This piece was published in the May issue of Blues Junction, an online magazine. In fact, Dave ran it again in the June issue!

Hemingway's Cats

I have a bass that I bought a few years ago straight from Harvey Brooks. Harvey played with everyone it seemed. From Buddy Miles’ band Electric Flag to Bob Dylan on his iconic “Highway 61 Revisited” album which yielded the song Like a Rolling Stone. He played on Miles Davis’ groundbreaking “Bitches Brew”. Brooks even did session work and toured with the Doors. He was an in demand player who could bridge the gap from rock to blues to jazz–fusion.

The bass itself is kind of dirty. The dirt is all Harvey‘s. I’ve never cleaned it. Never will. It also happens to have Harvey’s autograph written in huge letters on the back. The only thing I’ve done to the bass is change the strings to flat wounds. It’s much easier on the fret board. Playing this bass makes me feel a small but direct link to these artists, and acts as inspiration. It links me, in some minute but meaningful way, to an interesting time in America’s musical history.

Recently I was playing in a club. Mounted on the wall in a glass case were two guitars. One was autographed by Pink Floyd and the other signed by Led Zeppelin. The guitars were both extremely cheap. They were “budget on a budget” brands. No one has ever played a note of joy on either guitar. Neither model is remotely associated with the bands that autographed them. For all practical purposes these guitars may as well be a toaster that doesn’t work, a car without a battery or a broken crescent wrench.

My bass on the other hand is a virtual talisman, ready to be imbued with all the spirit I can muster. Those guitars on the wall are pretty much just cocktail napkins.

As I was playing in that club I was reminded of a dilemma facing me as I was standing outside the gate to Ernest Hemingway’s house in Key West, Florida a few years earlier. What would I find inside the house? Would there be spirit or just a napkin?

I pretty much think Hemingway saved the world. Prior to Hemingway, writing was dense, demonstrative, and condescending. Every emotion and action was described in excruciating detail. Novels unfolded in language that was meant to be difficult. It was as if writers were trying to show off their vocabulary. This often seemed to be more important than the story itself. Hemingway let dialog and even silence outline what was actually happening. Hemingway’s writing was a jazz combo, with the reader as an active participant, interpreting and reacting with the characters and story in a palpable way.

So there I was at the gate of the Hemingway house. I stared at the sign that read, ‘Admission $12.00’. I’d been all over the internet looking for any information as to what Hemingway had written there. When did he live in the home? What did he do while he was there? My research revealed very little solid information. It was all pretty vague. It seemed he lived there for about ten years, starting in 1931.

The web site did however contain a lot of information about the sixty or so cats that live on the grounds. There were even pictures of some of them. There was information about a special fence that kept them from straying off the property. Lots of details about the cats were readily available including the fact that many of the cats were polydactyl. These six-toed cats were considered to be good luck to seaman. In fact it was a ship’s captain who brought the first cat to the compound. I found it interesting that a lot of the cats on the grounds were probably descendants of that original cat. But here’s the catch. The cats were brought to the house after Hemingway committed suicide in 1961, a full twenty years after Hemingway moved out of the house.

So the cats are the “hook” to get people into Hemingway’s house? They represent “the cocktail napkins” of America’s greatest literary giant. The cats to me were the cheap “Starcaster” guitars hanging on a wall with Hemingway’s autograph. If Harvey Brooks’ bass had never been played but autographed it would mean as much to me as a home full of cats in Key West that Hemingway never even knew existed. 　

I know Hemingway got up every morning and wrote a thousand words; that was his discipline, his ritual, his church. To see this space, the desk he sat at, the window he looked out of, the room he sat in, would be worth the $12 admission. I don’t even know what I’d pay for even one minute sitting at the desk by myself. That would be absolutely priceless. I just wasn’t sure I could put up with the other distractions to enjoy it. I like cats. That’s not the problem. I just think this shrine should be special.

That’s why I often refer to one of my favorite passages from “The Sun Also Rises”. “It’s a simple exchange of values.” You give them money, in exchange you receive admission to a cat infested mansion. Now if they had a stuffed dog in the house that might be another story.

That experience in Key West makes me think of my bass that was a part of so many important recordings. It doesn’t need a bunch of cats to imbibe the instrument with artificial meaning. It has the dirt, the grit and the soul already in place. Now that is priceless.

This piece was published in the August 2011 issue of Blues Junction, an online magazine.

New Orleans Blues

The city of New Orleans has seen far more than it’s fair share of heartbreak and trial. Floods, hurricanes, fires, and a myriad of different diseases have brought this city to it’s knees time and again, bent but not broken.

