Notes on my Upcoming “Kindred” Album

Here are some notes on my upcoming Bob Dylan covers album to be recorded this spring….Songs covered from his gospel albums and a few more of my other favorites

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This album has been thirty one years coming….

At that tender age of seventeen when I lay on backyard blanket, with Bob Dylan’s “Desire” LP wafting “Hot chile peppers in the blistering sun….” through neighboring row houses, I had no idea those mesmerizing hours spent fascinated by Spanish drug lord’s daughters, and mysterious heartbreakers named “Sarah,” would eventually lead me here.

As “they [ran] to the water their buckets to fill,” I was filling buckets of tears.  I believed every single line of it.  Every heart wrenching melody broke my heart, and I shivered on a cold night with outlaw lovers while bullets flew overhead.  I agonized the haunting cry of “No llores, mi querida, Dios nos vigila, soon the horse will take us to Durango. Agramme, mi vida. Soon the desert will be gone. Soon you will be dancing the fandango,” though I understood none of it.

I was young and impressionable.  I’d been raised by an honest woman who lived on the edge of normalcy in complicated righteousness.  Bob seemed to fit us.  I knew that.  Mommy didn’t always get it and often yelled for me to turn it down or off, to get out and meet people, and to stop lying in the sun all day.

But a romance was blooming.  It was strong and true and lasted many years.  Then I got married to a “real person,” and there was no room for Bob.  I got civilized.  No one else our age was listening to him anyway.  He was already fast becoming a “has been” and certainly not something the respectable Christian folk were listening to (which I was).

Fast forward thirty one years, I’m still a Christian, but not as respectable.  There it is, that edge of normalcy again, that complicated righteousness.  Is it any wonder I found my way back to Bob?  How can it be that his same truths that rang curiously sound way back then, still ring true to me all these years later?

I guess true love really does last a lifetime.  Some lights (and some people), are strong enough to never wane and never leave your soul.

Turns out, I sing and write a bit too.  Oh, nothing like the way Bob can write a song.  I play a notoriously bad guitar which you still may be able to hear if we didn’t get it completely drowned out in the mix.  I have a pretty good singing voice, but more than anything, I think I qualify because I’m a die hard fan.  I don’t like everything he ever did, but who likes everything about another person?  Where I lack in talent, I pick up in heart.  I wanted to speak his voice in my voice since I’ve been so intricately knit with him, and so affected, for so long.  It just seems a natural next step.  I think all of these songs are so good and so life changing that they deserve to be heard one more time with a slightly different take.  Anything I can do to make you listen to Bob will be counted as success for me. I even learned to harmonize in the making of the record because I really want to give it my best.

I’m making this recording for my children, because I want them to know  what moves me, and what I used to groove on at their age.  I think they can find me in here, as so many Bob fans find themselves in his music.  I suppose that is what makes a great writer, and I suppose that is why he is still referred to as the greatest songwriter of all time.

As for me, I have had as much fun making this music as I did listening to it thirty one years ago, and on a scale of one to ten of all the best things in my life, listening to my favorite Bob songs ranks right up there as a nine and three quarters.

Be blessed as you hear this. Be forgiving.  But above all, be open to where it can take you.

Surprised By Joy!

(This title borrowed from C. S. Lewis seemed perfectly fitting)

As a musician who’s just about seen and heard it all, music has become predictable, hum-drum, and rarely has the ability to move me deeply anymore.  I left the thrill factor back in the 60’s, 70’s & 80’s.  Ahh the days when music was a living and breathing entity unto itself, and not a contrived thing of fashion!  In the years to follow it would become over worked and over analyzed, counterfeited and pitch corrected, synthesized and dehumanized.   Until finally: The dead thing on the radio.  Lifeless. Fabricated. Spoiled.

Forgive me my harsh critique.  Blame it on my age.  Blame it on my journey of late, to find the fresh and innocent in all of life.  Blame it on my unrelenting quest for all that is good, and real, and alive!

