THE VERY EVENING before this fine day, I met with some colleagues to discuss a topic which I am currently not at liberty to share as it is a matter of the utmost secrecy, and moreover unimportant to the aim of this periodical. The weather being unusually mild, we three adjourned on the patio of a café on the opposite side of town from my estate. Three pints of ale were tasted to their bottoms and replenished, a process which at length converted a meeting of austerity to one of inebriety. It was a fine night for intemperance as I have little on my calendar to-day. However, by virtue of those who daily depend on it, this publication has become a task of high-priority from which I cannot allow one night of merrymaking to divert my focus. It is a monster which I have created to which I must continually supply sustenance – a Good monster that is.
Returning to the evening, there was an encounter which stands out between the clouds in my mind. It was with an old acquaintance named Mr. Jack Lawrence. A couple of years had passed since I had been in his presence in which time he had made quite a name for himself as the bass player for an ensemble named The Raconteurs. In association with his band-mate Mr. Jack White, he has since enjoyed considerable fame and success. What immediately struck me about him was that in spite of his successes, he still exhibited an authentic humility. He made note that he had been receiving my event invitations and was very gracious about the fact. I imagined him standing in some green-room in Italy, tuning his bass to perform for thousands of eager fans and receiving my transmission that stated ‘Come on out to the Family Wash tonight’. But, I am reminded of Emerson who said “There is no great and no small to the soul that maketh all”. Mr. Lawrence himself did not make the distinction, being very humble and personable. It was a pure example of a person managing himself well in the face of great accomplishment. I was immensely impressed and inspired!
As the night wore on, I allowed my deluded state to wear off. We adjourned at a reasonable hour and my valet Ulysses transported me safely back to the Good Estate. It was a much-needed night of good cheer and I gladly report that only mild and temporary brain damage was inflicted. I return to the tasks-at-hand with optimism and enthusiasm!
I received numerous telegraphs yesterday inquiring as to the success of our performance at the 5 Spot Thursday evening; too many, in fact, to respond singly. Therefore, I will tell the tale now since we are all gathered here in one place. Allow me to dim the lamp-light.
It was a chilly Thursday evening just like any other, yet it held the quintessence of spring – that unspoken enthusiasm which accompanies new life. The New Transcendentalists and I had congregated in my chamber to rehearse for the evening’s event. As we are engaged in a ceaseless course of experimentation, it was apparent that this night’s performance would have its own individual stamp. Most notably, it would be the first live performance for us with the pump organ. Mr. Wallace was playing this beast of an instrument, and conveniently it fit perfectly into his Volkswagen van. I must admit that it did seem a bit mad to haul this 120 year old piece of beautiful antique furniture to such a dank establishment as the 5 Spot, but my curiosity to see and hear it in a public context overpowered my trepidations. Just the visual of it sitting in Mr. W’s ‘vintage’ van provided a hilarious contrast! We wrestled this imposing instrument through the rock-club’s façade and up to its temporary resting place on the stage where it caused everything in its modern surroundings to look like science-fiction. Eventually, The New Transcendentalists joined it on-stage and balanced things out nicely.
We started the set with ambience, fading into As the Storm Rolls In. It was a perfect example of how an image is characterized by its background. My immediate impression was that our set was going to come off as strikingly down-tempo and moody in this setting. In such a moment, there is a detrimental instinct to compensate for this contrast, but in awareness we stayed the course. I have long been of the mind that the things which strike us as odd about a performance are the very things that are impressed into our minds. We may perhaps be uncomfortable with these feelings at first but they will eventually draw us further in. Those performances which are immediately recognizable will just as instantly be forgotten. Therefore, I carry this logic into my own performances, surrendering any need for congruency. When I have amused myself, I can honestly say that the performance was a success – and it was! The New Transcendentalists performed …well, transcendently! A talented fellow named Mr. Jamie Dick was sitting-in for Mr. P. on percussion. His playing was wonderful as was that of the lovely Ms. D. Add the swirling ambience of Mr. G. on lap steel combined with that of Mr. W. on pump organ and a dream like atmosphere was created. Our set lasted the better part of an hour, easing along like the melding scenes of a reverie. I was wholly satisfied.
