Joan Baez’s voice was a gift of the Gods; and what the Gods give, they can take away; anyone who heard her recent performance on the PBS special, Music of the Civil Rights Movement, could not have been but disappointed at the difference between that version of We Shall Overcome and her recorded version from her second live album, back in 1964. In one an angel is singing; today she sounds like what she is—veteran of a thousand marches for freedom, and like Muhammad Ali, more than one too many championship performances. Regrettably, it sounds like her fabled voice ran into Joe Frazer.
Judy Collins’ voice did not come from the Gods; it came from a childhood of musical training that included piano and voice lessons. And that training has held her in good stead; at Disney Concert Hall she pulled out her old favorites, from Both Sides Now to Send In the Clowns, and one still hears her early warm soprano caressing every note.
Steven Pinker has documented what John Lennon could only imagine: a world in which war is not nearly as popular as it used to be. The Harvard Psychologist and author of the new book The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined(Viking Press, NYC, 2011), came to Cal Tech’s Beckman Auditorium to offer a profoundly contrary view to contemporary beliefs that we live in a more violent and dangerous world than ever before, one in which terrorists hold more cards than enlightened rationalists, one in which violence is ever-present and Thomas Hobbes’ assessment of life in nature has become the hallmark of our post 9/11 century: it is mean, nasty, brutish and short.
In fact, argues Pinker, nothing could be further from the truth. Surveying 5,000 years of recorded history, and pre-history that has become interpretable due to archaeological science, he concludes that we live in a world marked by a measurable decline of violence of every kind: war—both between nations and civil war--genocide, murder, rape, child abuse, spousal abuse, capital punishment, torture and even corporal punishment of children. At the same time that they have declined, they have also become near universally condemned.
“The folk singers’ dream of the 1960s,” he sums up at one point, “has all but been realized,” citing the antiwar songs of Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Phil Ochs, Malvina Reynolds, Arlo Guthrie (whose Alice’s Restaurant is quoted at length) and Country Joe McDonald, not to mention a quirky novel that celebrated its 50th anniversary this year—Catch-22—war is slowly but persistently heading toward the dustbin of history.
When Ronald Reagan announced that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s he released a famous handwritten letter to the public, and then rode off into the sunset. Nancy became his public face and voice as they ventured into what their daughter Patty Davis called the long goodbye.
Glen Campbell has made a similar announcement, but John Wayne’s sidekick from True Grit is embarking on a goodbye tour around the track before he takes another look at the sun going down. He was at Club Nokia last night featuring songs from his legendary catalog of hits as well as his new and final studio album Ghost On the Canvas.
In the movie, you will recall, after a long, disgruntled turn as the Duke’s comic foil of a Texas Ranger, Campbell finally wins his spurs by saving Wayne’s life, not once but twice, and the second time, as Wayne pointedly and somberly observes, “after he was dead.” It turns out that Rooster Cogburn is not the only cowboy with true grit; Glen Campbell is made of the same stuff.
Driving through Carmageddon to get to Bob Dylan’s sold-out opening night concert at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa at the Orange County Fair I finally found out what the problem was:
They got Charles Darwin trapped out on Highway 5
The judge says to the High Sheriff, ‘I want him dead or alive
Either one, I don’t care’
High water everywhere.
(High Water Everywhere (for Charlie Patton))
Whatever crossed my wandering mind, Bob had it covered. But it wasn’t always immediately clear: At the end of the hour and forty-five minute concert a woman in front of me asked, “What was that song just before All Along the Watchtower?” I looked her in the eye and replied, “Like a Rolling Stone.”
She had been to five or six Dylan shows in the past few years and counted herself a real fan. So it wasn’t her ignorance or innocence showing; it was Dylan’s well-known penchant for rearranging his old songs just past the point of recognition. No matter; that was half the fun of hearing them again—to guess what song you were in the middle of before it passed you by, like catching a fast train before it left the station.
For this writer, it's been a 44 year journey since I last saw The Buffalo Springfield, or didn't see them I should say. During the summer of 1967 my 12 year-old self stood outside the minor league baseball stadium in Tucson, Arizona as a limousine carrying Neil Young, Richie Furay and Stephen Stills rolled into the venue. I didn't have tickets and only stood outside but marveled at seeing the three musicians appearing exactly as they did on that first album; Neil in long fringe buckskin, Richie all baby-faced with his Beatle '65 hair cut and Stephen like a rodeo cowboy with those long blond sideburns holding a cigarette with his arm leaning on the open window.
