Living With Our Music (excerpt from chapter 26)

In our homes, a comforting meal with good music is a special joy. I once discovered that Bon Appetit Magazine -- experts in fine cuisine -- also relate to food in song. "Food will always be our valentine," according to a piece in their February 2007 issue. The magazine recommended a "venerable collection of songs that celebrate the greatest love of all:" "Savoy Truffle," The Beatles; "White Pepper Ice Cream," Cibo Matto; "Do Fries Go With That Shake?," George Clinton; "Red, Red, Wine," Neil Diamond; "Vegetables," The Beach Boys; "Jambalaya," Hank Williams; and "Beans and Corn Bread," Louis Jordan. To their list I would add Steve Goodman's "Chicken Cordon Blues" and a '60s oldie by Jay & the Techniques called "Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie."

In 1968, a The Ohio Express sang "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I got love in my tummy and I feel like a-lovin' you..." In about 1601, Williams Shakespeare wrote in Twelfth Night "If music be the food of love, play on..." Forgive me for quoting a bubblegum pop group and the great bard at the same time, but I couldn't resist. There is a strong correlation between music and food.

My intent in all of this is not to cause you to head for the refrigerator or nearest restaurant. Sorry if I did, because we Americans need to stick to our diets. Maybe it's time to jump on the treadmill to the pounding tune of the Bangles' "Walk Like An Egyptian" or the Romantics' "What I Like About You." Let the energizing music in our heads help us shed the pounds that the music with our food has helped create. Food for thought.

Tropidaze (2nd excerpt from chapter 25)

I never expected my life to evolve to one of wearing sandals and flowered shirts. It was too close to visions of old guys on golf courses, pants pulled up over their beltlines, white shoes and hairless heads. But in the Sunshine State, I became thrilled with the sight of dolphins showing off in the Gulf and enjoyed comfortable January nights of star gazing from our lanai. The soundtrack in my head was now laced with steel drums though, only a few miles from our new home, musicians played bluegrass regularly at a riverfront bar. Sometimes Florida sounds take on a whole different spin, such as classical music concerts performed by the Charlotte Symphony in a Punta Gorda theatre that was magically spared from the wrath of Hurricane Charley in 2004.

Mostly, the music had become the e-mail moniker that I had used since the inception of the internet. The name now became a tropical love song set to a smooth rhythm:

Tropidaze

Palm trees are waving on my front lawn
Tropical birds are waking up before the dawn
The afternoon thunder brings the usual rain
Followed by sunshine in the daily chain

I just can't believe that I'm not dreaming
Florida realizes its cliches
I just can't believe that I'm not dreaming
I'm living my tropidaze with you
I'm living in our tropidaze, tropidaze

The footsteps we leave behind on the shore
Not like any others that we left there before
The bars and the restaurants have a different glow
Vacations are pictures but this is our home

So many people come from everywhere
The bustle is growing but nobody cares
The call of the ocean that draws us to come
Gather at sunset where we're humbled as one

I just can't believe that I'm not dreaming
Florida realizes its cliches
I just can't believe that I'm not dreaming
I'm living my tropidaze with you
I'm living in our tropidaze, tropidaze

Tropidaze (excerpt from chapter 25)

The Van Wezel is situated on the edge of Sarasota Bay, a beautiful and tropical location. It's an indoor concert venue that's designed to keep the audience cool from the Florida heat. The theatre seemed about one-quarter filled, and we were able to to secure prime, close-up seats as Rita Coolidge took the stage. Her set was jazz influenced, and included her biggest pop hit, "(Your Love Has Lifted Me) Higher and Higher" from 1977. We felt young among the audience of mostly senior citizens, who politely applauded Rita's tunes. Then Rick Derringer took the stage.