For making this memorable evening possible, I extend my warmest appreciations to the staff of the 5 Spot, as well as Mr. Wallace who booked our appearance. I am also grateful to each of The New Transcendentalists for the contribution of His/Her unique talents. Moreover, I whole-heartedly thank those attentive handfuls of music-lovers who participated in the magic of the evening. It was a truly pleasurable experience for me and I do hope it was for you!
Tonight’s concert is sure to be a grand event! Invitations have been extended to a long list of distinguished personages, among them patrons and sages of the Old World. First to heed our Répondez s’il vous plaît was the celestial Mother Earth. Although she is very European in her grooming habits, she will be an honored and welcomed guest. Next on the list was the venerable Old Man Winter, but he declined our invitation citing ‘Thermophobia’. We did receive a response from Mister Sandman, but were unable to discern if it were a mere reverie. Nonetheless, his surreal message stated that he will attend, but that he works nights and may have to retire early. Father time is set to arrive at precisely 8:59 post-meridiem. We are somewhat concerned that his compulsion disorder will be upset if we are to start a few minutes late in adherence to tradition. Mistakenly, someone sent an invitation to Baby New Year who clearly cannot attend due to the ‘Over 21’ rule. His father, The Great Creator can none but be present, for He is omnipresent. There is a slight concern for overcrowding, but we have made every possible preparation.
If you yourself did not receive an invitation, then we beg your pardon! It would be a pleasure if you would honor us with your presence. As I have precluded, you will be in the finest company! Please accept this transmittance as your invitation. If you require further information or directions, we have provided a compendium and a map under World Travels.
In light of the prior week-end’s musical discoveries and with a giant leap of pecuniary faith, I have decided to abruptly alter the course of our recording project. The New Transcendentalists have elicited the assistance of an alchemist named Mr. Joe McMahan. It is he who produced my previous release Radio Noise, as well as recordings by Kevin Gordon, Jennifer Niceley, Mike Farris, The Altered Statesmen, Peter Bradley Adams, Claire Small, Joe and Vicki Price, and countless others. He has also contributed to up-coming releases by Kurt Wagner of Lambchop and a highly-anticipated new Kevin Gordon record. We have set a tentative date in March to record at a world-class facility in Nashville named The House of David.
The rendition of As the Storm Rolls In that you’re hearing is a selection from our recent pre-production session. As is the nature of experimentation, it is not without flaws, but I believe it to also contain moments of magic which can only occur from the synergy created by the interplay of inspired individuals. In comparison, the sound of compounding individual performances has produced lack-luster results. We must set-out to catch lightning in a bottle – capture the magic of the eternal moment! I hope you enjoy this fleeting moment of creative process. It is sure to become even more saturated with the spirit of Unity.
After several long months of meticulous calculation, rigorous experimentation, and implementation of the resulting scientific philosophies; I was able to uncover the quantum equivalent of the feeling of spring. I placed this elusive feeling into an advanced particle accelerator (the human heart) and alas, spring is manifest! Just as in my hypothesis – warmth, hope, and good cheer are ubiquitous and abound! My colleagues are sure to be shocked and awed by this revolutionary feat of science, which should guarantee me a place among the luminaries! Assuredly, my name shall be listed in scholastic texts and journals of metaphysics forevermore – as the ‘Benefactor of Spring’.
[Sunday]
As it turns out, my findings were inconclusive. Upon boasting to my fellow scientists, each insisted that he himself was the Creator, and had likewise been applying his consciousness to the upheaval of the winter. This is most troubling. Can they not see that I am the One – have they no perspective?! And as if it were not trifling enough, these men are so bold as to go about enjoying the fruits of my labors! Yea, I have seen each of them taking long leisurely strolls out-of-doors, and musing on park-benches with a pretentious air of magnanimity. It is much to my dismay that I myself cannot bask in this light of victory. I must immure myself within the stone walls of my laboratory until such time as I can prove irrefutably that I have discovered the Key to the Seasons. If my calculations are correct, I will have done so by the epoch of November.