This time was different. At the Santa Barbara Bowl on June 8th, 2011, I actually saw them on stage. It was a receptive audience for the band of veteran musicians, all in their mid-sixties now with their own musical legacy well-established. Was it to be a concert of nostalgia? Would it be a time for 'old timers to fondly reminisce? Hardly. The concert and each song was executed with a new found vision and maturity but still just as fresh and alive as nearly a half a century ago. The feeling was playful on stage with Neil dancing and the three forming circles of rhythmic motion conjuring the past into a present day celebration. It was, if anything, the dance of the buffalos; a precious and endangered species. There was
It’s always risky starting a new festival. It’s even more risky doing so during a bad economy. But the folks at the Heritage Museum of Orange County took that gamble, and on Sunday May 22, the roll of the dice paid off.
First of all, the Heritage Museum of OC exists to remind folks about how OC used to be. The Museum provides a great field trip for OC grammar school students, and is also open to the public. The Museum features two historical homes, an orange grove, blacksmith shop, gardens and a “nature area”; an ideal setting for a bluegrass, folk and Americana festival.
The performers included Stephanie Bettman and Luke Halpin, who enthralled the audience with two sets: one for kids and one for kids of all ages. A Wing and A Prayer proved that the stage was sturdy as nearly 20 musicians, including a full brass section, played standards with gusto. The Dennis Roger Reed Band played a rousing set, Rory Cloud did an impressive short solo set and the day ended with the eclectic and captivating Folding Mr. Lincoln.
Off a soon-to-be-crowded two-lane road leading into Topanga Canyon, and despite early morning watery skies and crisp winds, Apollo, the Greek God of prophecy and music, begat a sonorous Sunday. Or it was someone like him. If you had a banjo on your knee and you weren’t sleepy, this was the place you were going to: Paramount Ranch in Agoura Hills. The crossroads for many grinning pickers, be they young, old, or somewhere in between, is the Topanga Banjo-Fiddle Contest and Folk Festival. This annual event rounds up those who’ve turned off the TV, put down the cellphone and turned to wood and peg, gut and hair, (okay, a little steel and nylon) and let their fingers do the talking. This is not to say that words get in the way. Out on the porch of the Railroad Stage, singers showed off a wide range of vocal styles that might cover a familiar Joni Mitchell tune, a near forgotten sacred harp song, or some gospel harmonies. And in and out of the many jamming circles that indeed jam the movie backdrop western town, the distinct puff and bleat of a harmonica elbowed in between the bowing of a fiddler or a mandolin riff- all hell bent on getting their fair share of the modal pie.
As every former hippie recalls with fondness, Arlo Guthrie, heir to the best pedigree in American folk music, used to tour in a “red VW microbus.” The very vehicle that took all the garbage out to the city dump on Thanksgiving, 1967 and thus cited for littering by Sheriff Obie. Yes we all know and love Arlo's classic 18 minute and 34 seconds antiwar story song, Alice’s Restaurant.
Fast-forward forty-four years: Arlo and his band, family and friends now tour in not one but two humongous earth-toned tour buses, with a hand-painted sixties surrealist logo for a previous “Lost World Tour” on the side. You could probably stuff a dozen VW microbuses in each one, and still have room left over for Alice’s Restaurant.
Give me the microbus, one six-string guitar, harmonica holder and mouth harp of Arlo’s first record, put it on one side of the scale, and then put the whole kit-and-kaboodle of his current small army of touring mates, vehicles, half dozen guitars and sound equipment on the other side, and watch it fly up and kick the beam.
El Celler de Can Roca in northern Spain is said to have the
best and most extensive wine list in the world, occupying three books so huge
they have to be wheeled to your table on a trolley. San Francisco's Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, held
annually in Golden Gate Park, is El Celler's musical equivalent. With 80
artists performing on six stages over a three-day run, it's an enormous
auditory banquet. And it's free.
