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4.3.08 nyc dispatch
spin the deadhead's head
i had gone out to the house because the sound wasn't so good backstage. i'm standing there trying not to get bumped by some aggressive twirler and not get hassled by the security who keep wanting to move me three feet in this direction or that. i start to focus in on what's happening on stage and am pleased to see and hear garzone, yates and kb are playing simultaneously. talk about a wall of sound. it was impossible to tell who was playing what. it was some new hybrid, radiation accident induced saxophone animal. and i was hypnotized by it. and right in front of me, one by one, the twirlers stopped twirling. the smokers stopped smoking. the trippers were still tripping but were also hypnotized. the security stopped hassling. all standing still. totally mesmerized. then slowly and in perfect unison, all the heads in my view began to turn. and turn. and turn. until they were all looking back at me. they seemed ok. they were all smiling. and they just kept turning. right back to where they had started from. a full 360 degrees. the soli section ended and the twirlers, well, everything went back to the way it was before. i was very impressed. so later i asked george how they did that. he told me and tonight we're going to try it on you.

11.13.07 nyc dispatch
back in the day we used to go to this great breakfast
place on the corner of parker and telegraph. we liked
it because not only was the food fresh and excellent,
the music selection was great. there was this guy who
who always sat off in a corner, nursed some coffee and
jammed to the tunes. oblivious to all else.
apparantly he sat there most of the day and the staff
didn't mind. well one time they were changing the
channel or the tape (were cd's out then?) and they got
slammed and forgot about the music. maybe five
minutes. this guy gets up and starts pacing up and
down the aisle,
'the music. turn on the fucking music. the music.
where's the music?'
and so on.
they tell the guy take it easy and they're doing it
right now and the music comes on and dude just chills
out and sits down.
i say, 'wow.'
and my friend joe says to me,
'yeah, i knew a guy like that. when i was a kid we
used to visit my old man in the psyche hospital on
sundays. and there was this guy i used to hang out
with. it was just when i was starting to get
interested in music. and he had this bass he would
play all day long. and if the staff tried to take it
away to give him a shower or take him to the cafeteria
he would fucking lose it and start screaming.'
i think of these guys sometimes when i'm wondering why
i play music.
when things seem insignificant and pointless. people
need music.
and i can play music. it makes me feel better. and
it will make you feel better.

11.06.07 nyc dispatch
'mr. dred, mr. dred. i know a song on the piano.'
'umm. that's good. let's try row one again.'
i'm in p.s. left behind in a classroom filled with
casio keyboards manned by 30 fourth graders. i've
written 'ornette coleman' on the blackboard and as i
write the word 'harmolodics' i tell them to raise
their hands above the keyboards and cross them like
ultraman. they don't know who that is but they're all
doing it.
'now when i point to row one i want you all to play on
the white notes. just row one. then when i point to
row two. just row two. ok?'
'mr. dred. my sister has a private piano teacher and
he comes to the house every wednesday.'
'ready, go.'
later i'm leading the 4th grade chorus group through
the carpenters tune, sing.
'mr. dred. her voice sounds sad.'
'well, does anyone know what anorexia is?'
a vivacious girl who sings very loud yells out,
'yeah. it's when you won't eat. and they have to
make you or you die. i had that but i went to a
therapist and now i'm better. it's different then
bulemia where you make yourself throw up. i didn't
have that.’
teacher of the year..

.july 4, 07 nyc dispatch
i guess it's no secret that i'm a card carrying smash
the state sympathizer. so with independance day upon
us (and emailer falderol i needed to try and write) i
thought a brief reflection on the idea of revolution
and freedom would be appropriate. but i could spend
most of the day thinking about that. aristotle said,
'inequality is the source of all revolution.' sounds
about right to me. he was a pretty smart guy. but
howard zinn says the american revolution was a way for
ruling class of the early colonies to 'take over land,
profits and political power from favorites of the
british empire.' so it's a little confusing.
freedom is a tough one, too. kant had a kind of feel
good approach i like. you do your thing. i'll do
mine and we won't infringe on each other's right to do
that. but that's pretty much impossible, isn't it.
lenin thought it was a bourgeois prejudice and was for
doing away with these abstract words like liberty and
freedom. that sounds a little unfree - getting rid of
words and shit. freedom, liberty, justice. that's a
lot to think about. if your brain gets tired and you
want to listen to some music before the big day when
we celebrate at least the right to barbeque and shoot
off fireworks, come on down to the rockwood. you
don't have to work, do you? besides, we are
presenting our own special presentation of songs of
revolution. it's a dred, white and blue american
birthday party. hope you can make it.

10/30/01 nyc dispatch
good days and bad days. i was having a bad day last
thursday. didn't know why exactly. just an
overarching feeling of malaise and discomfort. i got
to my gig thinking i wanted a drink to liven things up
a bit. so i
went to the bodegas and after the fourth one found an
o'douls which i drank in about three gulps. the first
set came and went and the drummer asks me what's
wrong.
what's with the long face and the bad posture? i told
him i was having it rough and did he have any weed.
no problem, he tells me and gives me a tiny roach
wrapped in a piece of tin foil. i went into a parking
lot and smoked one hit off it and looked up and saw
this female uniform and a plainclothes black dude with
long dreads coming straight for me. i ground up the
still burning roach in my fingertips and slowly let
the hit out my nose as i walked out of the lot
pretending not to notice them as dreadlock rushes up
to me and shoves me up against a fence.
'what are you doing?'
'nothing, officer.'
'bullshit. i'm a sargent and i've been doing this a
long time. i smell it.'
'honestly, sir, i'm clean.'
dreadlock barks to uniform,
'i saw him drop something over there. check it out.'
he goes through my pockets while he has his hand
around the back of my neck.
'i can get you for destroying evidence.'
i look over and uniform is on her hands and knees with
a flashlight picking up tiny scraps of detritus and
sniffing them.'
'eyes front, asshole.'
he kicks my legs apart.
'ow. what are you roughing me up for, dude?'
'shine the light over here. he might have dropped it
over here.'
it's time for my ace in the hole.
'hey man, i have a pba card in my wallet.'
'then you should know better.'
'you didn't catch me did you? i'd say that's pretty
discreet.'
'who do you know.'
'det. sgt. xxxx xxxxx down in the four.'
'how come this card is three years old? why didn't he
give you a new one.'
'why don't we call him and ask him?'
and they both stand there. beaten.
i expect the dreadlocked undercover rasta pig to say
he's disappointed in me.
'can i go?'
no response.
'i'm just gonna go, ok?'
and i slowly backed away and started walking down the
street. suddenly i felt a rush of adrenline that put
a spring in my step. this was going to be a great
night after all.

10/23/07 nyc dispatch
pink elephants
the bartender puts down a rolling rock and a shot of
jamesons.
'just take it out of here?' pointing to the small pile
of money in front of me.
'sure.' and i'm thinking, this isn't so bad. what's
the big deal? it's just a couple of drinks. i've
proven to myself i can do it. you know, stop for an
extended period of time. 10 weeks to be exact.
i look in the bar mirror and see a ceiling fan slowly
spinning.
i bring the beer to my lips and suddenly wake up.
it's 7pm and my alarm is going off. got to wake up,
go to the
pool and practice a bit before my gig later.

10/16/07 nyc dispatch
i'm sitting on the 'a' train coming back from jfk and
these two tourists who got on at howard beach when i
did move from their perfectly good seats across the
aisle from me into the two seats next to the times i'm
piling up on the seat beside me. he leans over and in
a thick german accent says, 'may i read this?' i look
over and notice the '666' he has on his kind of
designer looking army jacket and say, 'hail satan.'
'i beg your pardon?' he says.
'nice jacket. you know, 666?' and i do a little
metal falsetto scream and flash him the devil horn
fingers, both barrels.
'oh, i have a clothing line. it's called lauf teufel
which means run devil.
i am a professional runner. i ran for adidas for four
years. nike for two years. and flakugshnien for six.
now i just work on my own clothing line.'
his sneakers are way cool. very foreign.
'are those lauf teufel shoes?'
his girlfriend looks over from behind her oversize
jackie o shades and smiles. she looks like the chick
from 99 luftballoons.
he takes off the shoe.
'no they are not. these are not running shoes.' and
bends them in half to show how the tread is like that
of a tank. cut into 2 inch sections that run the
width of the shoe.
'i bet you could run in them if you have to.'
and he has that dumb smile on his face that says he
didn't understand what i just said so i say,
'cool.'
'yeah. cool, man.' and he gives me the thumbs up.
so i give him a flier and tell him to come to my gig
on tuesday.