I would like to dedicate to-day’s entry to my closest companion – the one with whom I share my home and my affections – who goes by the name of Ms. Bessie ‘Sniff’, the Bassett Hound. This dog (I am reticent to call her a dog) fills such an enormous space in my existence that I hardly know where to begin. She is the most loyal, loving, and loveable companion that I have ever known – not without comparison to anyone of the human race, but I consider her a person like any other. She certainly has as much personality as any person! Moreover, Bessie and I have more mutual understanding and respect than I have ever experienced in an interpersonal relationship. I don’t mean to imply cynicism with these assertions, but to illustrate the degree to which Bessie has captured my sentiments.
We rise together every morning. Bessie is more reliable than any alarm clock. At 5:01 every morning she springs her forelegs up onto my bedside to alert me that our day is to begin. My very first action is to prepare her break-fast. Only then do I proceed with my own rituals. If I am home throughout the day, Bessie is surely by my side except when she takes an independent notion to search the backyard for fresh curiosities. Through the window at my desk I can often see her on the grounds, carefully examining every inch with her unusually powerful snoot. What wonders she could be discerning with this profound faculty for smell I might never know! Scent would seem to be her dominating connection to the physical world as sight is ours. However, there is no question in my mind that she has a powerful sixth sense as well. She has a singular capacity for intuiting my moods and acting accordingly. I have in turn developed an ability to anticipate her needs. I find this to be a more effective form of communication than speech in any language! I believe it is the very thing that makes such a bond possible. Dogs are no more inherently ‘good’ than humans, as some would suggest. No! We simply TALK TOO MUCH. And when we have done so, we talk a little more in attempt to rectify our errors in communication. Yea, we only dig the hole deeper, and our innocent intentions are buried under a mass of conflicting words! I will admit – I do talk to Bessie, but rarely does she talk back. What a wise creature!
At dusk we often go for a walk together, I examining the beauty of the landscape with my eyes and her with her nose. As we are equally eager to do this every evening, I am sure that we possess the same ardor for nature, the night air, and walking leisurely in reverence of another day well-lived, whether it be at the writing-desk or sniffing away at the back-yard. In return to the Manse, we retire to our respective beds in unvocal appreciation for one-another and drift off, presumably to the same heaven of dreams…
Following a short luncheon with a colleague at a nearby eating-establishment, I returned to my abode where I would remain for the rest of the day and night. The afternoon was devoured as I labored away at the chalk-board on a formula which has perpetually perplexed me. As I simply cannot disregard a paradox, history will either prove me a genius or an inexorably obstinate ignoramus. I scribbled and paced well into the evening only stopping when Ulysses was audacious enough to enter the room to alert me that it was time for my favourite television program The Adventures ofSherlock Holmes.
To answer your two questions: yes, I do have a television; and yes, I do watch it on rare occasion, but only those presentations which might expand my mind rather than to subdue it. This program of which I speak is a beautifully-rendered production of Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories which have been airing every Saturday evening on public television. The episodes were filmed between 1984 and 1994 and featured an actor named Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes. In my estimation he was a brilliant artist. I have read that he spent those years obsessing over the role, becoming Sherlock Holmes to such an extent that he carried the eccentricities and neuroses of his character into daily life, suffering from manic depression and dying of heart failure in 1985. He is absolutely the star of the program, portraying Holmes’ erratic mannerisms and oratorical cunning with artistry. As you surely know by now, I am enamored by the inventive use of language; but I am doubly impressed by those who exhibit a gift-for-gab. Ergo, this program is something I am fervently drawn-to, and so I scarcely miss an episode.
It has recently come to my attention that there is a new box-office film entitled Sherlock Holmes with Robert Downey Jr. portraying the good detective. However, in viewing the trailer I was disenchanted to say the least! It seems no more than another ‘cute’ Hollywood action/comedy, characters and plot being interchangeable with of Pirates of Caribbean. We are not fools – give us substance! Have you noticed that in this modern-era cartoons are written for adults and feature-films for children? Just an observation.. That is all.
LAST NIGHT I ventured out from the Estate to attend a private gathering to which I had received an invitation. Although I do enjoy my solitude, I can not deny that I am a social creature. The encroaching elements of these long winter months have forced me in-of-doors, stifling my senses as I can only gaze upon nature through a pane. My garden seems a lifetime away from this position in my study. The rain and sleet has beaten it down into the soil where although I know the spirit of corn, tomatoes, and beans are still lurking; they are taking refuge like my-self. It is this very self which I have found increasingly in want of human contact so I accepted the gracious invitation and made the short trip to a nearby estate to see a performance by Mrs. Abigail Washburn.
