The gist of the flow I soft-served at Tim & Allison's party; Ron's percussion inspired:
Go on, snap your candy canes, slap those silly sticks
A drum lick and rhymes quick, to wish you Merry Christmas
Hope yr shopping list weighs light as a feather
It's great to give thanks, remember, however
To stuff stockings with loving
It's sweetness and not things
That make your loved ones smile,
But how you give them
It's how you live, man!
How you snap your candy cane, make the rhythm slip,
Take a little time to give an extra kiss,
Make a special call and don't count your minutes
Cause love, it's infinite. One love--infinite.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Tough Post-Season Loss for A's, Bay Airwaves
Finding myself back in my New England hometown since May, I've nevertheless felt a little estranged from a place I've called home for most of the past decade, and have been relying on internet radio to bring me a little bit closer to the SF Bay Area. My daily dose of audio reminiscence took a particularly poignant turn today, when I tuned in to Rick Barry and Rod Brooks' afternoon show on KNBR only to learn that Bill King had passed.
The voice of the Oakland A's for the past quarter century, King was a true legend of sports radio in the Bay. I wasn't around for his historic calls of Warrior and Raider games, but he was the main reason why radio is for me the number one way to experience baseball. When I made it out to the Coliseum, I usually made sure to bring my pocket radio along, with AM 610's broadcast playing in my ear even as I watched the Athletics live. King's knowledge of and respect for the game itself were always a comfort, and his even-keeled delivery made the listener feel the timelessness of the sport. His absence began to be felt this season, when hip problems forced him to miss the A's away games. After entering San Leandro Memorial Hospital Friday to undergo surgery, complications led to the blockage of an artery in his lung, to which he eventually succumbed. He was 78.
As I sat down to put my thoughts in order this evening, I made a call to the most faithful A's fan I know back in Oakland, my friend Marcos. He'd just gotten off from work when he answered, and so I found myself in the undesirable position of breaking the news to him. Marcos did touch upon one aspect that made King so special: his modesty. Aside from the memorable imprint of his catchphrase "Holy Toledo!" the impression King gave was never one of blowing things out of proportion, that is, taking advantage of a great play in the field by trying too hard to make his play-by-play ripe for rebroadcast.
In an age where ESPN radio regularly replays the "calls of the night" across the nation, Bill King never called attention to himself. He simply called the game, and sports fans will miss him dearly.
The voice of the Oakland A's for the past quarter century, King was a true legend of sports radio in the Bay. I wasn't around for his historic calls of Warrior and Raider games, but he was the main reason why radio is for me the number one way to experience baseball. When I made it out to the Coliseum, I usually made sure to bring my pocket radio along, with AM 610's broadcast playing in my ear even as I watched the Athletics live. King's knowledge of and respect for the game itself were always a comfort, and his even-keeled delivery made the listener feel the timelessness of the sport. His absence began to be felt this season, when hip problems forced him to miss the A's away games. After entering San Leandro Memorial Hospital Friday to undergo surgery, complications led to the blockage of an artery in his lung, to which he eventually succumbed. He was 78.
As I sat down to put my thoughts in order this evening, I made a call to the most faithful A's fan I know back in Oakland, my friend Marcos. He'd just gotten off from work when he answered, and so I found myself in the undesirable position of breaking the news to him. Marcos did touch upon one aspect that made King so special: his modesty. Aside from the memorable imprint of his catchphrase "Holy Toledo!" the impression King gave was never one of blowing things out of proportion, that is, taking advantage of a great play in the field by trying too hard to make his play-by-play ripe for rebroadcast.
In an age where ESPN radio regularly replays the "calls of the night" across the nation, Bill King never called attention to himself. He simply called the game, and sports fans will miss him dearly.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Get the Rebound
I made a trip down to the Rucker tournament in Harlem at 155th, that mecca of streetball where the EBC classic now retraces the footwork and legendary walks on air of Wilt, Dr. J, and Connie Hawkins. I'd never been, so I took the B train up one afternoon, early enough to beat the crowds at the entrance's metal detector.