nyc dispatch 5/29/07
it started with the gig playing accordion backing up a
mime at the brearsly school benefit. poor michael j.
fox put on a happy face when the mime started fucking
with him, but i could tell he wasn’t digging it. good
sport. the food was excellent, but i could only grab
a quick bite – i had a gig backing up a jack russell
that paints (tillamookcheddar.com). then over the
weekend, i played some late nite shows at the box that
involved accompanying a mini michael jackson, a double
duthch jump rope team and a chick who stuck dildos in
her ass and had audience members throw rings around
them. on the way up to the stage i bumped into one of
mos def’s entourage who threatened to smash my face
in, but i had a nice conversation with tennis great,
jim courier.
‘dude, i used to be a tennis bum in another life,’ i
told him, when introduced.
‘me, too,’ he said, giving me his right hand that felt
like sand paper.
‘sorry. you give up your tennis bum card once you’re
#1 in the world.’
‘fair enough. but i have lived in my car.’
‘me, too.’
super nice guy. i couldn’t resist winding him up a
little.
‘hey, i saw you playing an exhibition match on tv
against johnny mac about six months ago.’
‘in boston?’
‘yeah. he was playing great. like the old days. i
couldn’t believe he was keeping up with you.’
‘he wasn’t. i got 12 years on johnny mac. he doesn’t
get anything off me i don’t let him.’
awesome. talking shit with one of the games greats.
i wanted to stay and hang out, but i had a gig in
woodstock the next day at noon playing bass in a rock
band for kids.
on the way back from woodstock, i learn some things
from the yoga for kids teacher i’m giving a lift to.
she just got back from india and tells me she’s just
floating, energized by the whole experience.
i say, ‘yeah, all that profound squalor and poverty.
must make you feel great to be alive.’
‘you should go. the people in india are so happy.’
‘wow. all of them?’
‘you know, you don’t need material possesions to be
happy.’
‘can i have your ipod, then?’ i ask.
she clucks (as if) and says, ‘well i’ve learned that
misery and happiness are just two sides of the same
coin.’
‘that only makes sense if you have a coin,’ i posit.
‘these people are concerned about what lies beyond. a
higher calling.’
now i’m getting irritated, ‘hmm. religion explaining
why your life will be shit. it’s ok you’ll have it
much better in the next.’
‘well, the british are largely responsible for the
state of things in india.’
i did not know this.
‘you mean, the british brought hinduism and the caste
system to india?’ i pull over. ‘i think vishnu wants
you to walk the rest of the way,’ and i leave her
about twenty miles outside of kingston. i ride the
rest of the way in blissfull silence and make it back
to brooklyn in time to play tubs with the bill
mchenry/john mcneil quartet. my favorite band.
kicked my ass good, but it was the most fun of all.

nyc dispatch 3/14/06
'life is a dream that happens between your birthday
and your heart attack.' -julian
so i'm getting on the subway this morning and it
hasn't been a great morning so far. whatever. the
doors open up and this guy walks out with his face
buried in this book called, legend. i am legend. the
greatest vampire book of all time. thanks sharon. thanks
campi. i say to the guy,
'that's the greatest vampire story ever.'
'yeah,' he says smiling.
and i think this is a sign. i am immortal.
i go in to the bathroom at the merce cunningham studio
where i'm playing a dance class and i'm standing there
peeing with these two bananas under my arm and one
falls into the urinal. splash. i grab it and toss it
into the garbage and then i think. hey, i'm immortal.
it's cool. besides the banana's inside the peeling,
right? so i pull out of the garbage, wash it off and
eat it during the class. i'm walking to the subway after the class and i
think, fuck it. i'm immortal. i'm going to the bistro and
getting a bacon cheeseburger.

nyc dispatch 4/7/07
i had a close encounter with paul shaffer last night. i'm playing my
restaurant gig and he walks in with some guy and sits
down and orders dinner. so i'm thinking, hit him with
the west coast shit. that's some shit he probably
hasn't heard in a long time. maybe at all. so we
play a couple of tunes and the manager comes over and
says gig's over you guys can split.
so we're waiting for our food to come out and i'm
lamenting the possiblity that i won't get discovered
tonight and i think fuck it, i'm just going to go over
there and lay a card for the rockwood gig on him.
he's a nite owl. smokes weed. digs tisziji munoz.
he might show up.
so i do and we're talking about tisziji and how
amazing he sounds and the subject of weed comes up and
for the first time the guy he's with perks up and
comes from around the table and asks me if i have
sacks i can sell him. i tell him i have the little i
brought for the gig that i'd be happy to lay on him so
he grabs the card i just gave paul that's lying there
on the table and folds it up into a neat bindle.
'just put it in here,' he tells me. so i dump out
what looks like about a half a joint to which he
complains,
'man, why'd you even bother. you might as well keep
it.'
i make a move to put it back in my container when he
says,
'no man. i'll take it. got any blunt skins?'
i say, 'no, but thanks for the weed.' he says, 'man,
what-ever.'
and puts the dred scott trio at rockwood bindle into
his shirt pocket.
so i don't think paul is coming.

gainesville dispatch 2/20/07
yeah. i bought a gun. in florida, the laws for
carrying concealed weapons and the subsequent usage of
them is, well, let's just say you don't want to go up
to some house and ask directions. in fact there's a
billboard as you enter florida on the 75 that screams
FLORIDIANS HAVE THE RIGHT TO USE DEADLY FORCE TO
PROTECT THEIR PROPERTY. so i was thinking. if i go
next door to ask the guy to turn down the tv, he can
just shoot me. unless i have a gun. then if he has a
gun, i have a chance and if he doesn't i can open my
bathrobe and reveal the gun and i bet he damn sure
turns that motherfuking tv down in a hurry.
so florida's great. i love it. i've got some quality
work done, i think, what with all the peace and quiet.

fla dispatch 12/3/06
i'm having an al goldstein moment here - never, never, ever fly on delta airlines. could this actually be the final time i say, 'never again.' there was the all day affair trying to get to new orleans. there was the five hour delay in the plane at the gate (if they let you off you have to go through security all over again which was fine with me). they showed two movies. they both sucked. there was a small fracas between a southern gentleman and myself over my too loud cursing and how it was offensive to speak like that in front of a lady. i asked him when they left tara and he poked me in the forehead and said,
'i'm warning you young man.'
i didn't know what to do. i was pretty sure i could take him. he had to be almost 70. the woman with the husband who looked like ned beatty with a pencil thin moustache chimed in,
'i saw that. he assaulted you.'
now i had him. a lawsuit. this is how men often fight without getting thrown off a plane and into jail. in the south. but i have no money and no lawyer. so that's out. the flight attendant was coming up the aisle. i wanted to keep drinking. if i karate chopped this guy in the ear that was definately not going to happen.
'my aplogies to you and the misses, sir. let me buy you all a drink.'
'the drinks are free,' was all he said.
and then yesterday. took me the whole day to get to jacksonville from laguardia. so that's it delta. your number is death (guy once actually said that to me).

the rat story:
i'm at the computer in my basement where i've been staying the last two months. i've made it very comfortable. my piano is down there. drums, etc. records (although i stumbled into my turntable and sent it crashing to the concrete where it smashed to pieces). bathroom. fridge. microwave. nice futon bed (it's on a frame, thank satan) covered by mosquito netting. my back sometimes gets sore from hunching over all the time (low ceiling) but overall it's ok. till i saw something moving out of the corner of my eye that night. guess i killed the suspense calling it 'the rat story.' but yeah, a rat. i jump up and grab a shovel but he's gone. and so was i. up to syracuse for a few days to visit my sister. i had gone to the plumbing supply to get an eight pound drain covering (hopefully the entrance point). i asked the guy if it's heavy enough. he told me if some rat moves the drain to sell the house. i go to the hardware store and settle on the poison that disintigrates its insides (the glue paper was inhumane enough, but thought disintigrating its insides was better). put out the poison and leave town for thanksgiving. when i get back the poison seems untouched and i relax figuring he went back down the drain right when i saw him. he was near there. i spend a few nights down there and one day i'm practicing a little piano and damn if the fucker runs right by my foot from under the piano and around back of the fridge. so i get the glue stick. the snap traps. and extra poison. and i spend my remaining two nights on my nephew's couch.

now i'm down in florida where it's safe. but i can't help wondering how long i lived with the rat. did he watch me sleep? and many times a day i think of him and wonder what he's doing. is he chewing through my bass drum case? making a nest on the bass strings of the piano? or are his insides rotting away as he's stuck to the strip and one leg is caught in the trap? i sure hope so.

