock grew later, and as they started their last set, I walked up and said “bye” to everyone — school night, blah blah, gotta be a Dad, etc. Shook Earl’s hand and said, as an insider joke, “Play me a coupla bars of ‘The Last Date’ as I walk out, okay?” (If you’re not understanding, ‘The Last Date’ is the quintessential country piano song, by Floyd Cramer. You know it for sure, even if you don’t know the title.)

Earl says “Hang on. We’ll play the song.”

And The Magic happened. One of those moments that confirm all of my odd decisions and the paths that I’ve walked. Earl playing the finest country piano that I’ve ever heard; then Charlie taking the entire 64 bars of the song, quietly doing only-Charlie soloing. Spot-on perfect.

Those guys get an all-access pass when they meet St. Peter, guaranteed, and I am a very lucky guy to get to be around such people.

The words of Hank Alrich, who originally gave me my first audio engineering shot at the Armadillo WHQ three decades ago, and who is now back at Threadgill’s with Dave & Eddie, threatening me:

“I hired you once, and I can do it again!”

(So you can, brother, so you can…) I’m again doing knob-turning on Friday and Saturday nights, as well as the Sunday brunches at Threadgill’s North for the foreseeable future.

So much for that ‘retirement’ I was talking about. But it’s two blocks from the house, a relatively early gig. Ryan can come hang whenever he likes. And I am again working with three of the folks that I respect the most in this business. Seems like a good enough confluence of positives to make allowances, n’est pas?

I kind of have an ambivalent view of Moby. Great synthesizer guy, and I am genuinely simpatico with anyone who can turn knobs and make electrons dance their way into art. But I’m not a big fan of industrial thump dance music; it’s the definition of redundancy; it got’s no funk to it.

This, though, is very cool. Moby created a website and wrote 70 pieces of music expressedly for independent filmmakers to use for free. If a big-studio commercial entity wants to use them they can, but the royalties have to go to the Humane Society.

A really neat thing to do. New respect.

And Hilarious. 763 SXSW MP3s, reviewed in six words only.

Behold the genius. I have tears running down my face, and I’m not even halfway through it.

Ahh, the Folk Alliance Convention. Memphis, TN. It was a fine week. You old timers here might recall that I blogged about the Folk Alliance get-together here in town a couple of years ago. This one was equally satisfying.

I was responsible for the live broadcast mixes (XM Radio; WFMT in Chicago) and recorded interviews for folks such as The Art of Song and Folk Alley. (You can listen to some of the stuff that we did at their FA blog page.)

I ran into many old friends from around the country, and made a few new ones. Got to do what I enjoy most in this world: facilitate artistic genius.

The Austin contingent was strong; Sara Hickman, Jimmy LaFave, Eliza Gilkison, Kevin from the Gourds; Eddie Wilson brought out a whole collection of folks to promote the newly remodeled Threadgill’s, Austin music in general, and Texamericana. (And, BTW, the remodel of the north Threadgill’s place is amazing. It’s going to have one of the best dedicated music rooms in the city. Think the old Castle Creek, but with extraordinarily good sound. A real listening room, finally, in Our Fair City.)

Anyway. Folk Alliance president Louis Meyers and his people put on a fine convention. Louis should, of course: he was a founder of SXSW. He’s no longer associated with the SXSW music conference, and the difference between the two festivals is striking if you’re familiar with ‘em.

Oh yeah – speaking of SXSW, I think I’ll forgo my usual SXSW rant this year. Last year’s will suffice. If you’d like some unsolicited advice from an old war horse, save your money this March and go to a festival that cares about the artists next February. You’ll be entranced.

So I’m on a plane for Memphis at 5:40 AM. Going to see my buddy Louis and work the Folk Alliance Convention. I wrote about it a couple of years ago; it’s real.

I’ll try to post a blogpiece or two. This is what I came here to do.

Forward….

Sometimes it’s nice to recapitulate, to analyze where one has been. I’ve recently let go a piece of my life that defined a part (but by no means all) of my identity for the bulk of my life. I couldn’t have guessed where it all would lead, but the path turned out to be a rich, varied way to spend some of my threescore and ten.

Interestingly, it can be traced back to one single moment. In 1970, my older brother was demonstrating his new stereo system to me, and he played “Lucky Man” by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. The synthesizer solo at the end captivated me like nothing else, and I knew that I wanted to do that. Within four years, I was a bona fide synth expert. Within another few years, I was a recording engineer. Thanks, Rick.

I’ve always been comfortable at the interface between technology and the artist, and I’ve been comfortable with facilitating the resulting process of creating Art. Indeed, in both professional synthesis and professional audio engineering, once I mastered the techniques, I ultimately found art at the center, an utterly fascinating process of creation. It’s never grown old, because it is always new.

Especially sound reinforcement—live sound. It may seem odd to say that one can create art with a collection of knobs and faders and amplifiers and speaker cords, but it’s not, really. No more odd than saying that one can create art with a bunch of tuned wires strapped to a piece of lumber with a bunch of inductive pickups on it. A mixing console can be as much a vehicle for creativity as an electric guitar.

I can’t completely describe the joy of it when it’s working, any more than a guitar player can describe what they’re feeling in the middle of a soulful solo. It is a process of being in the instant; surfing on the cutting edge of reality of this moment, of creating something in and of the Now.

And perhaps the most beautiful aspect of the art of sound reinforcement, to me, is the ephemeral nature of it all. When a song is done, that instance of the art is gone forever. With the next song comes the possibility of creating a new work of art, but it’s never guaranteed. One must learn to be in the moment, and that is the Zen aspect of the whole thing that makes it so uniquely wonderful to me. It is always, in the end, a solitary personal journey.

All of the downside-oddities of the music business: the long hours, the interminable traveling, the shady characters, the hustlers, high-rollers, overzealous band managers, hangers-on, groupies—it is all worth it to get that moment of The Pure Joy Of Existence every once in awhile. I’ve experienced it elsewhere, and will again, but perhaps never with others, simultaneously, again.

I’ll miss the musicians’ joy and astonishment when it’s all done right for them. No one else around that process ever mattered. It was always about no more or less than the people on the stage and the unspoken communication between us. That moment when several artists, working together, could become a single process of Art.

I come away with many life-long friends who’ll always be a part of my songline. That said, along with some fine people and respected colleagues, this is the whole of what I’ll miss. No complaints; most people never get to experience it at all; I held the Grail, many times, if only for a moment at a time. I’m blessed.