It turned out to be the very night of relating for which I was in need. There were many pleasantly familiar faces, some of which I had not gazed upon since before the solstice. I also made the introduction of many new personages including a few enchanting young ladies, which was especially delightful! Among these introductions was the lovely Mrs. Washburn herself. If you are not familiar, Abigail is an astute songwriter and banjo player of the old-time tradition, known for her musical pilgrimages to China and her collaborations with (and marriage to) famed banjo virtuoso Bela’ Fleck. She was a most pleasant and engaging creature, with what seemed like an inexhaustible abundance of life-energy! She possessed a singular charisma, which when she began to perform, equated to a complete command of the audience’s attention. She shared the stage with an acquaintance of mine named Mr. Kai Welch as they have recently been collaborating. The show was engaging – playful and energetic but with a mischievous undertone. I am no music critic so I will not attempt to elaborate, but will only say that I was thoroughly entertained and impressed.
Following another round of socializing, I said my good-bye’s, bundled up and stepped out into a drizzly night where my valet Ulysses had the car in wait. I was filled with a new warmth which I carried with me through the gates to the Old Manse. I slept soundly with the celestial sound of a banjo plucking a Washington Phillips song in repetition…
I woke this morning particularly comfortable and warm. As I regained my coherency, it became apparent that Pandora, my chamber maid, had taken the liberty of rekindling the fire, filling the bed-warmer with coals, and sliding it betwixt the blankets just next to my feet so discreetly that I was never disturbed. Yet, I can hear her plainly in the adjacent room – aggressively laboring over woodwork and linen while singing the ancient hymn Of the Father’s Heart Begotten in Latin…♫
“Corde natus ex parentis
Ante mundi exordium
A et O cognominatus,
ipse fons et clausula
Omnium quae sunt, fuerunt,
quaeque post futura sunt.
Saeculorum saeculis”
I must have been in a dead slumber. I can recall no dreams which might have diverted my attention from the world of the living. Yet I was gone, presumably to some place of unspeakable wonder or I surely would have remained. Likewise, I must have returned because I find this world equally fascinating. Though I can conceive of no alternative in my current state of consciousness, I must confess that this world appears a playground to me. As I pull aside the window-veil and look down upon a snow-covered ground, I am filled with a vaguely familiar zeal of adolescence. My heart is warmed by the permafrost, as I contemplate what to do – or not to do with this day. Should I venture out into the street and consort with my fellow townsmen who are already engaged there in a bout of merrymaking? Or, should I retain this perspective of the witness for some creative endeavor? I shall decide after I have breakfasted….
I have just sat through the most energizing morning shower – an out-pouring of the essential stuff of life. The multitude of droplets upon the gables of this old manor created a powerful and sustained roar throughout its shadowed halls. From my writing desk I can see through a nearby pane that the rain has quit at last. Now, a calm of the same magnitude has settled in as to not be ignored. This proverbial ‘calm after the storm’, seems to me an ‘Amen’ or as we say in Religious Science ‘and so it is’, affirming that the world has been made new for us to go about this business of creating and re-creating ourselves.
“More servants wait on man
Than he’ll take notice of”
During the deluge, I sat in a moment of reverence at my newly-acquired pump organ. It is an Estey, built in Brattleboro, Vermont around 1892; among the finest of these instruments ever built. It is something which I have been seeking (and which, no doubt, has been seeking me) for many years. Because of their age it is rare to find one in tune and in good working order. This one is completely intact, in standard tuning and in tune with itself! To sit on its stool, pump the bellows with my feet, and play music on this magnificent contraption without the aid of electricity is thrilling to my sensibilities, not to mention that it is a lovely piece of antique furniture. But, to quote Shakespeare…”The play is the thing”. This instrument has a sound like the breath of the Gods! Already having recorded it as accompaniment on one of my compositions, it adds a texture which far surpassed my every expectation. It is a sound which has scarcely been heard by human ears in over a century.
At length, the ensuing calm has pervaded the interior of my home as well as the interior of my self. I can now go about the business of making music. Perhaps I will begin my day’s work on this beloved new instrument…