ny dispatch 10/24/06
i go into the bistro after my class at the cunningham studo and there are already regulars taking up the window seats at the end of the bar, so i sit at the other end nearer the kitchen. i battle the flies, but the burger is still great. a little eye opener and i'm feeling pretty good. at one i'm checking out some pianos at pro piano. ken's renting me one for the rockwood recordings next month and i get to chose. i found and engineer i like and i know what we will attempt to record. i can't believe this is all coming together.

finished recording the jay collins record and i think it's going to come out good. we did it at the bunker. same guys are doing my rockwood sessions. i'm producing carol's next recording and we're doing our first session tomorrow. finally having a second session w/ gaelan and neil on the ballads project and we've booked a session at the bunker for the pacific jazz quartet featuring sasha. it is a very productive time. and then i'm taking three months off.

in the meantime i've been making the rounds. saw phil degruy play on the 13th at the cutting room. he was hilarious and played great. he told the audience to 'bi-polar bear with me' as he tuned his guitarp then told a bad joke about it being an erection year. he played songs of his like 'blues for rod serling' and 'the speaking in tongues blues' a tribute to robert tilden. love it.

saw michael daves the other night. channeling the bluegrass masters. he is most excellent.

saw a young pianist last night at small's trying to sound like meldau. very dramatic, but not much rhythm. i look forward to hearing him again. at least he's reaching.

campilongo. never changes. always sounds great. new record is happening. every monday at the living room. ran into frankie c. and jimmy the hat. good friends of jim i met at their spot in little italy, la mela. tried to get my nephew a few shifts at the restaurant. frankie's going to hook him up. good guys. or should i say, good fellas.

ny dispatch 11/2/06
went out to north fork to see my rat dog boys. asshole security wouldn't let me in at the stage door. said my name wasn't on the list. bullshit i found out later. why do peons with power act like douchebags? luckily i saw sgt. wayne and got in just in time to jam on the last tune. roll away the dude.

made spike's stride piano hang that takes place mondays at the fat cat. too cool. spike sounded great and so did this guy, terry waldo. i was hanging with my pal marty who was in town opening with the stones with buddy guy. i'd never heard him play stride and he blew me away. i played four tunes. didn't sound as good as those guys. when i go back i better have some different shit.

caught brian mitchell at the 55 bar. great. great. great.

ny dispatch 8.1.06
sitting in the window at the bistro digesting a blt. coltrane comes on the jukebox. then dylan. i've got an hour between my cunningham class and the joffrey
shift. shiftwork. on the piano. 1-6pm without a break. it's 100 degrees and their studios each have one tiny ac unit. so they close the windows and it's like playing music in a scene from no exit. the children dance, the teachers yell and i try not to glaze over. but it pays $25/hour. and hell, that's what i do. play music. sure beats working.

chicago dispatch 5.3.06
smith and wollensky. on the patio looking across the river between dearborn and state. i get a burger. when in rome. welcome to bovine america.

i took the train from o'hare into the loop and only saw six dudes that looked like mike ditka. i sat next to a fat lady on the plane. she was wearing a gem sweater. i asked her if she was on her way home. how did i know? gem sweater. she knows what a bedazzler is, but this sweater is not homemade. designer bedazzled gem sweater.

the burger rocks, the fries are crispy and the $6 spinach salad is enormous. the waiter brings a gigantic chocolate cake to three suits sitting next to me and i look over in time to see one of them chomping a leg off the chocolate cow that came on top. earlier one of them was saying he never got into golf. now they talk about tennis and a guy at another table guffaws loudly and says,
'yeah, jimmy just had another by-pass.'
they are drinking a bottle of white wine.
i hope it doesn't rain.
i don't have an umbrella.

truckee dispatch 4.8.06
sitting in the bar at moody's having a bloody mary. thinking back to the other night in north beach. enrico's. the manager, his name is michael. he's costumed as a beatnik. little moustache. beret. he's vibing me every time he walks past the piano. what is his problem? it's not too loud.

i go up to him during the break.
'what's up, man. is there a problem with the music? i know it's not too loud.'
'this is a restaurant with music. not a concert hall.'
'really.'
'yes. people are complaining.'
'most of the people seem to be digging it. they clap after the tunes. that's usually a pretty good indication.'
he starts to fidget, 'no. the music. you have to play more standards.'
'look, dude.' i say, 'i've been playing here for ten years. i deserve a little latitude. bill mchenry is state of the art. he's doing weeks at the vanguard.'
he puts his hand on his hip, 'and i was told you're a good pianist, but, frankly, i haven't heard it.'
i close my eyes and silver shiny bars shoot into each other from an outer circle into a ringed center. i open my eyes and slap the beret off his head. it banks off a pillar and lands in a potted geranium.
'say something else, jerk-off.'
nothing.
i go back inside and scott asks me how it went.
'no problemo.' i tell him.

nebraska dispatch 3.4.06
somewhere over the western edge of nebraska, the plane shadows i-80. reminds of the last great book i read, my antonia, by willa cather. i've been in new york without a break since october when my trio started it's weekly midnight tuesday gig at the rockwood music hall. this tuesday will be the first one i've missed in 5 months. with good reason. i'm heading to san fran to play six gigs with bill mchenry in various configurations. i've learned his music and i'm really looking forward to it. dude is an american bad-ass.

being in new york solid for a time has enabled me to check out some great music. cecil taylor trio at the blue note. kind of uneven. cecil was, of course, awesome. and drummer, jackson krall, was great. but they were dragging this bass player with no taste and a shitty sound. kind of wrecked it for me.
bill at the vanguard, twice. totally killing. bill was sounding spectacular.
donald fagan. great band. nice guy (got to meet him after). his new record is doing well, but my favorites were the old steely dan tunes. he was singing his ass off.
we have a friend who's dating fagan's step-daughter so we got to roll out to jersey in this limo to see the show. nobody else in the limo was drinking, so i had to.

i've also done a couple of interesting gigs in the last few months. pete seeger. what can i say. living legend. berkely symphony w/ kent nagano conducting. very serious dude. but nice and complimentary about my playing. we premiered this piece about the japanese experience in california around wwll. my part, the jazz trio, was the ivesian component in a collaborative score that included narration performed by six actors. man, playing onstage with a symphony is too much. what a sound.

richard's record came out so we've been running around the northest a bit. jay collins is trying to make a new record and i've been playing drums in this band with sasha dobson, neil miner and rob sudduth. we call it the pacific jazz quartet featuring sasha dobson. a chordless group, we do neil's arrangements of standards and are trying to record now, also. not only does this group have a good unified band sound, but we are all great friends. dare i say it seems as if this group could have some commercial success. does anybody want to hear a bunch of standards anymore? my friend denny thinks this is a great idea. i hope he's right.

i've just been to gene paul's to master the recording of prepared piano improvisations. he told us a srory about a metal act he had mastered recently. three tracks were open simultaneously by accident and when gene realized this he looked back at the guy to apologize but dude was passed out. gene told us, ' i grew up on hendrix and zeppelin, but this shit is just music to drive your parents out of the house.'

i went to see mr. braxton at the iridium the other night. he was playing great. i was psyched to catch up and reconnect. he told me he wanted to do something with me so i suggested he guest a tuesday nite at the rockwood. he agreed; sometime in the summer. oh man, that will fucking rock.

seattle dispatch 9.23.05
the air in the pacific northwest. i feel like i'm dreaming. or i'm not in the dimension i belong so i'm only a vague apparition. like the invisible man in some state between present and imperceptible. if i could just let go i'd transcend this existence into some transparent state where consciousness and unconciousness are one.

portland dispatch 4.24.05
hanging with carlos. we start drinking in the afternoon then head to the gig. i can't seem to get a buzz on and noone shows up. well, almost noone. we play. doggie and cookie is the name of our duo and it's fairly free from jazz odyssey-type shit. after awhile we let this singer named robert and a young piano player sit in. they play one. sounds good. i yell 'roger miller,' from the back (think i'm getting buzzed) and they of course play 'king of the road.' next thing i know robert and i are running through the dozen or so roger miller songs i know. he knows them all. and some i don't. he's a great singer i later learn plays great harp and pretty decent trumpet. we all go back to carlos' with a bottle of jack but i pass out early. wake up around 7am to find carlos still sitting at the computer with the bottle of jack between his legs. i ask him if he's been to bed and he tells me vicadin keep him up. so we go to breakast.