After the 5pm women's game came down to a thrilling close, announcer Al Cash, still not tired of the nickname-bestowing-play-by-play he'd been parlaying, pacing the sidelines for an hour, asked if there were any out-of-towners. I played it cool, and shouldn't have-- I'd like to think my moment in the sun would have come had I gotten to test handles against either the Ohio kid or the local named "Chunky" selected to play one-on-one.
But no, my fate would be different.
My large white tee may have made me feel appropriately clad for the venue, but still left a lot of pale skin on display. The announcer soon walked up and looking square in my eyes asked "--and what's your deal, man? you ain't from around here."
All eyes and ears are now on our convo. Asked what I did I said "writer." So I must know a little poetry?, he pushes. I let "sure" come out in response, trying to recant as he says "then come out here and give us a little poetry!"
"I meant POULTRY" I protested, but no dice, the gig was up. At center court he made fun of me a little ["you're sure you want to leave your bag on the sidelines? This is Harlem, pal...So, you must have come to town today to buy drugs, yes?"] then handed me the mic in order to read a poem. With ESPN2 camera in my face, and what seemed a thousand more onlookers in the stands, I recited the only poem I had memorized, one I wrote a long time ago:
"Missed" 2.8.93
The genius tramps a heavy trail
picks up flowers on her way
without words for what she's gathered
or time to wonder why
no need
even under jealous leer
she knows
looming round the bend bloom more
while those now relishing her grasp
only hope for a bit of handcrafted
upheaval in her wake
A poem which means a lot to me, but does not rhyme, nor did it really capture this particular moment. What did hold the audience's attention was my hand, quivering as it held the mic. Nevertheless, I got through it, our emcee prompted the crowd to give me a hand for "showing some heart" and the young kids near my bleacher seat proudly handed me my bag as I returned to my seat: "Here Pete! You dropped your pen, Pete!" A positive enough experience, if humbling.
Thing is, as the DJ kicked the music back into gear (where had my beats been, bro?) my mind raced with [plu]perfect responses. The rest of the night I couldn't even watch the men's games. Junie "GE" Sanders and Black Wall Street fast broke the competition on their way to what would prove to be a championship run, but I was just mumbling to myself as obsessively as if I had a syndrome. By the time I left the courts, though, I had the rough outline of the "Rucker Suite" posted below. As the experience still resonates through my imagination, I offer as well an evolved version of my original Rucker mic offering:
"Missed" Remixed 8.18.5
It was blank verse, a bass solo, nothing too loud
I rewrote it full of flow, more apropos for a crowd
Its meaning always clear but the rhythm was hidden
Now syncopated recreated so you all will feel let in
The first line observant of individual force
“The genius tramps a heavy trail”--visionaries change our course
Imperfection and invention make their impact on all
The next line points more specifically to those in the thrall
“picks up flowers on her way”--you ever fall in love
With a brilliant mind that answered to some call from above?
Or marched to a different drummer, a different beat than you ever felt
Them folks can move mountains & make your scenery melt
Or build a new technology that sweeps you along
They makin’ all the money while I’m singing a song
Their effect on you is something they’d rather not heed
“without words to wonder which or time to think of why, no need”
Another's individual import as a topic is blurry
Each creates their own destiny, but don’t even worry
“even under jealous leer she knows”--you’re born you die, the story goes
Don’t overestimate your heroes or demonize your foes
“looming round the bend bloom more”—but our genius ain’t overwhelmed
'Fact we respect their poise so much we say, you take the helm,
As “those relishing her grasp” we “only hope” for fifteen minutes
Cause these tidal waves are fun to ride, their swell, hell, it’s infinite
“a bit of handcrafted upheaval in her wake” is our glory
Those few moments we’re little stars in the whole crazy story
That’s why we say ‘What up god?’, we respect the power
Any man feeling bad enough can bring our final hour
Or give us reason to live, a new way to see light
The intense ones are tricky, some strangers want to fight
But the genius in them is sure to rock your world
If you’re paying attention a new path will unfurl
And you’ll be walking down a heavy trail of your own
You made an impact right back--2 geniuses got thrown
After the 5pm women's game came down to a thrilling close, announcer Al Cash, still not tired of the nickname-bestowing-play-by-play he'd been parlaying, pacing the sidelines for an hour, asked if there were any out-of-towners. I played it cool, and shouldn't have-- I'd like to think my moment in the sun would have come had I gotten to test handles against either the Ohio kid or the local named "Chunky" selected to play one-on-one.
