For those of us who grew up in the 1960’s, there is much to remember. For me, it was the draft, war, motorcycles, Playboy, love, demonstrations, flower children, and of course, the music. Many songs carried the message of the times.
One such song was Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth.” Over the years the song has been covered many times and the words still ring true, even more so today.
There’s something happening here What it is ain’t exactly clear There’s a man with a gun over there Telling me I got to beware
I think it’s time we stop, children, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down
There’s battle lines being drawn Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong Young people speaking their minds Getting so much resistance from behind
It’s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down
What a field-day for the heat A thousand people in the street Singing songs and carrying signs Mostly say, hooray for our side
It’s s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down
Paranoia strikes deep Into your life it will creep It starts when you’re always afraid You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down Stop, hey, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down Stop, now, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down Stop, children, what’s that sound Everybody look what’s going down
Gil Scott-Heron was a soul and jazz poet, musician, and author known as one of the most important progenitors of rap music, aggressive, no-nonsense street poetry that inspired a legion of intelligent rappers. He has been called ‘the black Bob Dylan.’
WINTER IN AMERICA
From the Indians who welcomed the pilgrims And to the buffalo who once ruled the plains Like the vultures circling beneath the dark clouds Looking for the rain Looking for the rain
Just like the cities staggered on the coastline Living in a nation that just can’t stand much more Like the forest buried beneath the highway Never had a chance to grow Never had a chance to grow
And now it’s winter Winter in America Yes and all of the healers have been killed Or sent away, yeah But the people know, the people know It’s winter Winter in America And ain’t nobody fighting ‘Cause nobody knows what to save Save your soul, Lord knows From Winter in America
The Constitution A noble piece of paper With free society Struggled but it died in vain And now Democracy is ragtime on the corner Hoping for some rain Looks like it’s hoping Hoping for some rain
And I see the robins Perched in barren treetops Watching last-ditch racists marching across the floor But just like the peace sign that vanished in our dreams Never had a chance to grow Never had a chance to grow
And now it’s winter It’s winter in America And all of the healers have been killed Or been betrayed Yeah, but the people know, people know It’s winter, Lord knows It’s winter in America And ain’t nobody fighting ‘Cause nobody knows what to save Save your souls From Winter in America
And now it’s winter Winter in America And all of the healers done been killed or sent away Yeah, and the people know, people know It’s winter Winter in America And ain’t nobody fighting ‘Cause nobody knows what to save And ain’t nobody fighting Cause nobody knows, nobody knows And ain’t nobody fighting ‘Cause nobody knows what to save
— Gill Scott-Heron
If you are interested in some great music, damn good poetry and a little history of this nation, check out the video — it’s all about holding on to your dreams.
Somewhere between reading Rainer Maria Rilke and listening to Ray Wylie Hubbard’s CD, “The Grifter’s Hymnal,” the following just flowed out — as usual, no rewrite, you get what you see.
THE BODY SLOWS ME DOWN
The body slows me down, but the blood still flows, the soul hasn’t slowed fostering a deep and necessary intimacy with life.
The body slows me down, but I count my blessing without a 60-cycle hum, freed from habitual trains of thought.
The body slows me down, but the poets still, please with a taste of bittersweet chocolate, burning through the words manifested in music.
The body slows me down, but my mind leads the way to an enigmatic mystery, seeking a Rilke Maria’s moment freed by Ray Wylie’s applause.
The body slows me down, but I keep running from the ghosts that keep on coming around the bend.
The body slows me down, but its dividing outline is no longer there providing a membrane between inner and outer worlds.
The body slows me down, but I can still hum Polk Salad Sally, framing cosmic image descending from invisible heights.
The body slows me down, but I still use my imagination to inspire conscious thinking, allowing “the damn fox do what a damn fox does.”
kenne
“The days I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations, I have really good days.”
— Ray Wylie Hubbard
“The Empathic Civilization is emerging. A younger generation is fast extending its empathic embrace beyond religious affiliations and national identification to include the whole of humanity and the vast project of life that envelops the Earth.”
color shades in color shades shapes in shades shapes form in shapes form image in form image meaning in image meaning meaning in existence existence
kenne
Existence — Video by kenne
“The thing about Native American music
that a lot of people don’t understand
is the fact that it’s held in
such high regard for their culture…
while we live in a society where music
is something that involves a lot of technology,
they’re able to create something so significant in
our world with very little materials.”
Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme– why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled? I hear the noise of my own voice: The painter’s vision is not a lens, it trembles to caress the light. But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot, lurid, rapid, garish, grouped, heightened from life, yet paralyzed by fact. All’s misalliance. Yet why not say what happened? Pray for the grace of accuracy Vermeer gave to the sun’s illumination stealing like the tide across a map to his girl solid with yearning. We are poor passing facts, warned by that to give each figure in the photograph his living name.