Festival founder and funder Warren Hellman calls bluegrass
and other forms of Americana artistry "simple tunes played by complicated
people." The first festival, 10 years ago, was a birthday gift from Hellman to
his wife. The gift keeps on giving.
Big Fish is touring small pond America this summer, and his
eight tour buses rolled into Ontario, California last night, in San Bernardino
County. His web site, the only place in LA where the concert was advertised, is
not so much a web site as a secret society of his acolytes, who follow every
move, comment on every set list (all of which he varies from show to show, so
that half the mystery is simply what he'll choose to sing on any given night).
These are not just acolytes, which has something of a demeaning connotation,
but add up to a world wide congregation for this non-preaching preacher, this non-teaching
teacher, almost an alternative America waiting in the wings-the side show at
the circus, like the small town he came from, Hibbing, Minnesota, in 1941.
You know you're at a helluva folk concert when a Rock and
Roll Hall-of-Famer is the opening act, but there was Roger McGuinn-lead singer
for the Byrds-genially opening for Joan Baez at Harry Bridges Memorial Park in
Long Beach, where the magnificent Queen Mary is docked. I thought I was having
an out-of-body experience when I heard the first dulcet strains of Bob Dylan's My Back Pages floating through the
stratosphere toward me, but I quickly realized it wasn't an unannounced (though
the thought had crossed my mind) visitation from Mr. D.
Dedicated to Larry
Abbott, Vietnam Veteran for Peace; thank you for the tickets!
What would you give for Rev. Gary Davis's phone number? Roy
Book Binder stumbled on it by accident when he returned to New York City in
1966 from his volunteer stint in the Navy, and heard an old black blues singer
at a small club in Greenwich Village. He fell in love with the blues that
night. After the show he asked the singer if he would teach him to play guitar,
and was met with something less than enthusiasm. "You can steal it from me," he
was told, "but I won't give it to you." Finally, though, his persistence paid
off, and two nights later the singer gave him a phone number. Is that really
your phone number? Book Binder asked him. "Oh no-I can't teach you-that's
Reverend Gary Davis's phone number-he'll teach you for five dollars a lesson.
I don't usually drive to Bakersfield for concerts, but was
certainly glad I did a couple of Sundays ago. The hillsides along the I-5
‘grapevine' and Tejon Pass were poppy orange and new grass green, and Tony
McManus was playing at a Sunday afternoon house concert. Oh, and I was also
promised dinner in addition to a few hours of excellent music - "what's not to
like?!"
There are any number of A-list guitar players out there,
enough that one should pause before suggesting another name be added to it, but
Tony McManus ought to make the cut handily. In two hour-plus sets he
exquisitely played pieces from his native Scotland, Ireland, Spain, South
Africa and the United States.
Billed as "The First Family of Folk Music," my first
question is, "Did Pete Seeger die?" Did Peggy? I hadn't heard. This "first
family" business is somewhat disconcerting, and immediately calls to mind the
Lomaxes (John, Alan and Bess), the Seegers (Pete, Mike, Peggy and her late
husband Ewan MacColl, not to mention parents Charles Seeger and Ruth Crawford
Seeger), and of course the Carter Family (A.P., Mother Maybelle, Sarah, June
and her little known husband, the greatest country/folk singer of the 20th
Century, Johnny Cash).
Calling Beyond the
Pale a "klezmer band' would unfairly pigeonhole the Toronto-based group's
big-eared take on Eastern European, Balkan, and other musics. But then, that
characterization would be true of much of the klezmorim new wave, restless
reinventors who honor the tradition while pushing the boundaries farther
afield.
The version of BTP at the Skirball was pared down to a quintet and featured a different accordionist than on Postcards. Percussionist/violinist Bogdan Djukic was unable to accompany the group for its California mini-tour. Milos Popovic, credited as playing squeezebox on the album, was replaced by fellow Serbian expat Dejan Badnjar, who joined the core four on stage-mandolinist/cofounder Eric Stein, bassist/cofounder Bret Higgins, violinist Aleksandar Gajic, and clarinetist Martin van de Ven.