But no, my fate would be different.
My large white tee may have made me feel appropriately clad for the venue, but still left a lot of pale skin on display. The announcer soon walked up and looking square in my eyes asked "--and what's your deal, man? you ain't from around here."
All eyes and ears are now on our convo. Asked what I did I said "writer." So I must know a little poetry?, he pushes. I let "sure" come out in response, trying to recant as he says "then come out here and give us a little poetry!"
"I meant POULTRY" I protested, but no dice, the gig was up. At center court he made fun of me a little ["you're sure you want to leave your bag on the sidelines? This is Harlem, pal...So, you must have come to town today to buy drugs, yes?"] then handed me the mic in order to read a poem. With ESPN2 camera in my face, and what seemed a thousand more onlookers in the stands, I recited the only poem I had memorized, one I wrote a long time ago:
"Missed" 2.8.93
The genius tramps a heavy trail
picks up flowers on her way
without words for what she's gathered
or time to wonder why
no need
even under jealous leer
she knows
looming round the bend bloom more
while those now relishing her grasp
only hope for a bit of handcrafted
upheaval in her wake
A poem which means a lot to me, but does not rhyme, nor did it really capture this particular moment. What did hold the audience's attention was my hand, quivering as it held the mic. Nevertheless, I got through it, our emcee prompted the crowd to give me a hand for "showing some heart" and the young kids near my bleacher seat proudly handed me my bag as I returned to my seat: "Here Pete! You dropped your pen, Pete!" A positive enough experience, if humbling.
Thing is, as the DJ kicked the music back into gear (where had my beats been, bro?) my mind raced with [plu]perfect responses. The rest of the night I couldn't even watch the men's games. Junie "GE" Sanders and Black Wall Street fast broke the competition on their way to what would prove to be a championship run, but I was just mumbling to myself as obsessively as if I had a syndrome. By the time I left the courts, though, I had the rough outline of the "Rucker Suite" posted below. As the experience still resonates through my imagination, I offer as well an evolved version of my original Rucker mic offering:
"Missed" Remixed 8.18.5
It was blank verse, a bass solo, nothing too loud
I rewrote it full of flow, more apropos for a crowd
Its meaning always clear but the rhythm was hidden
Now syncopated recreated so you all will feel let in
The first line observant of individual force
“The genius tramps a heavy trail”--visionaries change our course
Imperfection and invention make their impact on all
The next line points more specifically to those in the thrall
“picks up flowers on her way”--you ever fall in love
With a brilliant mind that answered to some call from above?
Or marched to a different drummer, a different beat than you ever felt
Them folks can move mountains & make your scenery melt
Or build a new technology that sweeps you along
They makin’ all the money while I’m singing a song
Their effect on you is something they’d rather not heed
“without words to wonder which or time to think of why, no need”
Another's individual import as a topic is blurry
Each creates their own destiny, but don’t even worry
“even under jealous leer she knows”--you’re born you die, the story goes
Don’t overestimate your heroes or demonize your foes
“looming round the bend bloom more”—but our genius ain’t overwhelmed
'Fact we respect their poise so much we say, you take the helm,
As “those relishing her grasp” we “only hope” for fifteen minutes
Cause these tidal waves are fun to ride, their swell, hell, it’s infinite
“a bit of handcrafted upheaval in her wake” is our glory
Those few moments we’re little stars in the whole crazy story
That’s why we say ‘What up god?’, we respect the power
Any man feeling bad enough can bring our final hour
Or give us reason to live, a new way to see light
The intense ones are tricky, some strangers want to fight
But the genius in them is sure to rock your world
If you’re paying attention a new path will unfurl
And you’ll be walking down a heavy trail of your own
You made an impact right back--2 geniuses got thrown
Monday, July 25, 2005
Rucker Park Suite 7.20.5
The EBC Blues
I never thought rhymin’ at Rucker would be a cinch
And the first time out, I admit, I flinched
The mic shook in my hand so much it looked like live fish
I’m not cryin or tryna be on some kinda pride ish
I was glad because at least I tried this
But on the matter of my skin, emcee teased me
Called me “Caspar the Friendly Ghost,” awful cheesy
Took the cliché route, no doubt easy:
White boy uptown? Must be down for something sleazy
Came to Harlem for the drugs? Nah, brother please see
I’m wise, besides them ends are beneath me
See, I moved here from the Yay—may I teach thee?