But don’t blame it on narrow-mindedness, shelteredness, lack of experience, the inability to let loose, or a complete lack of joy in my heart.  None of that is the case.

I wait patiently like a cheetah for the gazelle.  Enough of rabbits!  The gazelle is worth waiting for and when she finally comes into view, you can be sure the cheetah will pounce!

And so it is with good music.  And had you been around, you would have seen me pounce last night.

I’m guessing he wasn’t a day over twenty-one.  He was new to Costa Rica from the mountains of Brazil.  He sat on a drum low to the floor, his knees pulled up and even with his chest.  This seemingly awkward presentation of manhood was about to become the envy of every man in the room.  His dark hair, thick with perm-like curls, fell past his shoulders and tucked neatly behind his ears.  The bright whites of his eyes and the gleam of his chipmunk-like teeth jumped out engagingly from cocoa skin.

A mix match of colorful drums constructed of wood, rope, animal skins, plastic and steel surrounded him.  They were tall and oblong, round and heavy, snare like and slanted.  Later he named each drum for me: Alfaia, Timbau, Cuica, Pondeino, and Nepinicado. Add to this a capped beer bottle hanging off a cymbal, a whistle roped around his neck, a tambourine, a bead shaker, a tin can, a triangle, a djembeand a few unnamed smaller drums.

He complimented the slightly older singer who played a “silent guitar.”  An enticing and romantic vocalist who understood the affect the rising and falling of his voice had on his female audience.   The crooner was also capable of quickly and intelligently interpreting any frenzied drama his un-caged drummer might release at any given time.   His dress was simple, but effective.  He had on a casual, but expensive pair of jeans with a snow white t-shirt that clung to his physique and beautifully contrasted the darkness of his skin.

At first glance, as the gentlemen shuffled to the performance corner of the restaurant, it was obvious who was the star of the show.  The exceptionally good looking singer/guitarist slid onto his stool and began tuning his already in tune guitar.   He leaned back to adjust the levels that were already fit for studio recording.

The drummer adjusted his knees and smiled at the on again-off again, third member of the ensemble who was also adjusting the small drum he sat on.  The front man’s little Chico was approximately six years old and mirrored his father’s style.  He wore a white cotton button up, that buttoned down to reveal a shark’s tooth dangling from a leather necklace.  He sat in for a few sets before distraction and fatigue took him away from the djembe he tried to master.

At first it seemed like it was going to be a typical performance. Not unlike many I’d witnessed in North America. A suave, smooth, and, no doubt, honed lead singer with his mysteriously talented drummer behind him.  Wowing the young ladies and impressing the local musicians.  That’s what we look for, right?  That’s what we’ve come to expect.  Just the right mix of sensitivity and skill.  We desperately hope they don’t disappoint because we want to “feel good” when we leave.  In fact we’ve seen so much of that, that some of us have become tired of it.  Some of us are bored.  Some of us wonder if we’ll ever feel the earth move under our feet again.

And then the breeze blows in. Imperceptibly- and we wonder what it was. Fresh air. He smiles.  His eyes lock onto yours with genuine kindness, excitement, a secret, and JOY!  His hands are a blurr- count the beats just to be sure. Prestissimo! Going as fast as he possibly can.  He’s not even thinking about it.  He’s busy having a conversation with you with his eyes.  He’s busy with his little student on the djembe nodding with emphasis to help him try to match the beat.  His right hand hides a tambourine blazing beside his leg. His left hand hits five different instruments at once as though swatting at flies.  The guitar player is chasing him and they are shouting for joy.  He blows his whistle and Costa Rican girls rapidly fly into figure eights with their hips. When the audience smiles and cheers and claps, he throws his head back in laughter reveling in the shared joy.  The joy of music.

He understands.  The music is the joy.  He partakes.  He isn’t creating.  He is receiving.  And yet, it is honestly the most creative thing I have ever heard.

We breathe.  He drums.  It is oxygen for him.  A long drink from the cold river on a hot day. He talks intimately with us all the way through the evening, and yet, he never utters a word.