“Panic” has never been part of the New Orleans landscape. There’s a quiet resilience that lies just under the surface of their cool, Southern façade. All of this was tested nearly one hundred years ago by the appearance of the serial killer dubbed “The Axeman”, who kept the Crescent City in a frenzy for almost a year and a half.

On May 23, 1918, an Italian grocer and his wife were butchered while sleeping in their apartment. The police found a panel in the rear door had been chiseled out, providing a way in for the killer. The murder weapon, an axe, was found in the apartment, still coated with blood. Nothing in the house had been stolen, ruling out burglary as a motive.

Over the course of his “reign of terror”, The Axeman claimed 12 victims. Although the police made several arrests, none of the suspects panned out. Whipped up by media coverage, the citizens would spend fitful nights and carefully read the morning papers for word of more murders. Many claimed The Axeman wasn’t a man at all, but an evil spirit who could appear at will to claim his victims.

Like many serial killers, The Axeman seemed to enjoy the media coverage and panic caused by his night time dalliances, and often wrote strange missives to the local papers to enhance his legend as a demon, killing people for pure joy. On Friday, March 14, 1919, the editor of the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper received a letter from a man who claimed to be the Axeman. The letter started with this;

Hell, March 13, 1919

Esteemed Mortal:

They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.

The letter goes on to talk about terrible a being he is, how the police will never catch him, and how he’s collecting souls to keep him company in hell. Then the killer gets…a little weird (this IS New Orleans, after all);

Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:

I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.

New Orleans has always been a musical city. It is, after all, the birthplace of Jazz. Chances are, though, that the world itself had never seen a city come alive with music like that Tuesday night in March of 1919. Every restaurant and club was packed to the rafters with revelers, and all through the night the sounds of brass, drums, and strings warded off the evil spirit. The composer Joseph Davilla penned a special song for the night called “The Mysterious Axeman’s Jazz”, and the sheet music became a best seller.

No one got the axe that night, and The Axeman was never identified or caught. I think about this story almost every time I’m in New Orleans, for two reasons; One, New Orleans is a city where you can feel the ghosts hanging in the air like humidity. The past plays a huge role in what the city is today. The second reason is that a stroll down Frenchmen Street, with it’s many nightclubs and bars, makes me feel like the locals are still warding off the Axeman the best that they can!

There are many cities that can claim to be musical destinations, and all those claims are valid, but there’s no city like New Orleans when it comes to sheer volume and variety of music. Jazz, funk, zydeco, folk, rock, and even blues are as readily available as fast food is in other cities. Often, two or more of those different kinds of music get mixed together in a kind of…oh, what’s a good, New Orleans-kind-of word for “stew”…mélange that you simply won’t find elsewhere.

Frenchmen Street is full of famous clubs - too many to name, really, but if you don’t like what you hear at one, you can always just go next door or across the street! Elsewhere in the city, clubs like Howlin’ Wolf, Tipitina’s , or the famous “Rock n’ Bowl” have music pretty much every night. In the French Quarter, Bourbon Street tends to be more “classic rock” and strip clubs, but just around the corner at Preservation Hall, you can hear music played where the only thing electric is a bare light bulb, and it’s a lesson in dynamics for any musician.

My personal favorite, though, has to be the Maple Leaf up in the Carrollton district. A seven nights a week calendar focusing on local talent. And “talent” is the key word; regular weekly gigs for Papa Gros Funk, and the Rebirth Brass Band, not to mention the famed Thursday night “trio” gigs, where George Porter Jr. and Johnny Vidacovitch use a steady stream of talented guests to fill out the “trio” part, and improvise an entire night of music. Some of the best musicians in the world play here every week.

The Holy Grail of all musical quests has to be the ten days encompassing JazzFest. JazzFest is the multi-stage cultural event held every Spring on the last weekend of March through the first weekend of April. Hundreds of local and national acts graces the various stages, surrounded by all the local culture and cuisine at the city’s Fairgrounds. Everyone has a well marked, ragged looking copy of the all important “grids”, showing who’s playing which stage at what time, and which day!

Perhaps the most amazing thing about JazzFest is the way the city becomes one giant music venue for the entire time the fest is going on! There are five or six bands a day playing at the record store, Louisiana Music Factory. Everywhere that can have music, has a lot of music. Every bar, Laundromat, and museum is awash in enough talent to scare The Axeman away for good.

Music, in New Orleans is different. It matters. It’s a deeply ingrained part of the culture. More so than any where else in the United States. You can’t go to New Orleans without hearing music. It’s everywhere. It’s as present as weather, water, or even food.

Here‘s a little story that illustrates my point; Most people are familiar with the International Blues Challenge, or “IBC’s as they’re known. Local bands all over the world compete to represent their local Blues Society at the big contest held every year in Memphis. Fame and fabulous prizes await the winners, and the event grow bigger and bigger each year.