Northern Cali’s valleys tally fine qualities :
365 a year its chill and you feel breezy
Kids got hyphy 'cause they bump that E-Feezy
In Oaktown Roscoe cooks chicken and waffles, greasy!
And the 415 is where you drive to get the trees, B
I know the A’s tend to start a lot of rookies,
Still their winnin’ streaks freak out all the bookies
A few more lines? I’ll give you time, you look shook G
A vegan eats no fish—do not bite my hooks please
On the court, call me “Monster”—I get the cookies
Not “Caspar.” Dude, you've been a wonderful host
Maybe you should sit down, you're starting to look like that ghost
With your name, why'd you ask me to open my mouth?
Al Cash, if you got smoked they'd call you "all cashed out."
Joe-No-Lino
I’d like to leave, when I’m done, in one piece
So I’ll stop here to say: one love, one peace
Then stay on point this here joint's about EBC
Flashback to a recap last year on TV
A game Terror Squad won, they were getting interviewed
No Stephon, just them lower profile dudes
Who got nice game, but just the same, outside the hood
Ain’t household names—it’s only fame, it’s all good
Anyway, here they are on the televised tip,
But before a word drops from their lips
Their manager bum rushed, man I started to trip!
In fact from where I sat, it looked like a total eclipse
He was crowding all the shots while his men stood in back
Waving his three fingers—y'all remember that?
Now this man has skills I certainly lack
Business acumen, promotional tools, cash in stacks
And face time? Every hour BET spins his tracks
But Joe, when your hoop bros give their minutes, 15, a crack
Homeslice, take your own advice, “Lean Back!”
I never thought rhymin’ at Rucker would be a cinch
And the first time out, I admit, I flinched
The mic shook in my hand so much it looked like live fish
I’m not cryin or tryna be on some kinda pride ish
I was glad because at least I tried this
But on the matter of my skin, emcee teased me
Called me “Caspar the Friendly Ghost,” awful cheesy
Took the cliché route, no doubt easy:
White boy uptown? Must be down for something sleazy
Came to Harlem for the drugs? Nah, brother please see
I’m wise, besides them ends are beneath me
See, I moved here from the Yay—may I teach thee?
Northern Cali’s valleys tally fine qualities :
365 a year its chill and you feel breezy
Kids got hyphy 'cause they bump that E-Feezy
In Oaktown Roscoe cooks chicken and waffles, greasy!
And the 415 is where you drive to get the trees, B
I know the A’s tend to start a lot of rookies,
Still their winnin’ streaks freak out all the bookies
A few more lines? I’ll give you time, you look shook G
A vegan eats no fish—do not bite my hooks please
On the court, call me “Monster”—I get the cookies
Not “Caspar.” Dude, you've been a wonderful host
Maybe you should sit down, you're starting to look like that ghost
With your name, why'd you ask me to open my mouth?
Al Cash, if you got smoked they'd call you "all cashed out."
Joe-No-Lino
I’d like to leave, when I’m done, in one piece
So I’ll stop here to say: one love, one peace
Then stay on point this here joint's about EBC
Flashback to a recap last year on TV
A game Terror Squad won, they were getting interviewed
No Stephon, just them lower profile dudes
Who got nice game, but just the same, outside the hood
Ain’t household names—it’s only fame, it’s all good
Anyway, here they are on the televised tip,
But before a word drops from their lips
Their manager bum rushed, man I started to trip!
In fact from where I sat, it looked like a total eclipse
He was crowding all the shots while his men stood in back
Waving his three fingers—y'all remember that?
