50 Summers Of Love

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I know myself. In fact, I’ve conducted decades of research on myself and I know that if I don’t just set a date and work toward a thing I’ll never do it. Or maybe I’ll do it, but it’ll take a lot longer. Problem is, at my age there’s an overwhelming sense that there’s no time to fiddle-fart around. Oh, I’m not talking about how many years I have until I shuffle off my mortal coil. It’s not that esoteric. It’s about how many more years I’ll still have command of my voice. Because I didn’t really use it much from 1985 to 2015, my voice sounds almost exactly as it did when I was in my early thirties. A little fuller and lower, but basically the same. I can’t help but wonder, though, how many more years I can milk that so I’ve finally set a date for my “come back” house concert. Man, I hate using the “come back” phrase, but what can you do? The truth is, I miss performing. I miss singing for people and if this is the last concert I’ll ever perform in this life, I’m OK with that.

I wanted to wait until this concert could serve as a CD release party, but work on my album is going slowly due to ongoing health/energy, recording equipment, and guest musician issues. I’ve in fact half-decided to blow it all off and just make a stripped down CD, just me and my instruments. If I do this, it won’t be the album I envisioned, but at least it’ll be out there. The jury is still out.

So here are the facts concerning my concert, in case you’re in the area and would like to attend.

  • This will be an exclusive concert. There is seating space for just around 25 guests  and standing room for about 10 more. I ask that younger people, who can do so, elect to sit on the floor directly in front of the staging area. There will be two 45-minute sets with a 15-minute intermission so if you don’t want to stand the entire time, you’ll need to reserve early. I suggest reserving early anyway, because I’m already hearing from people. If you don’t reserve a space and show up anyway, you’ll probably have to sit out on the front porch or back step. Just a little side note: if you do make a reservation, but do not show up by showtime (8:30), your seat will be forfeited to an SRO guest.
  • The good news is, this is a FREE concert—my birthday gift to you—and because it’s a house concert/birthday party, I ask that, in lieu of gifts, you simply bring something for the bar or the fridge. Munchies will be supplied.
  • Because this is a listening experience, I humbly ask that you bring no children, please.
  • Location: Bookends Cottage, Stillwater, OK. You will be given the address when you make your reservation, if you need it.
  • Date & Time: Saturday September 23, 2017 at 7:30 pm.

As the title of the concert suggests, I’ll be performing not only some of my own songs, but covers from the late Sixties and early Seventies, including Bob Dylan, Donovan, Joni Mitchell, John Sebastian, and others. I’m really looking forward to taking you back in time!

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From Gilead to New York to Juffure

It took Nettl, Netflix, and retirement to get me into movies. Until a few years ago I often felt the odd man out, so to speak, when friends asked, “Hey, have you seen ‘suchandsuch’ yet?” I just wasn’t into movies and I couldn’t justify the cost of going to a cinema and spending $20 on snacks that I could buy at any supermarket for much, much less. I mean, seven bucks for popcorn? I can buy a pantry supply for that. And, really. Who can go out to see a movie and not buy popcorn and Twizzlers? Not I.

When HBO first came out, I became a subscriber and an avid movie-watcher, but that was when cable cost me $20 a month. When that expense soared to $100, I knew it was time to cut the cable. But then, miracle of miracles, Netflix burst onto the scene and Nettl and I began watching movies together in the evenings and on weekend afternoons. I can’t say I like most of those I’ve seen. I’m not a fan of gratuitous, pounding, impersonal sex, or of the spurting,  bursting blood bladders and crunching, slurping Foley effects that accompany sensationalized, glorified violence.

I’m rather a prude.

Sometimes, however, I can deal with this trend of sex and violence and, in a few cases I think some of it is important to the story.

Last week, we started watching The Handmaid’s Tale on Hulu. Having read Margaret Atwood’s book some years ago and having seen the 1990 version (starring Natasha Richardson, Faye Dunaway, and Robert Duvall, with screenplay by Harold Pinter, no less), I was fully prepared for this remake to be updated for the modern audience, i.e. semi-automatic rifles shooting bullets into chests and soulless sex enacted upon enslaved young women. I was even prepared for public executions as well as the brutality of women’s subjugation to the worst degree, but I wasn’t prepared for the acting and direction to be so damned good. The series is especially poignant as we face the strategic stripping away of our rights as women to govern our own bodies and our dwindling healthcare options during Trump’s “Make America Great Again” regime coupled with the religious right’s agenda to make America a (Christian) theocracy. At a time when merely being a woman is considered a pre-existing condition, this series is about as timely as it gets, and I hope it will be pirated posted on YouTube soon so that more people can watch it.