On a local level, the contests usually start with nine to twelve bands and in the preliminary round, whittle it down to three for the “Finals”, the winner heading to Memphis. These contests can be tough, because getting blues bands together to basically play for free is a tough sell. So in New Orleans, they do it a little differently, because the finals are broadcast live on the city’s outstanding radio station WWOZ! Not only that, but because of the broadcast, each band member gets paid “scale” for their performance. This is an unprecedented type of cooperation between various elements recognizing a singular goal; promote New Orleans blues and blues musicians.

So if you’re a musician or a music fan, you owe yourself a trip to New Orleans. Obviously I’ve just skimmed the surface, but part of the fun is discovering your own magic. If you’re lucky, the city will welcome and caress you the way it has me, and calls to me every day. I’m thrilled to death every time I go there, and sad every time I leave. Three quick pieces of advice;

1.) It’s not “Nawlins” and it’s not “New Orleeens”; it’s “new-WAH-lens”.

2.) Don’t call it “Big Easy.” Nobody there remembers that phrase before the movie of the same name, and they hate that movie.

3.) Remember; make sure you’re around a joyful noise! Got to keep The Axeman away!



This story appeared in the June 2011 edition of Blues Junction.

Not So Secret Societies

Picture this; it's Monday night in Maumee, Ohio, Maumee being a suburb of Toledo. The local bar has just undergone an ownership change. They're not so sure that live music, especially blues, will sell beer the way Karaoke will, at least until football season. The idea of a so-called "National Blues Act" coming into town and doing any business on this late addition to the schedule, at a glance, looks like a long shot.

Yet here we are, and the room is full. And it's because of one thing; the local Blues Society. In this case, The Black Swamp Blues Society.

For any touring blues band, the local Blues Societies are the people who put gas in the tank, and cold drinks in the cooler. They can be the difference between an empty room and a packed house. This big cities are one thing, but it’s the smaller Blues Societies that seem the happiest to see you.

At the Cincinnati Blues festival, it was BS - as in "Blues Society" - volunteers who drove the army of golf carts carrying equipment and people from the parking lot, to the hospitality tent, to the backstage. In Edmonton, BS volunteers swarmed the stage between sets and moved...whatever they were told to move, really. They bring the food, run the gate, sell your merchandise, make you tea, and sometimes even do massages. They take pride in spoiling us.

And we musicians are pretty good at getting spoiled.

The only thing they want in return is a little access, and that interaction between "Artiste" and "Fan" is what makes the blues A.) special and unique, and B.) a living, breathing art form. I see articles all the time bemoaning the future of the blues, and how the form isn't bringing in younger talent, isn't expanding it's appeal, and the fan base is aging.

Well, yeah! Not everyone grows up loving the blues. A lot of fans come to the blues as they get a little older, and the reasons have to do with the "re-invent the wheel" nature of popular music that makes so much of it ring hollow to the ageing fan The fact is that blues is so fan friendly, through festivals, the cruises, and local Blues Societies, that you’re not just finding bands you like, you’re making lasting acquaintances with people you’re going to see once or twice a year.

It's not just touring acts; Blues Societies are invaluable resources for local acts, too! They're the one's who come to see you, talk about you, and buy your stuff. If you're a musician, these are the fans who can help your career. They’re the one’s in charge of sending bands to the IBC Competition in Memphis. Sometimes, they know who needs someone before the musicians do (like Deb, who I'll owe forever for the heads up on the Candye gig!).

Blues Societies and memberships thereof are increasing rapidly as people discover not only how good today’s blues music can be, but how much fun it is to be a part of the “scene.“ Support your local Blues Society, because they support everything! Speaking of which, I’m overdue renewing my Golden Gate Blues Society membership!

This is an expanded version of a piece I wrote in June of 2009.

Nightclub Owners and Bookers; A Field Guide

People play music because they love to play music. “Play.” The artistic freedom. Good times with friends. The titillating satisfaction that comes with the situational adoration that accompanies performance…y’know; chicks.

I don’t throw around absolutes too often, *ahem*, but I will say this; nobody ever got into music because they enjoyed the concept of trying to book gigs. There is no “thrill of the hunt” in continuously trying to talk bar owners out of their money. Let’s face it; the ‘business’ part of the music business, is often demoralizing and depressing, and probably contributes more to Musician Drop-out than anything else, except maybe “Musicians Flaky-Jerk Syndrome”.

So let’s walk our way through some typical Club Owners and/or Bookers to see if by identifying their genus and species, we can’t learn to deal with them better.