I knew only this about Rick Derringer: He was the leader of a group called the McCoys,who had a giant pop hit in 1965 wuth "Hang On Sloopy." He moved into the 1970s as the guitarist for the Edgar Winter Group, a blazing blues rock band with some pretty cool radio songs such as "Frankenstein" and "Free Ride." Now, the graying Derringer stepped onto the Van Wezel stage with only a young drummer and bassist behind him. With the first screaming notes from his guitar, it was clear that Derringer was here to rock n' roll. Within 10-15 minutes, dozens of senior citizens headed for the exits as the group rocked at high decibels. Derringer wasn't about to submit to an acoustic set. He plunged into extended jams on "Hang On Sloopy" and his other other signature song, "Rock n' Roll Hootchie Koo."

My wife and I were somewhat awed by this blatant, cocky display of rock and not exactly loving it. My rock n' roll ears had somewhat mellowed over the years, nevertheless, I was still impressed by Derringer's skillful playing and singing. With my head ringing on the drive back to Port Charlotte, I realized that this guy was all about the music. He wasn't about meaningful lyrics, excursions into jazz, hip-hop or anything new. Rick Derringer played what he loved and knew best and wasn't about to make adjustments for the audience. I believe that Dave Mason, originally scheduled and who I hope to eventually see, would approve. These guys were our new southwest Florida neighbors and I admire their legacies.

Floridaze (excerpt from chapter 24)

I don't think it was any big surprise to friends and family when we made the big move to Florida, settled in and adapted easily. If you've done any moving in your life, there are signs of differences everywhere -- in dialects, food, businesses, weather -- and music, as I've found, is always a part of that new ambience. My musical head was spinning with Jimmy Buffett tunes and tropic-pop obscurities such as the Kinks' "Come Dancing" and Bette Midler's "Yellow Beach Umbrella." And my enthusiasm for playing guitar and writing, fueled by Bedford's bluegrass agenda, was growing, with a tropical twist of course.

We discovered that Florida and definitely our fast-growing southwest Gulf Coast area, was a melting pot of transients from other states, particularly the Midwest and Northeast. Plenty of retirees, sure, but we were in our pre-retirement years and ahead of the baby boom descendance into the Sunshine State. I quickly encountered live, spontaneous music in Punta Gorda's Lindquist park. There, musicians who dubbed themselves the Punta Gorda Guitar Army assembled weekly for impromptu jams. These were mostly players and singers with varied repertoires in country, rock and folk. They brought their songlists and instruments from places throughout the United States, gathering together to play both classic and original songs. I was a passive observer, soaking in this exciting and inspiring assemblage.

It wasn't long before I discovered another group of musicians, called the Englewood Acoustic Guitar Society, who played occasionally in a waterfront park pavilion in the beach town of Englewood. I was ready to participate. On a typically beautiful evening, I joined with several guitarists as well as people singing and playing harmonica, mandolin and bongos. I took my turn leading at the microphone as pleasure boats passed by, passengers waved and egrets grazed along the shoreline. My new musician friends were all transplanted Floridians, ranging in age from the 20s through the 6os. The music varied from the Eagles to Pearl Jam to Bonnie Raitt and everything in between. This was about as perfect as the music, the collaboration and the ambience could get.

World View (excerpt from chapter 23)

The "lotus" word came into my life again, not in the form of bluegrass or new age meditation, but in an experience called the "Lotus World Music Festival." This annual weekend festival in Bloomington took on the same form as Elkhart's Jazz Festival. Food vendors, art exhibits and several music venues were spread out within walking distance in the downtown. And, naturally, it was the diverse range of music that caught my interest.

At Lotus, my wife and I encountered Caribbean music by a Dominican Republic band, a fast-moving set of Romanian gypsy music, drum circles, African jazz, cajun, Irish folk music and so much more. The event featured talented musicians from around the world though every set wasn't necessarily for everyone (we were pretty bored after the first 10 minutes of a flamenco guitar solo, for instance).