later that night, robert has a little house party and a bunch of musicians show up. the young piano player is there and sounds great but disappears when we play a gut bucket blues. i wrest the drums away from the drummer who's playing way too loud. when i ask him where the brushes are he tells me they're special brushes with wooden handles that work great for sidesticking bossas and are fragile. i promise not to break them and open them from their hermetically sealed tube and a grateful dead jam breaks out. i love the vibe. it's eve's house and she's lovingly restored it with the help of robert who happens to be a great carpenter, too. i tell him i thought as much and he holds up his half missing index finger and says, 'how could you tell?'

food - jake's at sw12th st and stark has been around since 1892. the bar has retained an old west feel and lunch is frequented mostly by locals. the menu is huge and changes daily. most of the seafood is local. i preferred the lunch to the dinner - mostly because the dining room is formal and bustling. we had great oysters from british columbia, washington and oregon. i wanted to try the crawfish (the house special) but i can never get over the work/food ratio of the crawish experience. we also had the alaskan halibut, pacific salmon, rainbow trout from idaho and the washington ling cod. all great. the sides were simple and very fresh.

nyc dispatch 8.1.05
i finish my dance class at union square and walk towards my gig in the west village at vento. i stop and get a beer and walk along 13th st. it's pretty hot, but there's a breeze and the beer's going down good. i've got an hour to kill so i step into the bistro and get a beer and some cheese fries. the burgers here rock, but i'm not in the mood. it's very crowded with young people so i grab a seat at the bar in the corner from where i can skulk and feel superior. i used to come here with my buddy bruce when he was getting his phd in theater music at nyu way back in the nineties. it was better. better clientele. now there's noone to talk to. so i talk to the bartender who knows me through a singer i work with. we're talking about the two jehovah's witnesses i just harangued for leaving a shitty tip. i relate our exhange,
'two dollars on twenty? man, you guys are some cheap bastards.'
'excuse me?'
'excuse you. that's god who gets the 10%. bartenders get at least 15.'

sf dispatch 1.14.05
'i can get you on an earlier flight to houston, if you'd like.'
'does that get me to san francisco any earlier?'
'no, but you would have a longer layover in houston.'
'at geroge bush international airport?'
'that's right.'
'i'll pass.'

i've been in the new orleans airport for about half an hour and my heart is skipping beats. i called my doctor to find out what's going on and he tells me not to worry. i just had a stress test and everything checked out ok.
'have you been drinking? smoking? coffee?'
'doc, i've been in new orleans for ten days doing nothing but drinking coffee, smoking, eating fried oyster po'boys, getting hammered and playing the piano.'
'exercise?'
'i fucked my wife a couple of times over the weekend.'
'hmmm. what about chocolate?'
'no chocolate.'
'good. well, don't drink on the plane, quit smoking and don't eat any more chocolate.'
'doc, i didn't eat any chocolate.'
'good. call me when you get back and we'll give you a halter monitor.'

i called my buddy wilbur because i remembered his heart was skipping once. he told me to run up and down some stairs, so that's what i'm doing when they call my flight.
'getting a little exercise, eh?' some chirpy flight attendant says as i get one more lap in.
'uh, yeah.' i puff back at her, checking my pulse. still skipping. god i hope i don't have a heart attack and die in texas.

there's a bukoski story where this washed up alcoholic minor league baseball team manager is sitting in the dugout during a game nursing another bad hangover and watching his team lose another game when up walks this guy with wings. angel wings. he talks the manager into letting him play the outfield and he flies around catching every ball hit out there. neddless to say, with no team able to score any runs, the manager's team vaults into first place. it ends badly, though, when a rabid mob attacks the poor angel dude, ripping his wings off and leaving him a bloody, gristly mess.

so i'm walking down the aisle to my seat on the houston-sf flight and i feel a little light-headed. i slept on the flight from new orleans and my heart has stopped skipping, but i just want to sit down and there's this guy in my seat. we compare documentation that affirms a double booking, but mr snooty flight attendant wants to reseat me in a middle seat. i tell him no way i have a heart condition and he reluctantly bumps me to first class. when i get to san fran, the rental car company is out of economy cars and i get bumped up to a mid-size. the next day i go to glen eagles and shoot par for the first time in my life. with borrowed clubs. at glen eagles. that night i play at enrico's and sell 10 cd's. the day after, i play the skins game out at glen eagles and my buddy jeff wins $90 eagling the last hole with an incredible 3-wood from 220 dead into a gale force wind that winds up 3 feet from the pin. its about this point i think of that bukoski story and wonder if it's not too late to get the full coverage on the rental car. later that night after my gig at bacar i wind up at bruno's hanging out with leonard thompson. we drink and trade songs on the piano till 4am. he's really good and i am truly flattered when at the end of the night he thanks me for 'not having a shitty sound.'

january '05 san fran eats
i discovered sushi when i moved to san francisco in 1989 and i have my favorites - kiralla in berkeley which also has a great robata grill, ichi raku in the richmond across from the coronet where they bring you a bunch of great comp food before you even order a thing, or webe sushi in the mission if you don't want to spend a lot of money. but i'd never experienced the artistry of sushi like that of sushi sam's in san mateo. my friends jeff and moe took me here and we didn't order once. it just kept coming - baby lobster, ocean trout, japanese eel, fatty tuna, snapper w/ almonds, white salmon, japanese snow crab, spanish makarel, king makarel, white king salmon skin, seared black cod, a chewy giant clam. this stuff comes staright from tsukigi, tokyo's famous fish market. and even the nori is specially imported. it snaps when you bite into it. a character i didn't even know i was looking for. most seaweed comes from china and kind of tears when you eat it. i can't remember exactly what we were drinking but i'm sure it was sake. cold sake. probably got a little crocked. no dipping.

click dark was the first person to show me pineapple and jalapeno on a pizza and it was in his honor that i had a pizza of pineapple, italian sundried sausage and sweet pepper at the north beach institution, enrico's - my home away from home in sf (when i'm not at glen eagles, of course). check out bullit, the great steve mcqueen movie from 1968. one of the best car chases ever filimed. they're speeding along crissy field toward the presidio and suddenly turn onto mansell right by glen eagles - that's the other side of town. later frank bullit tells one of his snitches, 'meet me at enrico's in half and hour.' and to this day the outdoor cafe is exactly the same. my wife was waiting tables here when we met and i used to drop her off and play the paino bill cosby gave enrico years ago while she prepped and did her side work before the lunch shift. we've made many friends there and when i go back to play i try to do it on a night when ward is tending bar. he's been around since the beginning and made some deal that he would always have a job there. the chefs and owners and managers come and go. ward is still there. the chef they have now started as a line cook under a chef/owner two owners ago and he's great. on another night i had the risotto w/ leek, mushroom and white truffle essence and the marinated white anchovies w. winter squash and salsa verde on crostini. nice. these days mark mcleod is at the helm - they guy who brought baywolf to oakland and more recently the excellent, downtown, to berkeley.

january '05 nola eats
back at elizabeth's out in the bywater. it's close to nocca where i'm working so i try to get there when i can. one day i go with risa, the great dance teacher i'm working for. we sit outside under a big umbrella and have a lively discussion around religion. i've just read jon krakauer's riviting and violent account of the history of the mormon's leading up to the recent grisly murder by two 'saints' of a woman and her small child. 'god told me to' was their explanation. the waiter is a queenie modern primative - tats, nose rings, the circular bone stretching out his earlobe, the backstreet boys facial hair carvings - and overhears what we are talking about. i say to risa,
'so the one brother convinces the other he's received a true revelation and they drive out to this woman's house (the ex of one of the other brothers) and the one keeps the car idling while the other goes in and hacks mother and child to death.'
i look up to see the waiter standing there, hands on hips,
'well, that's a full day,' he says, pivots and walks back inside.

risa has the liver and i have a po'boy of scrambled eggs, hot sausage and cheese. i have to try the praline bacon. awesome. on another day i have fish cakes w/ and incredible spicy tartar sauce. another day, the green beans w/ mac/cheese and cornbread that's browned w/ bacon drippings. holy bypass, batman. a rumor has it they are closing. elizabeths-restaurant.com

our friend ray takes risa and me out to brunings. owned by the same family since 1859 who still live a short walk down a pier in a house on the edge of lake ponchartrain, this place looks like a greasy diner from the outside (minus the zagat sticker on the screen door) but has the fattest oyster i've ever eaten. and i eat a dozen and drink two martini's (that are $3.50 ea.) and am actually full. and buzzed.
i have to try the catfish fingers anyway and am not disappointed. after, we go for a little walk down by the lake and ray points out right across over there is bucktown - home of david duke. hard to imagine such a bucolic setting producing such a rabid hater.