So a Canadian, a Vermonter, and an Englishman walked into a
bar.... Well not a bar in Crowfoot's case, but the performance space behind a
coffee house. The trio, now based in Quebec, brought their deeply felt
confluence of Irish, English, Appalachian, French Canadian, and other musics to
Bob Stane's fulcrum of folk and roots in Altadena. A pretty good crowd turned
out (only a handful of empty seats); you could certainly do a helluva lot worse
finding a Tuesday night alternative to "NCIS," I s'pose.
Celtic trio Banshee in the Kitchen came out from their
homebase in Bakersfield to kick off this
summer's series of free concerts at the Peter Strauss Ranch. Sponsored by the
Topanga Banjo Fiddle contest, these concerts are family events, great fun for
grown-ups and kids alike. So this review is brought to you by one grown-up and
one kid.
A GROWN-UP PERPECTIVE (by Kathy)
There are only three Banshees: Jill Egland, Brenda Hunter
and Mary Tulin. It seems like there should be more of them, though, from the
number of instruments you see on stage. Between them, the Banshees play hammer
dulcimer (Brenda), fiddle (Brenda), piano accordion (Jill), flute (Jill),
bodhran (Jill), bouzouki (Mary) and guitars of various types and tunings
(Mary). They all sing, too.
Over 35 years ago, Garfield High School students David
Hidalgo and Louie Perez began composing songs together. As Perez expressed it
to the adoring audience at Torrance Cultural Art Center on Sunday, January 11,
"It all started in 1970 when I went over to David's house and stayed about a
year." Their collaboration evolved into Los Lobos, the Grammy-winning band from
East L.A. that has traveled the world with its unique blend of Chicano rock,
Tejano music, rock en Espanol, and Mexican roots music.
So, when a small entry in South Bay's Beach Reporter
announced David Hidalgo and Louie Perez of Los Lobos: Stories and Songs at
Torrance Cultural Arts Center, it seemed like a rare opportunity to learn how
the pair's experiences have driven the development of this home-grown musical
phenomenon.
As the boundaries between some countries become more strictly enforced, the borderlines continue to blur between international music. What was once considered almost the outlaw music of the gypsies is now stealing its way overseas into the American music mix by way of the internet, amalgams of expatriates, and local musicians who have traveled the caravan routes. Maybe just being a musician today is to be a gypsy of sorts, and the cyber world allows for wandering freely across musical perimeters. Exposure to what was once obscure, esoteric, lost, or dying music is now available for the masses.
Mark Fosson's music got waylaid back in the 1970s by an
unfortunate incident that slowed down a young man's climb up the industry
fretboard. He lost his record and his contract when legendary guitarist, John
Fahey, proprietor of Takoma records, who Fosson had signed with, was forced to
sell the company to Chrysalis. But not with Fosson or his record. That event
took him on a long roundabout way of getting back to those roots, but if his
recent show on the Westside is any indication, the talent that Fahey noticed
way back then, has never left him.
"Sometimes heroes happen when you need ‘em." Kris Kristofferson
Sometimes, it seems, heroes and legends just kind of roll through town, quietly, under publicized and unassuming. This happened Sunday afternoon October 19 as the Haugh Performing Arts Center in Glendora hosted a concert by Kris Kristofferson with next to no promotion. Even so, the concert was filled to near capacity. Now in his early 70's, the singer-songwriter kept joking about trying to imagine it was Saturday night rather than Sunday afternoon. However, by the end of the earthy, magical show, he announced to the enthusiastic audience, they had made him feel like it was a Saturday night. This is high praise from the poet laureate of the counter-culture dusty honky tonks of the 1970s.
Kristofferson, who has traveled with various back up musicians over the years, has decided to appear alone in the same way he did when he first appeared in Nashville and later on his first trek as a songwriter to LA's Troubadour in 1970. It was a risky but a wise move for this artist who has always performed best in the most intimate settings. It was as honest and real a performance as he has ever given in his long career. There were no fancy guitar parts, no soaring harmony vocals to cover up any limitations. There was barely even any talk between the songs. It was just Kris, the guitar, the songs and a privileged audience.
Who could fill up the beautiful 500-seat Harold M. Williams Auditorium at the Getty Center in the middle of the Sepulveda Pass during Friday night rush hour? Alison Krauss? Springsteen?The Pope?
