I wrote this little memoir in the spirit of a Cupid, hoping someone out there hears me and tries this out and buys some lonely person who looks like they can really cook their groceries and they cook you dinner and in fact they can really cook well. Dinner together is delicious, and you take it from there, hopefully, expectantly, both of you taking your chances on love and food.
The truck’s left rear wheel came entirely off the vehicle, which then scraped to a stop on its naked rotor. My passenger noticed this phenomenon at the same moment, then we watched what followed in silent but shared wonder.
On Monday, November 25, Leonard Slatkin and the Chamber Music Society of St. Louis will present D.BachL, presumably pronounced “debacle,” a tribute to the composer Peter Schickele.
I knew Lester Bowie had been dead for a long time, and I think I know that dead people do not get up and dance at the funerals of people they have loved. But I never could escape an eerie feeling. I felt that Lester would twirl into the sanctuary behind the Bosman Twins, his signature white coat flowing open, waving his shining trumpet and finally blowing it with the voices of edgy angels.
Flea was always moving. True to his name, he never stood still for long. Indeed, you could say he flitted. He was smiling at you and slapping your back or hugging you, he connected with you, but, it always seemed, briefly.
When Bobby Kirksey bought Jacobsmeyers—already a legacy tavern in Granite City—he made it clear to his musician friends that his tavern was open to us. He meant it.
Though Bob Putnam was old enough to be my father and he nurtured and supported me, as he did for hundreds of other young creative artists, I would not say he was a father figure. I would expect a father to be an authority figure. Bob was an anti-authority figure.
On January of this year Neko Case posted to Instagram an unglamour shot of herself with the note, “This is me all hagged-out drained of life essence.” Even the red had bled out of her hair.
In the spectrum between the Dude too cool for the Eagles and the cabbie riding to Bill Szymczyk’s final mixes from Studio C, Lij Shaw was riding shotgun and saying: Turn it up!
I never met or shared a stage with Kinky Friedman, but we were label mates in the 1990s along with none other than Charles Manson, who had more news obituaries (in 2017) than just about anybody, but was still, of course, a profoundly unenviable man.
The fact remained that we were Matthew’s college band, and when he wanted his college band to play his wedding, his wedding band was us.
Dipping into the freaky voices gathered by Jerome Rothenberg for new song lyrics, I found myself in bottomless waters.