bayona is in the quarter. phil degruy steered us to this one. susan spicer is the head chef not famous like emeril and kpaul but in the way that seems all about the food and not about image; a restaurant other chefs might be found at. and the food just killed. pan roasted cod w artichokes, cauliflower and zucchini w/ a roasted tomato-caper vinagrette. rabbit (i've overcome my 'roger and me' induced aversion to thumper) and white beans w/ tasso bread croutons. the crispy smoked quail salad w/ bourbon molasses vinagrette was indescribable and our other app was grilled shrimp w/ a black bean cake and coriander sauce. real good eatin'.

nola dispatch 1.06.05
in december i played an intersting gig in a very uninteresting restaurant in mid-town, a block off times square. the bassist who called me was sean mcgloine and turns out he lives in my neighborhood in brooklyn. he's a real good player with a sharp, dark, dry wit. we had a few pops and played some tunes. when he found out i was headed to new orleans in january he told me to look up a 'crazy friend' of his, phil degruy. phil plays a hybrid guitar and upon perusal of his website, i discovered we had other friends in common - charlie hunter and dave tronzo. i got in touch with him and it was this night we were going to meet up at the maple leaf bar. perfect. i'd not been to jacque-imo's this trip so i decided to go early, say hello to jack and grab a bite. i've already ordered a piece of alligator cheesecake when jack sits down next to me at the bar. shots of patron ensue and he's ordering me a stuffed eggplant and a fried roast beef po' boy; as in, the whole sandwich is fried. my cell phone rings and it's phil. i tell him to come next door and he helps me w/ dinner.
'wow, i didn't think you had a cellphone.'
'yeah, i do. but i never turn it on.'
'i noticed trying to get a hold of you, you don't have an aswering machine, either. kind of odd for a musician.'
'yeah, i do. but i don't use it much. people tend to just go on and on if you let them.'
'well, you know you can set the message time for like a minute.'
'a minute! jesus christ! what do you need a whole fucking minute to say? call me back, right? i got caller i.d. i know you called.'
we go next door and listen to a great set by george porter, tab benois and johnny vidacovich. they humbly bill themselves as 'the trio.' they are new orleans legends, after all. alumni of the meters, professor longhair, dr. john, mose allison. heavy.
i'm in the alley smoking weed with johnny and i'm thinking this is pretty cool. musicians. all from the same tribe. i pass the bowl to phil and holding a hit he tells me,
"i usually only smoke with my vaporizer.'
i have to be at nocca at 9am so we trade cd's and before i head back to the quarter, phil gives me a hug and says,
'man, you have to come down during mardi gras. it's nothing like you think when you're hanging with a local.'
that sounds about like the only way i would subject myself to that scene and i think maybe someday i'd like to take him up on that. the cd he lays on me is guitar duets and i listen to it as soon as i get back to my room. very cool shit.

l.a. dispatch 12.31.04
in the air on the way to a new year's eve gig w/ rene and the art lovers and i brought a few cd's to listen to. my friends nate shaw (organ) and diego voglino (drums) have teamed up with guitarist, tony romano to form big bucket. the record's called 'nine bucks a day.' it's well recorded and the band sounds great together. the tunes aren't very tuney,but there's a nice organic overall vibe. organ trios seem to be back (jimmy smith just died) and while there are a lot of competent practioners of this style, these guys are more rocking then a lot of the more dirivitive stuff i've heard. and i really love the cut that sounds like maggot brain. the first concert i ever saw was e.l.p., so i love me some rocking b3.

my buddy rob made me a band compilation i can't stop listening to. starting to buy up all their old records and really getting into these guys. hard to believe i missed it. so honest. no other way to describe it. just true music. richard started turning me on to the finer points of dylan when i started playing with him and i'm continuing to fill in some of those gaps in my musical education, too.

got my hands on mono mixes of sgt. pepper's and magical mystery tour (my favorite beatles record). i thought i knew every note on those records, but these mixes sound really different. fuller. like the instruments aren't all compressed to bring out the vocals so you can hear the tune on your car radio. everything seems evenly balanced and equal which really makes magical mystery tour like so much ear candy. i remember when one of my brothers or sisters brought that record home when it came out. the cover scared the crap out of me, the way they had those animal costumes on. and 'fool on the hill' gave me the whim-whams, too. like some weird loner who lives in a haunted house none of the neighborhood kids will go near. i just don't remember it sounding so incredible.

i always bring some piano music with me and this time it was the complete works of toru takemitsu. i love this. diffcult to describe. like a japanese watercolor. perfect in every way.

later...
we go straight from lax to hollywood. the venue is a photo studio just south of santa monica on fuller. the inside is bathed in white and this could be where they shot the mike t.v. segment of charlie and the chocalate factory - where he goes into a televsion set and wonka can't return him to his regular size. the oompa loompa's sing,
'what do you get from a lot of t.v.? a pain in the neck and an an i.q. of 3.'
the lighting designer has me cornered and is showing me a display book of lighting patterns based on the seven chakras. he tells me he's going digital which will enable him to raise his resolution to 250 dpi instead of the usual 72 while enhancing his ability to crossfade contiguous images.
'we're going to play in e,' i tell him and head outside.
it's been raining for days but the sky is finally clearing. i bum a roll-up from the bass player who quotes chandler,
'after the rain when the air is like champagne; these are the days that break men's hearts in l.a.'
two girls pull up in a spider and power down the windows,
'is this 1013? is the party in there? can i go inside and check it out, cuz no way am i going to a lame party. i've got 3 fur coats in the trunk and i need to figure out which one to wear.'
'is that you car?' i ask, 'are you a starlet?'
'i'm in television.'
'g.h.? or bold and beautiful?'
''yeah, right.' she jumps out and goes inside.
the bass player and i exchange 'whatevers.'

later still...
sitting in the green room waiting to go on. the party's being put on by this guy who just had his mansion in architictural digest. surprise. lawyer. another t.v.-babe walks in,
'reagan came out of his office today and told me he wanted one of your cd's and i was like, no way, tower doesn't have them? so i called them up and told them they need to carry that shit. then i googled you guys and went to your website.'
'did you use a research assistant?' i ask.
'no, i did it myself. AND i bought a couple of t-shirts.' and with that she dances across the room to the door lifting her arms in the air, going,
'hey...hey...hey...' to the music.
over in the corner the aerialist is stretching next to this creepy looking hollywood svengali type who's obviously completely obsessed with her. she tells us all about her nervous pit bull who's a sweetheart really and would never bite anyone. turns out she knows my friend guido the clown. we go up and play four songs. reagan panics. don't we know any dance music? get the d.j. back on. happy new year...

yukon dispatch 10.31.04
cuervo 1800. holding off on the ambien. don't think i want to watch' i, robot' or jackie chan's latest (his chinese movies were way better. shades of robert rodriguez). cramming to learn the words to war pigs and an allman bros tune i've never heard before. yeah, i'm singing. and someone will fly me to japan to do it. and play piano and organ mostly. with nice guys who are good players. though they could use a lesson in party. the bassman lives in connecticut dresses like l.l. bean and probably has a house full of pottery barn. he and everyone else are crashed out, so i just stare out the window and drink tequila. i've never seen anything like it. frozen. barren. desolate. strange, there are these straight lines that cross valleys and dead-end at the foot of ranges. reminds me of nevada. but roads? for whom?
i'm sure i see half a ghoulish face nestled in the side of a giant snowdrift and think of shatner in that twilight zone episode where he sees some alien on the wing of the plane tearing up the plating. i look around but there is noone to tell. a special halloween sighting for me alone. i blow up my neck pillow and pop the ambien. as we fly over fairbanks a twilight sets in and one side of the plane is day, the other night.

osaka dispatch 11.04.04
jet lag and i'm up at 7am after partying till 2. opening act was autopsy of a drowned shrimp. percussion ensemble fronted by a guy dressed as a prawn playing one of those upright stick basses. they rocked. we rocked. the crowd went nuts when we encored with war pigs. approprate to be sure. and cathartic for me. i'm so sick i don't want to go back. four more years of dubya makes me want to puke. i settle for an ass-washing then head out to my coffee spot. coffee house iris, a swiss sort of vibe where they brew each cup individually. the string quartet music is soothing and i can't believe i don't want a cigarette. smoked out, i guess and i have one anyway. reminds me of the first morning i woke up at our host's home where his mother lives. keni found me out on the deck having a morning nail, joined me and said, 'hmmm. good smoker.' his english is pretty good. on the wall is a picture of him at burning man in the nevada desert. i went downstairs and mama-san talked to me like i understand japanese, put my feet in some clogs and pushed me out the door. she shooed me down the street which i took to mean go for a walk. she shut the door behind me and as i looked up and down the street in the morning fog of their tiny hamlet, i wondered how long i should stay outside before going back in without seeming rude. i certainly couldn't actually walk in these clogs that felt like some sort of foot binding tool. after about fifteen minutes i went back inside to a breakfast of greens and tomatoes form the garden with a nice egg and potato dish. and fish. sashimi and grilled hamachi collar. it makes me hungry thinking about it so i leave the coffee joint and find a noodle stand and have some soup. my friend moe has equipped me with some linguistic basics. like how to order food and to say, 'thank you for coming, goodnight.'
' 6-6-6.' and ,
' what is your blood type?'