How about the local "Travelin' American Folksingers" from Van Nuys, Fur Dixon and Steve Werner? With ever-growing audiences of fans andfriends, including high percentages of bikers and fellow musicians, the popularity of this duo continues to grow by leaps and bounds. And now the regular denizens of the Friday Nights at the Getty series can be added to that fan base as they were wowed by the talent, diversity and down-home great entertainment that filled the packed auditorium.
With three behind him there was no reason that the latest FOLKTACULAR held August 31st at Bergamot Station in Santa Monica should be anything less than a great evening of folk music. Robert Morgan Fisher's twice a year bash once again featured a full (eight-hour) schedule filled to the brim with some of the most talented singer-songwriters from the Los Angeles area and beyond.
Robert opened the 2008 Labor Day showcase with a brief intro, a couple of his poignant songs and a jump into an aggressive schedule that attempted to bring another act to the stage every fifteen minutes.
The ever-present Dave Morrison, Chad Watson with wife Pam Loe, and Freebo were joined by repeat performers Severin Browne, Paul Zollo, Piper-Grey, Dale LaDuke and Mother Nature's Army. New additions this time around included Allan Comeau, Lee Domann, Manda (Mosher), "Banjo" Fred Starner, Garret Swayne, Tim Tedrow & Terry Vreeland, Joyce Woodson and headliner Dan Bern (www.danbern.com).
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times-a time
to kill, a time to heal, a time of war, a time of peace-a time to be reminded
of the greatness of Dylan's catalogue of songs, the songs that have earned him
the title of "poet laureate of rock and roll," and a time to wonder whether his
recent persona of rocker at the keyboards really does those songs justice.
It was the best of Dylan; it was the worst of Dylan. But
first the bad news: for those who remember Bob as the guitar-slinging,
harmonica blowing troubadour of times past (extending all the way into the
90's-which is the last time I had seen a live performance) that Dylan is long
gone. He has a great five-piece band, including two first rate guitarists, but
at no time during the show did Bob himself pick up the instrument that defines
both the folk and rock troubadour of his early and middle periods.
Among the gifts of many a fine singer-songwriter is the ability to tell stories which bring out the ordinary miracles in the world around us. On Saturday night, March 29th, at McCabe's in Santa Monica, Carrie Newcomer brought her own brand of natural magic through song and story. A Quaker from Indiana gifted with an uncommon richness in her voice and insightful songwriting, Newcomer guided the audience through many of the songs on her new, critically acclaimed CD, The Geography of Light. The songs were straightforward and simple with an inner elegance that supported her spiritual insights and songs of compassion. For example, in the song, There is a Tree, she gives voice to her affinity for finding words for life experiences, which are sometimes beyond words. The humor-through-song of the evening was an old-time jazz styled song called "Don't Push Send." It tells stories of the now common and sometimes disastrous experience of sending knee-jerk emotional e-mails.
"It's time to celebrate life!" These were the words
of folksinger and 60's legend, Barry McGuire last Saturday night at The Coffee
Gallery in Altadena,
California. His new live show
with country-rock pioneer, Terry Talbot of Mason Proffit is called Trippin'
The 60's. It is a celebration of life in the present that draws from
folk-rock era of the '60's. McGuire and Talbot have capably assembled a review
in story and song that reminds us of the significance that music has played in
our history and how important it continues to be today. They should know. They
experienced it first-hand.
During this show, they took the audience through a
chronological bullet train of a ride through the early to late 60's. Both
musicians drew from personal experiences with Bob Dylan, The Byrds, The Mamas
& The Papas, John Sebastian, Janis Joplin and John Denver among others.
During the concert they told stories and performed the songs that changed the
lives of a generation. Included in the show were McGuire's own Green, Green that
he recorded while he was in The New Christy Minstrels and his hit, Eve of
Destruction. Also included in
the show were Talbot's hits with Mason Proffit, Better Find Jesus and Two
Hangmen. The other songs performed by the duo were Monday, Monday,
Creeque Alley, Suite Judy Blue Eyes,
Here Comes The Sun and a host of others.
