Texas Live Music — Image by kenne
The Allen Oldies Band Image by kenne
“Those Oldies But Goodies”
(Paul Politti and Nick Curinga)
Those oldies but goodies reminds me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
I always remember the first night we met
The songs they were playing I never will forget
I always will treasure them so close to my heart
They always will haunt me although we’re apart
Each time that I hear them a tear’s bound to fall
For I love those memories that I, I-I recall
Those oldies but goodies reminds me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
Forever they will haunt me but what can I do
Those oldies but goodies reminds me of you
(Oldies but goodies reminds me of you)
[Spoken:]
Yes, dear, they are playin’ our songs
And they will always remain our songs
And each time you hear them
I hope you, too, will cherish
The wonderful memories that our love once knew
For these songs are just a symbol of the love that I had for you
Those oldies but goodies reminds me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
Forever they will haunt me but what can I do
Those oldies but goodies reminds me of you
(Oldies but goodies reminds me of you)
“Lovin’ Those Mixed Up Spirits In The Moonlight” — Image by kenne
Mixed Up Spirits In The Moonlight
In all my years of working
I knew there was
more to life
than making money.
It was all about a
“love of life,”
of doing things
with and for others.
The more things I did,
the more I was pulled
in different directions
by obligations,
responsibilities and
desires —
being “mixed up”
was a way of life,
like a spirit in the night.
My experiences
became the ingredients
I gathered in
my love of life —
including the “wild times”
I may have pushed
into life’s backrooms,
and closed the doors.
Often,
music and poetry
have a way of
opening those doors
in the spirit in the night —
like Springsteen’s
“Spirit in the Night:”
“Me and Crazy Janey
was makin’ love
in the dirt singin’
our birthday songs.”
His words bring back
those feelings of
the fire once there.
“Crazy Janey” and her
“Mission Man,”
something right
out of the past —
“She felt so nice,
just as soft as a
spirit in the night (all night).”
. . .still singin’ our birthday songs —
mixed up, mixed up, all mixed up!
kenne
p.s. Being mixed up is good!
Plus, July is a birthday month for a my “crazy Janey” —
still singin’ as long as Bruce plays for us!
The late Mean Gene Kelton — May 3, 2008 Image by kenne
— from “If This Guitar Could Talk” by Mean Gene Kelton
*****
Mean Gene Kelton was one hell of a rockin’ bluesman. He was also that down home Mississippi boy who loved sitting around picking, playing the harp and telling stories — never a moment to write about in “Gigs from Hell.”
I recall Gene telling me that he was getting tired of the “regular gig thing,” which is one of the reasons he started his weekly acoustic “Rooster Jam” at Rooster’s in Baytown.
In May of 2008, Ken & Mary’s Blues Project provided one of those perfect “under the stars” venues for the “unplugged” Gene.
And yes, we are still following “. . . the trail of tears.”
kenne
“Can You Feel It?” Houston Bluesman, Sherman Robertson — Image by kenne
The Guitar
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
Tw weeps monotonously
as water weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
“Red, Hot & Blues” — Image by kenne
kenne
When George Jones passed away in late April of this year, I made a note to share one of my favorite songs of his, “Bartender Blues.” Actually it’s a James Taylor song written in 1977.
“It’s hard to describe but it’s so tight and so sculpted. It was just remarkable to hear someone make that sound with a human voice. And it sounded like someone singing who had listened to a lot of steel guitar, the way he bends notes and phrases. To me it sounds like a steel guitar in a human voice.” — James Taylor in Billboard, April 27, 2013
Now, two months out I’m posting my note to share with my music friends. Click here to read a very thoughtful article in The New Republic, “Why George Jones Ranks With Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday.”