“The Beer Seller”; Easy to spot due to a certain general weariness that permeates their existence. Upon engaging them, it’s easy to begin questioning whether they even like music at all. Incapable of understanding why you can’t draw two hundred people at Eleven PM on a Tuesday night to their ‘hot spot’ that no one goes to. Be careful; ‘Moral Ambiguity’ is a trademark of the Beer seller, and you can never be sure where the uncrossable line exists. Sure, hiring strippers to ‘dance’ during your set will fill the room, and sell a lot of beer, but chances are that for every person who may enjoy such a thing, there are others who will be mad. Really mad. The irony of the “Careful what you wish for” lesson is wasted on the Beer Seller.

Care and Feeding; Engage the Beer Seller only if you are adept at selling beer. If you have that kind of draw, take advantage of it and woo only the best Beer Sellers with the brightest plumage. Otherwise, you should probably avoid them.


“The Moneyed Hipster”; The entire reason for even owning a Nightclub for the Moneyed Hipster is because of the elevated status it brings to it’s owner. You’re ability to be booked there is directly proportionate to how cool it would be to have a picture taken with you. Make no mistake, he considers you part of his plumage. Deep psychological problems from childhood are always on display. Put one small chip in his well constructed mental playhouse, and he’ll turn on you in an instant, and all of his self aggrandizing stories will become cries of “You’ll never work in this town again.” He could, for instance, be on stage trying to turn off your bass amp while the lead singer is running through the club chased by Bouncers, gleefully knocking over the house P.A., and you wind up in a Sacramento motel two hours later thinking “What the hell was THAT?”

Care and Feeding; Cultivate the relationship. Moneyed Hipsters have a tendency to overpay to hang out with you, and throw cash around to attract friends. They might as well throw some your way! Just remember to keep an escape route for when it goes bad.


“The Woe-is-Me”; You generally have to get close to hear their plaintive call; some variation on “Life is hard, running a bar is harder, and thankless, and if I can scrape by for just one more month, I’ll be doing the world a favor.” There is some speculation that the Woe is a crossbreed between the Beer Seller and the Moneyed Hipster, but to date, there’s no scientific proof of that. Generally very friendly, they are quick to talk about their problems, and offer visions of a glorious future just over the horizon. Beware; one minute, you’re practically partners, and before you know it, your band is playing New Years Eve for two hundred bucks and a handful of shiny promises. When you try to cash in those promises, you find the Woe has already sold out and flown the coup. You get one more soul crushing “no good deed goes unpunished” lesson.

Care and Feeding; Engage but keep a respectful distance. Commiserate instead of sympathize. Stay business-like. Remember that generally speaking, no favor done for a club owner, especially a Woe-is-Me, is ever repaid.


“The Jade Climber”; The entire life span of the Jade Climber is focused on showing everyone else how much too important they are to bother with the likes of you. This species doesn’t build its own nest at all, but somehow talks its way in and takes over booking at an already existing one. Without having to worry about things like profit or business at all, soon only their own friends get booked. Beyond that, it’s whoever is convenient. Eventually, it’s “whoever calls at 1PM on the third Monday of the month.”

Care and Feeding; Do not attempt to kiss the Jade Climber’s ass. He or she would just enjoy seeing you fall from what they consider such lofty heights. Force yourself to be friendly, ignoring their lack of reciprocation. It will bug them that they’re “cool” doesn’t intimidate you, and they’ll remember you.


“The Clueless Wonder”; One of the more dangerous breeds, the Clueless Wonder can draw you in with it’s song. Full of big plans and ideas, you may start thinking you’ve finally found the perfect specimen, who’ll work with you and there will be enough success to spread around to everyone! Soon, small failures and set backs start piling up, and by the time you notice the damage, there are padlocks on the doors, with your equipment still on stage, and the Clueless Wonder is taking out a loan to buy a Laundromat in Stockton.

Care and Feeding; Distance is the key here. You’re not a partner. While it’s always good to work with Owners and Bookers, never lose sight of the fact that if you supply a service, you should get paid. That booze behind the bar isn’t there based on a favor.


“The Golden Goose”; Believe it or not, they do exist! Generally, they run clubs because they actually like music! They will treat you honestly, do what they say they will, and generally make you feel taken care of. They are easy to build a working relationship with, and you find yourself liking them beyond just the business. Their plumage isn’t always the brightest, but they look gorgeous to you!

Care and Feeding; First and foremost, honesty. Show them you’ll work hard for them. Sometimes they’ll overpay you, sometimes you’ll give them a break. The Golden Goose shows a rare propensity to become your friends. Hard to believe, but true!

Hopefully this handy guide will help you navigate you’re path to success. I have a feeling though, that information like this doesn’t always get heeded. Unfortunately, in this business, it seems everyone has to make their own set of mistakes, no matter how well worn the path may seem. And that’s the real nature of the business.