tokyo dispatch 11.06.04
smoky-o. pimp the cat. it's a jam band. we play for jam heads. i'm having a lot of fun. everything is different. the roads are small. the van is small and the van seats are small. everything works. the rest stops are teeming with fabulous edibles. we have a cooler stocked with asahi and a joint is never far from my lips. it would be perfection if everyone didn't drive so fucking slow. back from osaka (really like bladerunner) we're doing an in-store at tower and as we walk around the city, i repress the urge to steal a bicycle, jay-walk or run screaming down the street. i'd like to come back and spend some more time here, but for now it's eat, sleep, smoke, drink and sit on the ass-washer (did i mention eat?). i think if some of those americans so obsessed with what gay guys stick up their butts just had a good ass-washing, they'd understand the ass as a pleasure center and wouldn't be so hung up. i'm trying to figure out how much it would be to import one and install on my comode at the house.

we go back to chiba and i deliver on a promise to mama-san to give her a little concert on her piano. they say it hasn't been played in years but it is somehow perfectly in tune. her other son was a guitar player killled in an auto accident. as i begin she throws open the windows so the neighbors can hear and breaks out a little tape recorder. she is so happy as i run through some bach and chopin, i'm deeply moved and i feel vaguely shamanistic. like the music is bridging some emotional chasm back to her deceased son. and i get why it can be great to be a musician.

nola dispatch 1.4.05
ray’s place is in the bywater, a scrappy overgrown neighborhood i’ve been cautioned not to walk around in at night. he’s lived here since april and recounts with guarded optimism that he’s not been broken into yet. it’s a short walk to the school where i’m working and this morning a heavy fog coats the air. it’s 70 degrees but i can see my breath. many artists live here and i pass their foundries and workshops digging the seemingly discarded hulks of metallic sculptures that litter courtyards in front of warehouses that exhale a chilly breeze. the river is just to my left and i can’t see it over the levy but there is a sense that something is there. something i’m being protected from. i walk on the side of chartres that has a sidewalk and duck beneath bouganvilla that’s creeping up over an iron gate. ficus grow wild here (i just killed the one in my bedroom at home) and i pass a metal pole painted lime green that has four yellow canvas palm fronds sticking out of the top. a guy pedals by on a giant bike he obviously welded together so the seat sits nearly six feet off the ground. he’s passed by a pretty girl going the other direction on an old ten speed and her face is completely covered with tattoos. there’s an abandoned blue geo stuffed with phone books individually wrapped in yellow plastic. i turn a corner go up a couple of blocks and go into the bywater barbeque restaurant and lounge and have breakfast.
later…
the mayor of b street’s parents died within 30 days of each other. mom stroked out and dad was found in his pajamas by the mailman on the driveway with a bag of garbage in his hand. she never knew they had all that money. so she started rehabbing (‘reBUILDing,’ she corrects) the house she’s lived in nearly 20 years. she replaced the rotted floor joists and moved the kitchen where the bathroom was. when ray’s house was fixed up she dragged the pieces of his parquet floor across the street, had them trimmed and sanded and put them in her kitchen. she’s never actually been inside ray’s she later says,
‘i’ve never been invited,’ she hisses.
ray shoots back, ‘keep guilt sucking me like that and you never will.’
we sit at a giant table with a christmas tree on top of it, drink beer from the same coffee cup and smoke weed. the walls are covered with her paintings and she occasionally asides to a charcoal of her mother,
‘not that SHE woulda gave a shit,’ giving the drawing the finger.
mo is thin. too thin. karen carpenter thin.
‘they gave me a hysterectomy and i got gutted.’
she squats on a stool and ricochets from joe cocker to the irs to respecting the poor of new orleans all the while chainsmoking gpc’s (ghetto people cigarettes). she is the quintessential crazy neighbor and i can imagine ray peeking out the window of his house and not seeing her around, running to his car and driving away before she can corner him and talk his ear off. he’s cataloging her answering machine messages. when we showed up earlier in the afternoon she poked her head out and said,
‘hey, dred! it’s dred, right? like dreadlocks? like the dred scott decision? did you ever have dreads? well, i just left you guys a message inviting dred over later. you got to check it out, man. it’s starting to come together. i mean, i’m living in a construction zone for like two years. both my cats died of lead poisoning, i know it…’
we slowly backed into ray’s and closed the door while she was still talking. ray pushed the button on the answering machine,
‘hey it’s mo. dred around? did he ever have dreads? anyway…’
i spend a couple of hours in her house when ray shows up with a glass of wine in his hand.
‘like english gentry,’ i tell him.
he thinks he’s there to rescue me, but i’m having a good time. mo is smart. there’s a pile of completed ny times crossword puzzles in the corner. saturdays, even.
‘there’s one fucker in there,’ she points, ‘took me two years to finish, but i did it.’
in between her schizophrenic non-sequiters she is funny and interesting, but she doesn’t look well and i hope something happens to her to make her want to get healthy. after awhile we go back across the street to ray’s and the phone rings but ray doesn’t pick up,
‘hey, it’s mo. thanks for coming over you guys. that meant a lot to me. i don’t get many visitors. my house is such a mess. you’ll never believe where i found that shower head. it was in…’

sf dispatch 4.03.04
in the people's cafe on haight st. staring out the window. how many hangovers have i had in my life? dylan sings tangled up in blue and my brain slowly cranks - let's just say i get drunk 1 out of every 3 days. that makes it easy - 100 days a year for 20 years and that makes a pretty conservative estimate of 2000. 2000 hangovers. seems way to much time spent feeling shitty in this short life. i try to figure out if the fun i've had on the other end was worth it and last night comes to mind. started drinking at soundcheck. a glass of wine. then over to bruno's for a couple heradura rocks. one old-timer from glen eagles, that's his drink. more tequila back at the gig. the set was fun. more fun because i was buzzed? probably. the back-up singer's got a bank of monitors pointing directly in her face and with nothing to complain about asks me to turn down after a couple of songs. i give her the thumbs up followed by the o.k. followed by the finger point, mouthing, 'you got it' and make a big show of putting my fingers on the volume knob but don't turn it. after an encore, i pack up and head back to bruno's where cannonball is conducting a herbie tribute that sounds fantastic. i sit-in with them some. after, marcus shows up and we play the piano. i remember about this time i'm drinking water and thinking about getting out of there. i feel i'm not too terribly conversant at this point, but i stay, stumbling and stammmering in my memory. someone takes me upstairs and i do a miniscule amount of coke but it just makes me more anxious and chris helps me get a cab. i have a bed in a private room at kenny's, but i wake up on the couch somehow. now dylan's singing 'serve somebody' and i know it's the devil. he tempts the nihilist w/ good times but delivers them at a cost. the food arrives .i eat. back at kenny's i pop 1/2 a xanax and sit on the back deck in the sun. i hit the bubbler two more times.

l.a. dispatch 3.30.04
i stand over the freeway, wondering what it would be like to jump down into the midst of the speeding cars. would it be an ironic ending? no. just another story on the local news. another traffic jam. i cross the overpass from the seedy, sro, bukoski downtown to the skyskraper, outdoor mall, pastel downtown and run over the last 48 hours. the plane ride. two vicadins, a couple of drinks and i get cut off. till i make a fuss and they serve me again. the drummer has a rich uncle in la jolla. lots of incredible art, cigarettes and scotch. i play the piano. we sing some songs. the french chef arrives and the the 24-yr.-old granddaughter by a previous wife shows up. something about sustainable agriculture. we go to the gig next to the airport and noone shows up. the back-up singer doesn't have an i.d. and is forced to wait outside until we go on. we go back to l.a. and i spend the next day in the hotel room eating thai food, smoking weed and watching t.v. that evening i visit a friend in venice beach. guido is building an organ grinder. he is a clown, after all. we get coffee and walk out onto a pier where families fish and camp out. one guy just caught a stingray he beats on the concrete trying to get his hook out. i can't watch and we walk back. take the suface streets downtown and i imagine the old l.a. of chandler, nathaniel west, hop-head jazzers and fedoras. i go to bed around midnight but wake up at 4am and watch a jodie foster movie. bad movie. great tits. i get up, check out and go back to the y for a swim. after, i go for lunch at an over-priced outdoor cafe next to the library and have halibut. i don't mind the expense because i'm heading to fresno, where i'm not expecting to get much good to eat outside of a nice caldo or taco pescado. definately looking forward to getting the fuck out of l.a.