He is no longer in Costa Rica.  He is back in the mountains of Brazil.  Tremendously anointed and gifted by God.  He is receiving and distributing his blessing.  He is untainted.  He is grateful.  His is so rare.  They don’t even sell a CD.  That is not why they play.  I have never heard the songs before.  I have never heard anything remotely similar.  I’ve listened to a lot of Latin music, East Indian music, New Age music, World music, North American music….nothing like this.

They played for three and a half hours non-stop.  Not even a small break.  They couldn’t stop.  They did not make the music. They followed the music.

The technical things the drummer did in the course of their journey would blow your mind- unusual syncopation, his tasteful ear for the dramatic, and even his whistle blowing that was completely out of tune and yet perfectly fitting- but what’s the use in trying to describe it?  He felt it.  He was amazing and you’ll have to take my word for it.  He worked so very hard so we all could catch up to the music and experience this joy together.  I’m positive that was his mission.

I pray with all of my heart that you’ll never see him on a TV screen.  Yes, I even pray you’ll never be able to buy one of his CDs.  I pray the Lord takes him back into the arms of the mountain.  I pray the evil one never has the opportunity to corrupt his joy.

Still, he will always be the star of the show in my eyes.  I never even learned his name, but when I told him at the end of the evening that God had richly blessed him, his permanent smile widened even further and his eyes revealed their secret.

“Yes!, Yes!, Yes!” was his humble reply.

Accuser of the Brethren

“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.” ~Matthew 23: 37

Sigh….people try my patience ALOT…I grow weary.  I get judgmental (and I have cause to be, sometimes,  don’t I?) I mean c’mon, especially Christains who should know better.

“In fact, though by now you should be teachers, you still need someone to teach you the basic truths of God’s word. You have become people who need milk instead of solid food.” ~ Hebrews 5:12

And yet,

“Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear.” ~ Eph 4:29

And,

“….the accuser of our brothers, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.” ~ Revelation 12:10

satan is called the accuser of the brethern.  If I am accusing the brethern, then who’s side am I on?

Holy Spirit teach me better to love and,

“… forgive them for they know not what they do.” ~ Luke 23: 34

The Playlist

I urge you to compile a playlist of every song you loved and listened to growing up.  Then listen to it often.  It will blow your mind. Take you off the high horse you ride and remind you where you came from.  That is what it did for me anyway….

You know all of those memories we run from?  All of the times we hurriedly moved on?  Mostly, it is good to move on, but sometimes, we lose the simple in the name of our progress.  Progress in our life is good, so it’s an enigma, really.  I’ve tried to deal with that in the writing below.  Perhaps you can shed some light, or am I the only one who thinks about such things?

The PlayList

So many years ago.

Each song playing a creative role

in who I am today.

I had no idea there were so many.

One hundred quickly turned into six hundred.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have opened up the box.

But it’s all part of my going home.

It hurts. It delights. It is euphoric. It is depressing.

The pressure on my chest is so heavy.

My chest is rising to my throat.

I feel it lodged there, unable to move.

I feel pinned down.

A captive in a long lost moment in time.

Lived once.

Unnatural that I should live it twice.

What am I so afraid of?

Each song a memory.

Each song an awakening.

If I let go, I’ll turn back into that wild child.

She was a tangled mess.

Emotional.

Full of endless compassion.

Creative like the wind is creative.

And free just like the wind.

But with freedom always comes the pain.

Landing wholeheartedly on every spot.

Stumbling in, like a bull or a drunk.

I’ve worked hard to put her to rest.

She wasn’t widely accepted.

But she DID fascinate.

I sold her.

Traded her for something I thought was better.

I’ve really missed her through the years.

I don’t’ think sorry will cut it though.

I’m floating now.

Floating on the wings of every note.

I’m observing again.

(It used to be my profession. I hardly ever spoke).

Taking it all in. Eighty five percent there.

Voiceless- swaying- pensive.

Eyes softly resting. Closed.

And the tears begin to flow.