The only criticism I have about this series is that it’s, well, a series. I find it a little slow. I’ve never been a fan of week-to-week cliffhangers anyway, so that’s probably just my problem. This is a story I think I’d rather binge through over a weekend, but, really, it’s a small complaint. That I’m a fan of Elizabeth Moss (Mad Men, The West Wing) helps. She is totally believable in her role as Offred and she makes it easy to experience simpatico with her character.

A couple of nights ago I sat up watching The Lennon Report, a film I’d not heard of until that afternoon. I’m rather cynical where movies about the Beatles are concerned. They’re usually cornball and badly casted and acted, which is enough, but they’re also often historically inaccurate, taken from some badly written exposé by some non-entity who wants to revise the facts to suit their pathetic need for fame. Everyone has an ax to grind, it seems, especially where John and Yoko are concerned. John is portrayed as either a saint or a prick and Yoko is, well, Yoko is universally hated in these crap films so I avoid Beatles biopics like the plague. When I found The Lennon Report on Amazon (a $2.99 rental fee for SD, $3.99 for HD), I was prepared to hate it. It looked well made, though, so I didn’t mind gambling three bucks.

Wow! Was I moved by this film. The story is taken from eyewitness accounts of people who were at Roosevelt Hospital the night John was shot, including Alan Weiss, a producer at ABC News who’d been brought into the ER after a motorcycle accident. There’s no real violence, but there is blood. A lot of blood and graphic scenes of open chest surgery. One should expect that, though.

Seriously, this is one I want in my library.

Last but certainly not least, I sat up until 3:30 this morning watching the 2016 remake of Alex Haley’s Roots. I don’t care if this story is fact or fiction, if Mr. Haley was telling his family story, or if he plagiarized it from several sources. I don’t freakin’ care. It’s the story of the 12.5 million slaves who were stolen from their country against their will and sent to America and the 10.7 million who survived the Atlantic crossing only to suffer unimaginable brutality and dehumanization. The story needs to be told again and again until we wipe out our despicable racism and bigotry.

This remake is amazing, although it was hard to watch due to the violence. The battle scenes were a little long—today’s films love to show off gym-pumped actors shooting things up—and I found the scenes a bit gratuitous since Haley’s book didn’t dwell on this aspect of life in both the Revolutionary and Civil War eras of the south. As for the rape scenes, I thought they were horrendous, but completely non-gratuitous and not at all titillating. Overall, though, I trusted co-executive producer Levar Burton (who played the role of Kunta Kinte in the original 1977 mini-series) to know what he was doing. If he thought we needed to see it, that was enough for me. It was uncomfortable, and I’m sure that was his intent.

On a personal note, I was pleased that white slave owners’ names weren’t changed like they were in the mini-series, even if it revealed that my ancestors were part of it all. Dr. William Waller is the brother my family came from. In the mini-series the name was changed to Dr. Reynolds. Why, I don’t know. After reading the book back in 1978, I wrote a letter to Alex Haley to express the emotional turmoil I felt being related to his family’s owners, as well as to his family (rape was widespread on the plantations because white slave owners believed they held rights over the black women. The scums), and he wrote a very nice letter to me in return in which he said he’d met many, many fine Wallers, one who was a very good friend of his. As I look back on it now, I’m not at all ashamed that I sought absolution from Mr. Haley. We all need to feel shame over slavery and to ask forgiveness, at the very least.

I have to admit I wept over the new series just as much as I did the original. It’s a must-see and I believe both it and Shindler’s List should be required high school viewing for all students.

I didn’t set out to write reviews of these films, I only wanted to share with you the emotional ride I’ve been on the past couple of weeks. I hope I’ve piqued your interest on at least one of these excellent films.

Have a great week!

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