Bartender Blues
by James Taylor
Now I’m just a bartender
And I don’t like my work
But I don’t mind the money at all
I see lots of sad faces
And lots of bad cases
Of folks with their backs to the wall
Chorus:
But I need four walls around me to hold my life
To keep me from going a-stray
And a honky-tonk angel to hold me tight
To keep me from slipping away
I can light up your smokes
I can laugh at your jokes
I can watch you fall down on your knees
I can close down this bar
I can gas up my car
I can pack up and mail in my key
Chorus:
Now, the smoke fills the air
In this honky-tonk bar
And I’m thinking ’bout where I’d rather be
But I burned all my bridges
I sank all my ships
And I’m stranded at the edge of the sea
(Click On The Image And Watch On YouTube)
Image by kenne
Purple Haze
About the time
I’m feeling high
I start acting funny
But don’t know why
Today becomes the day after today
Or is it the end of time
Only to be floating in
An ocean of deathless life
Feeling gratitude for God’s gift
Awaking the soul
Becoming void as I was
When I was not yet
“Turn from gazing after”
To kiss the sky
Devoid of all
Foreign images
Only to be
Born again
From inside the outside
Looking in
Jimi placed a spell
On his soul
Purple in color
Inspired by a haze
Deluded by doubt
“Am I happy or in misery?”
Answered not in the words
But the color of the font
kenne
ever festival
has dancing muses
dancing
because that’s what they do —
I know, I was there
feeling the energy
creative energy
calling
the dancing muse
she appears
always colorful,
always free
not confined
to life’s rules
an expression of life
streaming
feelings of Duende
down the centuries
from the ancient muse,
Terpsichore
we drink
the playful spirit
delighting
a perpetual thirst
plucking the chords
inside the soul
— kenne
Images Captured At The Tucson Fold Festival by kenne
Images by kenne
The 28th annual Tucson Folk Festival began yesterday — five stages and over 500 musicians. Not only is there plenty of music, but workshops, arts & crafts, food and children’s show. This little girl was playing in the fountain in El Presidio Park where one of the stages is located. Her mother, carrying the youngest of three, followed her around taking joyful photos. After awhile it felt good to warm up in the sun.
More postings to come on this annual event in the Old Pueblo.
kenne
“Protected By The Rock” Goodding Verbena — Image by kenne
Stood there boldly
Sweatin’ in the sun
Felt like a million
Felt like number one
The height of summer
I’d never felt that strong
Like a rock
— by Bob Seger from the song, “Like A Rock”
Why, Arizona
Disregarding our “laced with fear” friends, Tom Markey and I drove Ajo Way (Arizona 86 Highway) out of Tucson to Puerto Peñasco, Mexico. The drive, most of which is through the Tohono O’odham Nation, is a very picturesque drive to Why, Arizona in the Sonoran desert.
On The Way To Why
The road is long,
a straight blacktop
across the land
of the Tohono O’odham.
Each passing mile
stirring up reflections
while pondering
each crucifix
with plastic flowers —
conquering my thoughts
drifting in and out
of my soul
wondering why,
why-not,
on the way
of leftover dreams.
— kenne
(The Sonoran desert has awaken my yearning for the spiritual allowing me to feel the mysterious anguish of all things.)
Tom and Pedro
We drove through the communities of Sells, Why and Lukeville before crossing the border about 80 miles north of Puerto Peñasco (Rocky Point). This sea-shore desert town is at the north end of the Gulf of California on the narrow strip of land that connects Baja California with the rest of Mexico.
Our plan was to have Pedro (the boat owner who has taken Tom fishing in the past) take us fishing in the Gulf. However, given the neuropathy Tom was still experiencing from his last chemo (#6) session, and after meeting with Pedro, we decided fishing would be left for another day.
Now Tom and I would have more time to walk the beach discussing poetry, philosophy and life stories.
Tom had brought alone the bilingual edition of Federico Garcia Lorca‘s Collected Poems. I don’t recall my having discussed Lorca with Tom, but he soon learned of my love for the man, his daemonic genius and ability to invoke the duende in his poetry.