Secret feelings that only I can feel.

Randomly singing along in full voice.

I hear more now.

I guess you could say I hear better.

Where I used to struggle to achieve each new sound,

everything comes so easily now.

I hear more- that is true.

But I feel less.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have downloaded the playlist.

What good could it possibly do?

NQMP3U7K7KNE

Laundry Day

We were nine and she was a machine.

One week’s- sometimes two week’s of clothing, but she had no fear.

Three or four of us trailed behind while she heaved bag after bag upon her shoulder and up to the commercial washers.

I cringed as she started pulling out the filth (sand went flying with the unfurling of smelly socks).

I went into cardiac arrest when she unabashedly held up Dad’s bright red union suit,  (a.k.a full-length long johns), complete with flap in the back, buttoned in one corner and the other corner dangling to expose an all- too- real visual of my father’s derriere.  WHY, in the name of all that’s decent, did she examine them with outstretched arms, turning them this way and that before finally (after what seemed like an eternity) flinging them into the circular tub?

Was she aware that underneath the fresh green grass stains on the boy’s jeans, still lingered grass stains three washes old?  I asked myself why she bothered.

Bothering was one thing.  Making me participate in the spectacle was a senseless cruelty I couldn’t understand or accept.

Head down, face scowling, I never knew where to stand or stare.  Falling into a deep well of embarrassment, I was clawing the walls, never able to climb out.  I knew, with the certainty of a hot faced eleven year old, that every mouth in the laundromat was dropped and gaping in shock and terror at what this tiny woman from the mountains drug in.

We were nine.  Seven children, two parents, and never less than seven bags of the dirtiest garments that were ever slapped down in a public wash house.

We lived a hard life in the remotest part of the mountain with our males as wild as the terrain they wandered.  Humble, as they were, cleanliness was never in their thought process. Nor, quite frankly, was it ever within their grasp.  We slept outside, or in a large green army tent and even the girls raced an uphill battle against dirt floors, muddy river beds, and smokey campfire lights.

I was afraid to breathe.  I busied myself supervising my younger sister, trying desperately to keep her out of the space of the other patrons.  I didn’t possess the wisdom to know that I was drawing even more attention to our family than had I just let her be.

I could play in happy forgetfulness with my siblings until my eyes caught a glimpse of any one of our four large dryers.  Then I would get a sickening feeling in my gut and fly into fretful panic.  They had been washed, but you would never know it.

Everyone else’s laundry was tumbling in joyful rhythm and I swore I could hear the pristine whites singing in unison with the fluffy towels that looked like they just floated out of a Sears store.

Not so the four dryers on the end.

Mama pulled out the thin, tattered towels and tried to find a straight edge to match up with another straight edge to no avail.  And as our gruesome gray-white socks continued to bounce up against the heated glass, I was constantly trying to will them to the back of the drum.

When Mama called me to help with the folding, I whined and hissed quietly under my breath.  Oh the monotony of those folds!  In the stifling heat of a building with no air conditioning, even the doors, flung wide open, offered little relief.

Laundry days were, without a doubt, one of the great tragedies of my youth.  But in retrospect, they were also one of the richest experiences of my life!

She was a machine.  I just didn’t get that back then.  Every ten days or so, like clock work, she showed up with half of her children in tow and did, without complaint or scorn, what she had to do.  She didn’t have a choice in the matter. If she loved us (and she did), she would see to it that we had “clean” clothes.

Funny thing, I love doing laundry today.  It is a very complete therapy for me.  I learned to press through the bad and find the rainbow at the end of it. Beautiful little mystery there…some of us can relate that to dish washing as well.

I learned patience, compassion, diligence (sticking to a job until its done) and creativity. Eventually, I learned to hold my head up high and not worry about what other people think.  In time I also came to understand that Mama had to bring me with her on laundry days to keep me safe.  It was extra work for her having us all there, but our well being was always more important than her work load.

I thank God for laundry days, memories that linger of laundry days, and above all, I thank God that I had the kind of Mother I did.