nola eats 1.19.04
the napoleon house is my fave. i've tried nearly everything on the menu, but here are the highlights - poulet marengo, made with crawfish, creole tomato, sorrento ham and brandy. smoked pork tenderloin w/ fig mayhaw berry glaze over roasted sweet potato. scallops wrapped in bacon w/ sauce meuniere, la. caviar and crispy spinach. shrimp remoulade stuffed avacado. best po' boy was at parasol's, a little house-bar in the lower garden dist. olivier's is on the facncy tip, but it's not a tourist clip joint like, say, emeril's or the prudomme place. had a great gumbo sampler that featured one based on the sassafrass root (file). and the rabbit with fried eggplant medallions was delicious. this place boasts three generations of creole recipes. muriel's was nice, too. i enjoyed a sauteed redfish and a sweet pea mashed potato and an unusual pecan sauteed sweet potato. also loved the spinach salad w/ a worchesteshire dressing, the cajun bouillabase and the shrimp and cornbread stuffed trout. andrew jaeger's house of seafood is a great place for breakfast. a little walk out of the quarter to the bywater is worth it to try the boudin stuffed tomatoes at elizabeth's. and the granddaddy of them all, jacque-imo's. next to the famous maple leaf bar, i could eat here every night, but it's vey crowded and a little off the beaten path, so, like olivier's, is more of a special occasion place. now i can go to the new one on the upper west side, nyc. thanks, jack. mother's is a lunchtime classic, though also insanely crowded peak times. been told to make it to dick and jenny's and mandina's. so much food. so little time and money...

nola dispatch 1.13.04
i smoke. i smoke. and then i smoke some more. it's disgusting. but i can't stop. just like i can't stop drinking. so i order another bushmill's. the big man plays the piano. beautifully. the bandleader gets the tourists to clap in time and the guy with the pharoah sanders beard sits behind me folding his arms indifferently. some older people leave. and i, i'm glad i came. these fuckers are burning.
maurice brown - trumpet
doug bidel - piano
troy davis - drums
derek douget - tenor
jason stewart - bass

nola dispatch 1.7.04
creature of habit, i'm back having lunch at the bar in the napoleon house. sharon was grounded in eugene where it's been snowing for the first time in like fifty years. i miss her badly and this place suits my mood. the plaster is peeling, the wooden tables are scarred and wobbly and there are dozens of framed paintings covering the walls. napoleon as a young man, napoleon in full battle dress, napoleon without his hat (does he look a little like phil collins?), napoleon surrendering to the british and a portrait of some guy in a white shirt with a bow tie who could be james mason. the rest are classic gothic new orleans renderings of french quarter buildings and overgrown estates. but my favorite is a framed 17x13 brown piece of paper with absolutely nothing on it. the ceiling fan slowly turns and the lightbulbs are pumpkin colored. the bartender has amused himself and his co-workers by cutting out a picture of arnold schwarzenneger and superimposing it onto the front page photo of the martian desert. that's right. our government is reviving the space program. billions to put men on the moon or mars. one can only hope they'll shoot bush and his entire cabinet into space. i finish my gumbo, have a smoke, pay the tab and head out into the sunlit afternoon.

nola dipatch 1.6.04
happy fucking new year.
spent the holidays in ft myers. dad's alzheimer's is advancing and my mom is pretty stressed out, but we had a nice time cooking and playing tennis. even managed to sneak down to a nice course in naples with my brother-in-law where i lost a dollar to jv. went back to nyc for a few gigs w/ carol and jay. rang in new year's eve at the 55 bar with the wollesens. it's become a tradition. what a great band. and kenny is as awesome and amazing as ever.
now i'm sitting in the napoleon house in the quarter digesting a muffaletta and some jambalaya. i order another glass of red and light up a smoke. weird, smoking in a bar. especially since i don't really smoke. no weed does it every time. what do they call it? - chemical roulette.
haven't seen sharon in 16 days. i'v got the whole day and most of the evening to kill before she gets here. damn.


ny disatch 1.02.04
elaine launius, cabbie.
20 year veteran. knows everyone. hell, she knows me.
"name sounds familiar. did you know siyeta?"
yes, it turns out, i did. we must've met at siyeta's memorial party at the 55 bar.
elaine works graveyard, now. the stress. she used to work out of bay riadge. then one day she got a migraine taking a fare around midtown. she tried pain reliever. she laid down on the seat for a half an hour. she finally took her special migraine medication, but the only thing that worked was when she headed back to bay ridge. migraine gone. now she lives in staten island where there's no alternate side of the street parking.

ny dispatch 7.26.03
a truck bounces down my street and ten car alarms go off in protest. the freeway whirrs above my house and the occasional semi downshifts a gutteral muffler-busting belch. killer west nile mosquitoes breed in that beer bottle i forgot to pick up in my back yard next to that plastic bag of shit someone from the apartment building next door tossed there. it's two in the morning and up the block grown men swing from a rope they've somehow looped over a street light as their toddlers look on. in my bedroom, i've got two fans blowing directly on me and i'm still stuck to the bed sheet. i retreat to the basement where i finally fall asleep.

ny dispatch 7.09.03
sitting in a pew in the middle of grace chrurch near union square listening to a free noontime concert of bach organ music. beautiful building. incredible sounding organ. the subway rumbles underneath. bush went on tv last night to ask congress for 70 billion dollars to supplant his god for allah in iraq. or is it democracy? or does he just want all that oil? or is it revenge because they tried to kill his daddy? as i sit in this church transfixed by this incredible music i'm overwhelmed by the history of wars in the name of gods this 400 year old music has witnessed and i wonder what's so damn inspirational about gods who would allow all this murder in their name?
"if jesus christ came back today and saw what was being done in his name, he'd never stop throwing up."
woody allen.
"if there is a god, i'd say he's got a lot of explaining to do." robert deniro.

sf dispatch 7.2.03
played butterfly on the embarcadero with michael. it was noisy and cavernous but they have the nicest piano in town.. and i like playing with a guy who smokes a little weed and drinks scotch on the gig. after, i ran over to bruno's to jam w/ dj aspect, adam theiss, chuck, michael emmineaux and this great drummer i didn't know, eric garland. it was a tequila haze of samples, loops, delays and beats. jayski called me after the gig and we tried to do some cranking, but i was too fucked up, so i passed out on the futon in his studio.

akron dispatch 6.03
came here for my nephew's high school graduation party. i went to college here though i, myself, never did graduate from high school. i drive around with a pint of cuervo under the seat seeing the old sites and visiting old friends. one old friend marries a biker and i crash the reception. everyone is drunk. i know the drummer, who's wife has an excellent, crazy fixation with jimi hendrix. i know the trumpet player who has four kids, looks well fed and is playing his ass off. and i know the bass player, who stays in this place to be close to his daughter. at the after party i see another old friend open the screen door and send projectile vomit into the driveway.
"jaeger shots, man," she says from the bushes, "it was those fucking jaeger shots we had at annabell's on the way over here."
her friend puts his arm around me and tells me he feels fine now because he made himself puke about a half an hour earlier.

i go back to kent where i'm staying with wilbur and pass out. i wake up just as it's getting dark and hear his steel drum buddies going over 'sweet home alabama' downstairs, figure i must be dreaming and go back to sleep. when i get up they're coming back from playing on the street downtown and it's more beer and tequila.

waiting for my plane at the bar in the akron-canton airport, this guy strikes up a conversation with me.
"i have to fly outta shit airports like this one cuz the lines are too freakin' long at cleveland/hopkins. they should have one line for the towel-heads and one line for everbody else. in other words i'm for profiling. what do you do when some towel-head's bangin' on the cockpit door? you gotta arm the pilots. give 'em guns i say."
"big ones," i say, trying to look interested.
"you see, value jet's like kia. or air tran or whatever. budget 8 motels. five bucks for a drink? i should be in new york or you should be naked, sweetie," pointing to the bartender. "they could put the pole right over there."
he and his buddy leave and the bartender mouths to me, "assholes."
"how'd they tip?" i ask.
"six bucks on sixty."