“I want to summon up all the good will, all the purity of intention I have, because like all true artists I yearn for my poems to reach your hearts and cause the communication of love among you, forming the marvelous chain of spiritual solidarity that is the chief end to any work of art.” — from Lorca’s “Lecture,” Poet In New York
Until moving to the desert southwest, it was Lorca’s writings that served as a substitute for what was absent, since nothing is as it should be. I had a powerful desire to move from the there to the here and until I could be more in the present, planting roots in the spirituality of the border lands — invoking a deep trance-like emotion, his poetry satisfied the desire .
KenneTurner, Edward Hirsch and Dave Parsons
In his book, The Demon and The Angel, Edward Hirsch writes that duende (or the demon) and the angel are vital spirits of creative imagination, two figures for a power that dwells deep within us:
“Lorca’s myriad crystal tambourines wounding the new day are fresh poetic fact, an extrasensory event that strikes the reader or listener as something that has been creatively added to nature, something beyond natural or even metaphorical description, something visionary.”
As we drove the Tohono O’odham land, the land of the “Desert People,” so much around us began to invoke the presence of duende, a feeling I continue to try to express, but remains beyond description, while allowing a spiritual absolute — “toward which all artistic endeavor, especially music and literature, seems to tend.”
Tom Markey On The Beach At Mayan Palace
The poet is the medium
of Nature
who explains her greatness
by means of words.
The poet understands
all that is incomprehensible,
and things that hate each other
he calls friends.
He knows that all paths
are impossible
and thus he walks them
calmly in the night.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
kenne
Where The Desert Touches The Beach
“The duende does not come at all unless he sees that death is possible,” Lorca wrote in “Deep Song.”
Malagueña
Death
goes in and out
of the tavern.
Black horses
and sinister people
pass along the Sunken roads
of the guitar.
There’s an odor of slat
and female blood
in the feverish spikenard
along the shore.
Death
goes in and out,
out and in
of the tavern goes
death.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Images by kenne
When we are home on Saturday evening, we watch the sun gone down and listen to Marty Kool’s “Blues Review” on KXCI — one of my favorite ways to enjoy life. This short video will give you a feel for what I’m writing about. You will also notice the running water sound coming from the fountain on the patio — another sound I love. If you are curious, the music in the background is Andy Poxon doing “Please Come Home.”
kenne
One of the signs of spring in the Sonoran Desert is the return of the white-winged doves. — Image by kenne
edge of seventeen
by Stevie Nicks
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Who who who
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
And the days go by
Like a strand in the wind
In the web that is my own
I begin again
Said to my friend, baby
Nothin’ else mattered
He was no more than a baby then
Well he seemed broken hearted
Something within him
But the moment that I first laid
Eyes on him all alone
On the edge of seventeen
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
I went today maybe I will go again
Tomorrow
And the music there it was hauntingly
Familiar
And I see you doing
What I try to do for me
With the words from a poet
And the voice from a choir
And a melody nothing else mattered
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
The clouds never expect it
When it rains
But the sea changes colors
But the sea
Does not change
And so with the slow graceful flow
Of age
I went forth with an age old
Desire to please
On the edge of seventeen
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Well then suddenly
There was no one left standing
In the hall yeah yeah
In a flood of tears
That no one really ever heard fall at all
Oh I went searchin’ for an answer,
Up the stairs and down the hall
Not to find an answer
Just to hear the call
Of a nightbird singing
Come away come away
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Well I hear you in the morning
And I hear you
At nightfall
Sometime to be near you
Is to be unable to hear you
My love
I’m a few years older than you
Just like the white winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
(Click here to listen to “edge of seventeen”)
Bruce Robison and Kelly Willis on Imas In The Morning
Living in the mid-west in the 60’s, many of us would frequently listen to the powerful radios on the Mexican border. The Austin singer/songwriters Bruce Robison and Kelly Willis have a song that captures the times.
kenne