Now this man has skills I certainly lack
Business acumen, promotional tools, cash in stacks
And face time? Every hour BET spins his tracks
But Joe, when your hoop bros give their minutes, 15, a crack
Homeslice, take your own advice, “Lean Back!”
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Susie Ibarra & Min Xiao-Fen at Firehouse 12
The capacity crowd chatters in anticipation, emitting a dense mosaic of conversational rhythms into the creative space. Even the small talk takes on a musical tone at Firehouse 12, New Haven's newest jazz venue. The club's performance space also functions as a state-of-the-art recording studio, and the meticulous design offers every listener optimal aural delights.
Adding to our pleasures, this summer's initial series of concerts curated by guitarist Joe Morris has been deliciously varied. Following pianist Matthew Shipp's christening gig, Firehouse 12 has featured the delerious drums of Dutch master Han Bennink, unsung tenor saxophone hero Joe McPhee, bassist Chris Lightcap's buoyant arrangements for quintet, the strings-cum-reed lushness of the Rob Brown Trio, and more.
Tonight's lineup offers further surprise, as Ms. Ibarra is one of those rare percussionists who serves up not only unique tempi, but flowing melody from her kit as well. Moreover, after she and distinguished pipa player Min Xiao-Fen have taken the stage, the audience is informed that the duo is performing together in concert for the first time.
Their ensuing set is nevertheless a showcase of intuition and expertise, Ibarra's shifting rhythms meshing with the Chinese string instrument and mesmerizing the crowd. Where much avant music finds its innovations in angles, the elements of this music are supple and curved--during one gorgeous piece, the percussionist plays a bowl of stones as accompaniment to the exquisitely plucked pipa. At such moments her duties seem far outside those of the traditional timekeeper. Rather, the time becomes one with the musicians' imagination, and all present are truly brought inside the music.
Melodic references to Western standards seem to reach out to any listeners needing to alight on the familiar: Miles Davis' "All Blues" appears within an extended solo, and Xiao-Fen makes merry with sizzling incorporation of a traditional Appalachian fiddle melody she dubs "The Red-Haired Boy Dances With The Dragon." For me, this concert's most sublime passages were those which seemed most inspired by the wind, gentle then tempestuous by swift turns. Eschewing sticks and brushes, Ibarra on one song played her entire kit using hand cymbals to strike the skins, breaking the rhythms into a myriad of propeller-like vibrations.
Adding to our pleasures, this summer's initial series of concerts curated by guitarist Joe Morris has been deliciously varied. Following pianist Matthew Shipp's christening gig, Firehouse 12 has featured the delerious drums of Dutch master Han Bennink, unsung tenor saxophone hero Joe McPhee, bassist Chris Lightcap's buoyant arrangements for quintet, the strings-cum-reed lushness of the Rob Brown Trio, and more.
Tonight's lineup offers further surprise, as Ms. Ibarra is one of those rare percussionists who serves up not only unique tempi, but flowing melody from her kit as well. Moreover, after she and distinguished pipa player Min Xiao-Fen have taken the stage, the audience is informed that the duo is performing together in concert for the first time.
Their ensuing set is nevertheless a showcase of intuition and expertise, Ibarra's shifting rhythms meshing with the Chinese string instrument and mesmerizing the crowd. Where much avant music finds its innovations in angles, the elements of this music are supple and curved--during one gorgeous piece, the percussionist plays a bowl of stones as accompaniment to the exquisitely plucked pipa. At such moments her duties seem far outside those of the traditional timekeeper. Rather, the time becomes one with the musicians' imagination, and all present are truly brought inside the music.
Melodic references to Western standards seem to reach out to any listeners needing to alight on the familiar: Miles Davis' "All Blues" appears within an extended solo, and Xiao-Fen makes merry with sizzling incorporation of a traditional Appalachian fiddle melody she dubs "The Red-Haired Boy Dances With The Dragon." For me, this concert's most sublime passages were those which seemed most inspired by the wind, gentle then tempestuous by swift turns. Eschewing sticks and brushes, Ibarra on one song played her entire kit using hand cymbals to strike the skins, breaking the rhythms into a myriad of propeller-like vibrations.
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