ny dispatch 4.03
avery fisher hall - berlioz requiem
wow. what a sound. 300 person chorus. full orchestra. extra brass in both side balconies. i was totally blown away.

richard julian, les sans culottes and ringo - bottom line
les sans culottes are hilarious. laughed my ass off. they opened the show and we followed so i got to meet a beatle. didn't think i'd be all that impressed, but when richard, ringo and i were kind of hanging out after the soundcheck, some guy came over to us and asked ringo if he'd sign this baseball. ringo folded his arms and turned to the side in a huff, 'i don't sign balls.' i thought i was in 'hard days night.' then later after our set, i'm standing right behind him as he's playing and singing 'i wanna be your man' and it hit me like a ton of bricks - fucking ringo! he looked great, sounded great and had that dry sense of humor. never had a favorite beatle, but i do now.

most awkward moment - our friend amy coriea was also on the bill. backstage there was a meeting with all the performers, the owner and the hudson brother that used to be married to goldie hawn. hudson meets amy and asks her if she has a brother named 'south.' ouch. nice get-up, dude. just get back from ren-faire? on your way to the jethro tull gig?

ny dispatch 3.8.03
american ex-pat frederic rzewski has written an 8-part piano peice called the road. each part is made up of 8 movements and it was his intention that the work be experienced in sections like a road that was there before you got on it and goes on after you leave it - in much the same way as other large piano works (bach's
well-tempered clavier, for example) cannot be experienced in a single sitting and are more suitable for, as rzewski puts it,'home consumption,' rather than public performance.

rzewski is one of my musical idols and i was happy just to bask in his prescence. he plays the disheveled composer/intellectual to the hilt but is totally approachableand is extremely politically radical. his piano variations based on the chilean revolutionary anthem, 'the people united will never be defeated,' is one of my favorite piano peices of all time and will no doubt stand in history next to the goldberg, diabelli and brahms variations.

part 5 of the road, however, i found to be long and cold - testing my powers of concentration and making me wish i hadn't had those couple of drinks before the show. occasionally rzewski would holler out, 'i can't believe she left me,' or let out a low moan. humurous, for sure, but it was all way over my head (which may not be saying much). nonetheless, the whole experience was totally awesome and inspirational. perhaps matthew shipp wore me down with his opening set. i had trouble concentrating on his music, as well. flailing his arms perpendicular to the keyboard while grabbing notes created a transparent sound and a distracting visual. half way through he began playing the inside of the piano which cued the assistant (sitting motionless behind shipp to this point) to electronicallymanipulate the sound for the remainder of the inmprovisation making for a sort of electrified reprise of the first half. there's been a lot of hype about shipp and i look forward to picking up some of his cd's, but he may have had an off night because i was pretty bored.

ny dispatch 1.05.03
bank st. west village. all the way down to west st and it's the top floor of the corner bldg. fourth floor walk-up. there's a lift outside with a basket and as i watch my amp and keyboards ascend in the grey drizzle i think of what a hassle it might be leaving in five hours if this thing isn't working. or if it's pouring rain.

loft. 180 degree view through florr to ceiling windows. he's a photogtapher and i wonder why he's having a catered party for people he doesn't seem to know. a wedding reception. rent party.
'nice glasses,' he says to me, 'who's are they?'
'mine,' i say.
'oh, i know,' laughing, 'i just thought they were moschino ar tachini.'
'nope. ten bucks on the street-ini.'
'wow.'
yeah, wow. what a fucking douche-bag.

so we do the gig. he sits watching the gig from behind a computer over in the corner. about every half hour he comes over and waves a decibel meter at the bandleader till finally the bandleader has the singers whispering 'boogie-oogie-oogie' into the microphone. i'll say this much for him, he had top notch hootch and about 4 or 5 macallan later, i had my stuff piled in front of the lift ready to split. 'we can't use the lift late at night, so,' and he picks up one of my keyboard stands and says all perky, 'what goes down?' 'all of it, duh.' 'you know,' planting himself on one leg, 'fuck you, you've got an attitude,' and he puts down the stand. 'fuck you, you're a retard.' on my last trip i overhear the bandleader and douch-bag arguing,
'you'll never work here again.'
'wow, you must be psychic. how did you know that?'
and i was impressed because most bandleaders that do this kind of work are gutless ass-kissers.

new year's eve was fun. jammed with renee at this party moby was throwing. he sat in and rocked 'whole lot of love.' i know a moby song now. i did not know i was made of stars. jammed with the wollesen's till 5 in the morning. it's getting to be a tradition. saw a lot of friends down there. norah sang some songs with us. adam rogers jammed. i'm pretty sure we all got drunk. happy new year.

ny dispatch 12.7.02
the tombs. two cells, rectangular, about 10'x20'. hard metallic benches line the walls and there's a camode and a pay phone in the front. and 15 or 20 guys. it's 8am. just one hour before court starts and I can get the fuck out of here. I can't believe I wasn't drinking last night when I got arrested. this would suck a whole lot worse with a hangover. or maybe not. with no room to stretch out on the benches, the drunk guys just layed down on the concrete floor and went to sleep. I thought I had fallen asleep a couple of times. I think I was lying on my side for a moment when this guy came up and said, "hey, lemme get some of that." i was relieved to realize he meant the bench.

ny dispatch 8.06.02
at the moment all that seems important is the warring environment that surrounds us - middle eastern violence escalates, india and pakistan are poised on the verge of nuclear war and u.s. congress debates a preemptive attack on a sovereign nation (evil or not). all the while the planet hurtles toward an uncertain ecological and environmental future. it's hard to 'stay up,' as my friend rick says. i try to live now.

i watched my friends lee alexander and norah jones turn into overnight sensations.and that was a real pleasure. and i'm sure will continue to be. richard julian has been opening for them across the country which is also a great thing. i've been working for richard since i arrived in nyc (over three years now) and got to perform with him in front of a sold out house at town hall. i hope this turns out to be a lucrative opportunity for him. he owes me $60.

i saw tiger woods play at both the masters and the u.s. open. not a big deal to most, but i thought it was pretty cool. i've seen world series games ('83 cardinals) and saw a big samprass/rafter match at the '98 open and i've seen emerson, lake and palmer ('79 w/ my french teacher, ms. menard). this was definately up there.

i released my fifth disc, scott free. it contains archival (that means old) recordings of wilbur krebs, kenny wollesen and myself giving it the old downtown, avant-garde, improv, out there, jazz jam try. i completed a six song demo called groovula. it's funky and features jay collins, liberty ellman and diego voglino. i hope to expand it to a full-length cd soon. i played a couple of tunes on marshall crenshaw's new record. he was really nice and laid back. it was a lot of fun. but the most fun award goes to the nearly entire gig i played with my boys, rat dog, at the hammerstein ballroom. we were all on mushrooms and had a great time. i got to jam with my buddy jeff (he had like four keyboards) so that was extra special. it's good to see my friends doing so well. i didn't know i knew so many dead songs.

ny dispatch 11.11.01
two months ago today around 9am i was having breakfast with my parents who had been visiting the previous ten days and were set to fly out of laguardia that afternoon. i was leaving my house to walk sharon to the subway when i immediately noticed one of the twin towers (which i have an unobstructed view of from my stoop) was billowing smoke. i said something like, "holy shit, look at that!" to which my wife replied something like, "yeah, yeah, i gotta go, i'm gonna be late." the whole world knows the rest. sharon didn't get far and came through the front door about two hours later after having been stuck in a tunnel just a few stops from our house.

life here since then has been different to say the least. i can remember the sf quake in '89 that collapsed freeway sections and a portion of the bay bridge. i was living in oakland at the time and the only way into sf by car was around the bay. pick the route, north or south and the traffic was sure to be intense. that was nothing. fortunately, new york's subway system rebounded quickly and if i didn't have to drive to jersey or long island for a gig, life could go on normally. the traffic was so bad, guilliani made carpooling mandatory between the hours of 6am and 11am. a step in the right direction. still, noone seems to be concerned about the effect of fossil fuels on the environment or how conservation could reduce our dependancy on foreign oil whcih no doubt dictates the choices our gov't makes/made in middle east foreign policy. it's time to embrace the 21st century. fossil fuels have got to be a thing of the past. maybe the white house economic stimulus package could provide for scientific research and capital to build factories that could mass produce some alternative personal transportation. instead, bush and his corporate dick-sucking side-kicks want to give $5.7 billion in tax rebates to 13 fortune 500 corporations. oh, and the american people need to go shopping. "go back to sleep america, your gov't