It's a
bit of a challenge when you try to recreate a Louisiana
bayou in a sprawling southern California
park. Located across the street from a
harbor which embraces the Queen Mary and the Pacific Ocean
on one side and a major hotel and convention center on the other, it's a
stretch to imagine the rustic swamplands of the south. You won't see a ‘gator launching itself out
of the water nor will you be digging crawfish out of a muddy marsh. The man-made Rainbow Lagoon isn't Lake Ponchartrain
or even Lake Charles and nothing resembling the
mighty Mississippi River snakes through the
groomed green turf of the park. However,
for one weekend in June, the sounds emanating from the 21st Annual
Long Beach Bayou Festival's Center (Bayou) stage can transport you and your
NoCal city slicker Dan Hicks brought a crackling edition of the Hot Licks to the venerable show room stage at McCabe's. And, he threw the audience a substantial curve ball. Rather than performing his own substantial catalogue of beloved classics, Hicks took the sold out house on an extended history of American Folk Music. Billed on his website as "A Salute to the Folk Years," Professor Hicks read prepared historical contexts and artists' bios as song introductions, usually interjecting wry comments. On one roll call of artists, he mentioned Jean Ritchie and Richie Havens, then pointed out they weren't related.
Joan Baez’s voice was a gift of the Gods; and what the Gods give, they can take away; anyone who heard her recent performance on the PBS special, Music of the Civil Rights Movement, could not have been but disappointed at the difference between that version of We Shall Overcome and her recorded version from her second live album, back in 1964. In one an angel is singing; today she sounds like what she is—veteran of a thousand marches for freedom, and like Muhammad Ali, more than one too many championship performances. Regrettably, it sounds like her fabled voice ran into Joe Frazer.
Steven Pinker has documented what John Lennon could only imagine: a world in which war is not nearly as popular as it used to be. The Harvard Psychologist and author of the new book The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined(Viking Press, NYC, 2011), came to Cal Tech’s Beckman Auditorium to offer a profoundly contrary view to contemporary beliefs that we live in a more violent and dangerous world than ever before, one in which terrorists hold more cards than enlightened rationalists, one in which violence is ever-present and Thomas Hobbes’ assessment of life in nature has become the hallmark of our post 9/11 century: it is mean, nasty, brutish and short.
When Ronald Reagan announced that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s he released a famous handwritten letter to the public, and then rode off into the sunset. Nancy became his public face and voice as they ventured into what their daughter Patty Davis called the long goodbye.
Driving through Carmageddon to get to Bob Dylan’s sold-out opening night concert at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa at the Orange County Fair I finally found out what the problem was:
For this writer, it's been a 44 year journey since I last saw The Buffalo Springfield, or didn't see them I should say. During the summer of 1967 my 12 year-old self stood outside the minor league baseball stadium in Tucson, Arizona as a limousine carrying Neil Young, Richie Furay and Stephen Stills rolled into the venue. I didn't have tickets and only stood outside but marveled at seeing the three musicians appearing exactly as they did on that first album; Neil in long fringe buckskin, Richie all baby-faced with his Beatle '65 hair cut and Stephen like a rodeo cowboy with those long blond sideburns holding a cigarette with his arm leaning on the open window.
It’s always risky starting a new festival. It’s even more risky doing so during a bad economy. But the folks at the Heritage Museum of Orange County took that gamble, and on Sunday May 22, the roll of the dice paid off.
Off a soon-to-be-crowded two-lane road leading into Topanga Canyon, and despite early morning watery skies and crisp winds, Apollo, the Greek God of prophecy and music, begat a sonorous Sunday. Or it was someone like him. If you had a banjo on your knee and you weren’t sleepy, this was the place you were going to: Paramount Ranch in Agoura Hills. The crossroads for many grinning pickers, be they young, old, or somewhere in between, is the Topanga Banjo-Fiddle Contest and Folk Festival. This annual event rounds up those who’ve turned off the TV, put down the cellphone and turned to wood and peg, gut and hair, (okay, a little steel and nylon) and let their fingers do the talking. This is not to say that words get in the way. Out on the porch of the Railroad Stage, singers showed off a wide range of vocal styles that might cover a familiar Joni Mitchell tune, a near forgotten sacred harp song, or some gospel harmonies. And in and out of the many jamming circles that indeed jam the movie backdrop western town, the distinct puff and bleat of a harmonica elbowed in between the bowing of a fiddler or a mandolin riff- all hell bent on getting their fair share of the modal pie.