At this festival we witnessed a performance by an aging pop singer, Janis Ian. She had left her mark in 1967 with one of those hyped racially "controversial" songs, "Society's Child (Baby I've Been Thinking)" then resurfaced with "I'm Seventeen" (another song with underlying themes)in 1975. The Janis Ian concert was a pleasant surprise. Janis played solo, displaying true guitar prowess with only a rhythm machine for backup. Her words, in the songs and in her short parables before each one, grabbed our attention, amused the crowd and showed a true sense of her emotions, world perspectives and intelligence. It was another one of those "Little Feat" experiences, when the pure joy of performance and revelation became the music.

Who Was Lotus Dickey? (excerpt from chapter 22)

We started the new millenium packing our stuff, selling our house and heading south, not far enough to lose all the snow, but nevertheless south. We weren't entirely prepared, however, to adapt to life in Bedford, a small, rural town, although close to Bloomington with Indiana University.

Once we settled into a new home in a country subdivision, I made friends with the news editor who played guitar. In fact, this compact, marathon running, married-without-kids friend shared many lifestyle similarities with me. We got together to play music a few times and I dusted off some of my original songs as well as favorites by the Eagles, CSN&Y, the Beatles and others. He could play guitar well and introduced me to the music of Lyle Lovett and some folk/country songs. Then he started telling me about a group of local musicians dedicated to Lotus Dickey and other bluegrass artists. "Lotus Who?" I asked. I knew nothing about bluegrass music but was about to step into a world that seemed to emanate from nearby Paoli, Indiana.

One weekend, Bedford was hosting a small festival on the grounds of the county courthouse about a half block from the newspaper. My new editor pal told me that the Lotus Dickey people would perform. "I'm bringing my guitar, bring yours, too," he said. But I wasn't quite ready to sit in on a bluegrass session with an audience. I needed to hear the music and declined to take my guitar. When the Lotus Dickey Reunion Band took the small stage, it was like nothing I had seen or heard live before -- a half dozen players with acoustic guitars, banjos, mandolins, violins, even an old guy in bib overalls playing the spoons!

The newness to my ears was foot-stomping contagious. My friend, along with the publisher of the paper, knew the people in the band and the words to most of the songs. They requested tunes such as "I'll Fly Away," "I Want To Sing That Rock n' Roll," and some Lotus Dickey originals. Kids danced on the courthouse lawn and people chomped on apple fritters. it resembled those family picnics of my distant past, little sugar-filled cousins bouncing to Slovak melodies. De-ja Vu!

Little Feat (excerpt from chapter 21)

"If you'll be my dixie chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb. And we can walk together down in dixieland..." From "Dixie Chicken" by Little Feat, 1973

We celebrated with friends on New Year's Eve 1998 at a Little Feat concert. In a Richmond, Va, hotel with hundreds attending, we heard an extended jam of "Dixie Chicken" plus songs such as "Let It Roll," "Hoy Hoy," "Time Loves A Hero," and "Oh, Atlanta" in Feat's rockin'/cajun style. The band was polished and entertaining but mostly know only to its dedicated following. The members were seasoned veterans and backup musicians for other, much more familiar bands, but Little Feat was their core. We were invited backstage and chatted with the members, then we caught up again the next day at a Cracker Barrel restaurant, en route to a Norfolk gig.

That night in Norfolk, Little Feat performed for a new crowd at "The Boathouse." Afterwards, we were joined at dinner by keyboardist Bill Payne. Sitting next to Bill, I tried to forget that he was at the keyboards for some of the early Doobie Brothers' hits. Table conversation was more about the food, the latest movies, golf, family and just about anything besides music. The members of the Little Feat band, as it turned out, were just regular people away from their home and missing their families.

The Little Feat experience was not unlike Jackson Browne's message of the road in "Stay" or Bob Seeger's in "Turn the Page." The rock tour is hard work. There's memorabilia, t-shirts and cds to be sold, roadies packing and unpacking heavy equipment, sound checks, lighting and instrument tunings, all for the purpose of producing seamless, high energy concerts. Everything has to be perfect regardless of the venue. The fact that this band has continued for so long, with minimum personnel changes and a steady flow of new material, is commendable.