Double Bayou Dance Hall (October 10, 2002) — Image by kenne
I’m fascinated with photos.
When you look at a photograph, what do you see?
Is what you see reality?
Is it posed?
Many of my blog posting start with “Capturing The Moment,” which might imply: taken out of reality; taken out of context; posed.
What is really happening in the moment?
When you look at the above photo, which captured a moment, you don’t get the narrative. You don’t know how the image fits into the world, but if you begin to ask questions related to who, what, where, when and how you can create a narrative — a photo story that effectively places you into the image. Still, when many people look at a photo, they tend to be matter-of-fact about matters of fact.
Because I took the above photo, I know more facts of the narrative. Because I composed this photo, the moment is out of context, in a sense I posed the photo, which is why I believe all photos are posed.
Still, this photo provides the viewer a lot of information from which to create a story that will allow the image to fit into the viewer’s world. It’s a narrative we create using our values, experience and perception, which allows a photo to become attractive to the viewer. The viewer can be connected and not connected — looking at the past as if he/she is there.
Photos offer a powerful look into history, so ask questions.
Jimmy “T99” Nelson At Houston’s Rhythm Room On Washington Street (September 13, 2003) — Computer Art by kenne
Jimmy “T99” Nelson (April 7, 1919 – July 29, 2007)was an American jump blues and rhythm and blues shouter and songwriter.With a recording career that spanned over 50 years, Jimmy “T99” Nelson became a distinguished elder statesman of American music. His best known recordings are “T-99 Blues” and “Meet Me With Your Black Dress On”. Nelson notably worked with Duke Robillard and Otis Grand.
— Source: Wikipedia
Ronstadt Generations Sitting On A Park Bench (Michael, Alex and Petie) — Image by kenne
In a park somewhere is Sonora, as we were returning to Tucson from several days in Alamos, I captured a photo as Michael, Alex and Petie set in the midday sun waiting for the motorcoach to be gassed up. I later layered in a guitar creating this Photoshop image. These guys were an important part of our trip to Alamoa, Sonora.
kenne
One of the courtyards at Hacienda De Los Santos in Alamos, Sonora — Image by kenne
Rafael Figueroa Ju, Alamos, Sonora, Mexico — Image by kenne
One afternoon while in Alamos we all met where Tucson’s Ronstadt Generations was staying to listen to a fabulous seventy-five year old harmonica player, Rafael Figueroa Ju. His appearance was a beautiful example of organized spontaneity.
Video of Rafael Figueroa Ju by kenne (January 27, 2016 in Alamos, Sonora, Mexico)
Little known, except by musicians, Danny Gatton was a musician’s musician. He loved playing the telecaster, rebuilding antique cars, staying around the D.C. area and just being a shy “good-old boy.”
Danny Gatton has been described as possessing an extraordinary proficiency on his instrument, “a living treasury of American musical styles.”In 2009, John Previti, who played bass guitar with Danny for 18 years stated: “You know, when he played country music, it sounded like all he played was country music. When he played jazz, it sounded like that’s all he played, rockabilly, old rock and roll, soul music. You know, he called himself a Whitman sampler of music Legendary guitarist Steve Vai reckons Danny “comes closer than anyone else to being the best guitar player that ever lived.”Accomplished guitar veteran Albert Lee said of Gatton: “Here’s a guy who’s got it all.”
Gatton shot himself in his garage, October 4, 1994 at the young age of 59 — he left no explanation. All great artists seem to possess a spooky fatalism, a sense of the duende down deep in the soul.
The goblets of the dawn break. The crying of the guitar starts. No use to stop it. It is impossible to stop it.
Gill Scott-Heron — Grunge Art by kenne
Honky Tonk Angels — Computer Art by kenne
Image by kenne
Music Under the Moonlight — Grunge Art by kenne
Double Bayou Dance Hall (October 10, 2002) — Image by kenne
Jimmy “T99” Nelson At Houston’s Rhythm Room On Washington Street (September 13, 2003) — Computer Art by kenne
Ronstadt Generations Sitting On A Park Bench (Michael, Alex and Petie) — Image by kenne
One of the courtyards at Hacienda De Los Santos in Alamos, Sonora — Image by kenne
Morning is Bright — B&W Image by kenne
Rafael Figueroa Ju, Alamos, Sonora, Mexico — Image by kenne
For those of us who grew up in the 1960’s, there is much to remember. For me, it was the draft, war, motorcycles, Playboy, love, demonstrations, flower children, and of course, the music. Many songs carried the message of the times.
One such song was Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth.” Over the years the song has been covered many times and the words still ring true, even more so today.
There’s something happening here
What it is ain’t exactly clear
There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it’s time we stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind
It’s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It’s s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Stop, now, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
— Stephen Stills
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