As every former hippie recalls with fondness, Arlo Guthrie, heir to the best pedigree in American folk music, used to tour in a “red VW microbus.” The very vehicle that took all the garbage out to the city dump on Thanksgiving, 1967 and thus cited for littering by Sheriff Obie. Yes we all know and love Arlo's classic 18 minute and 34 seconds antiwar story song, Alice’s Restaurant.
El Celler de Can Roca in northern Spain is said to have the
best and most extensive wine list in the world, occupying three books so huge
they have to be wheeled to your table on a trolley. San Francisco's Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, held
annually in Golden Gate Park, is El Celler's musical equivalent. With 80
artists performing on six stages over a three-day run, it's an enormous
auditory banquet. And it's free.
Big Fish is touring small pond America this summer, and his
eight tour buses rolled into Ontario, California last night, in San Bernardino
County. His web site, the only place in LA where the concert was advertised, is
not so much a web site as a secret society of his acolytes, who follow every
move, comment on every set list (all of which he varies from show to show, so
that half the mystery is simply what he'll choose to sing on any given night).
These are not just acolytes, which has something of a demeaning connotation,
but add up to a world wide congregation for this non-preaching preacher, this non-teaching
teacher, almost an alternative America waiting in the wings-the side show at
the circus, like the small town he came from, Hibbing, Minnesota, in 1941.
You know you're at a helluva folk concert when a Rock and
Roll Hall-of-Famer is the opening act, but there was Roger McGuinn-lead singer
for the Byrds-genially opening for Joan Baez at Harry Bridges Memorial Park in
Long Beach, where the magnificent Queen Mary is docked. I thought I was having
an out-of-body experience when I heard the first dulcet strains of Bob Dylan's My Back Pages floating through the
stratosphere toward me, but I quickly realized it wasn't an unannounced (though
the thought had crossed my mind) visitation from Mr. D.
Dedicated to Larry
Abbott, Vietnam Veteran for Peace; thank you for the tickets!
I don't usually drive to Bakersfield for concerts, but was
certainly glad I did a couple of Sundays ago. The hillsides along the I-5
‘grapevine' and Tejon Pass were poppy orange and new grass green, and Tony
McManus was playing at a Sunday afternoon house concert. Oh, and I was also
promised dinner in addition to a few hours of excellent music - "what's not to
like?!"
Billed as "The First Family of Folk Music," my first
question is, "Did Pete Seeger die?" Did Peggy? I hadn't heard. This "first
family" business is somewhat disconcerting, and immediately calls to mind the
Lomaxes (John, Alan and Bess), the Seegers (Pete, Mike, Peggy and her late
husband Ewan MacColl, not to mention parents Charles Seeger and Ruth Crawford
Seeger), and of course the Carter Family (A.P., Mother Maybelle, Sarah, June
and her little known husband, the greatest country/folk singer of the 20th
Century, Johnny Cash).
So a Canadian, a Vermonter, and an Englishman walked into a
bar.... Well not a bar in Crowfoot's case, but the performance space behind a
coffee house. The trio, now based in Quebec, brought their deeply felt
confluence of Irish, English, Appalachian, French Canadian, and other musics to
Bob Stane's fulcrum of folk and roots in Altadena. A pretty good crowd turned
out (only a handful of empty seats); you could certainly do a helluva lot worse
finding a Tuesday night alternative to "NCIS," I s'pose.
"It's time to celebrate life!" These were the words
of folksinger and 60's legend, Barry McGuire last Saturday night at The Coffee
Gallery in 
It's a
bit of a challenge when you try to recreate a Louisiana
bayou in a sprawling southern California
park. Located across the street from a
harbor which embraces the Queen Mary and the Pacific Ocean
on one side and a major hotel and convention center on the other, it's a
stretch to imagine the rustic swamplands of the south. You won't see a ‘gator launching itself out
of the water nor will you be digging crawfish out of a muddy marsh. The man-made Rainbow Lagoon isn't Lake Ponchartrain
or even Lake Charles and nothing resembling the
mighty Mississippi River snakes through the
groomed green turf of the park. However,
for one weekend in June, the sounds emanating from the 21st Annual
Long Beach Bayou Festival's Center (Bayou) stage can transport you and your
