Shawn Inmon's Blog, page 5

Welcome!

     Traffic to the blog has more than quadrupled over the past few days as a result of a big book giveaway I've done on Amazon. A lot of people read the book and then want to pop in to the blog here and look at pictures of the real people and places that I wrote about. If you haven't already, you can find those photos here.
     Several months ago, I wrote a two-part blog about the songs that I used as chapter titles in Feels Like the First Time. Those pieces were two of the best-received blogs I wrote last year, but now they are buried under months of other writing. So, I thought I'd re-post them here, just in case people that are just finding the blog this weekend are curious.
     I not-so-originally called that first blog Music From Feels Like the First Time. If you'd like to know more about why I chose the songs I did, click that link. As a moving tribute to a terrible 80's Charlie Sheen movie, I called the second half Music From Feels Like the First Time, Part Deux.
     If you read the book, you know how music moves me, and I did my best to explain exactly why I picked those songs. 
     By the way, Feels Like the First Time  is free for a few more hours on Amazon. I can never know for sure what the future will bring, but this is the last free promotion I have planned for this book.
     I will have a new short story coming out in the next week or so, called Lucky Man. This story is what came about when I sat down and tried to write an episode of The Twilight Zone. I'm pretty sure that's a formula for success, isn't it? Writing stories for a TV show that went off the air 40+ years ago? In any case, I really like the way it is turning out, and I love the cover for the story that my so-talented cover designer Linda Boulanger did. I'm eager to share it with everyone.
     Thanks for reading!

Forgiveness

     I am writing this blog because of a comment I got from a reader of my blog about Lance Armstrong earlier this week. In response to that blog, the commenter said "I agree that harming others is stepping over a moral line, but I also think most of us have done something to harm others in our lives. There's something to be said for forgiveness, too."  
     Of course, he is correct. If we believe that those among us should be the one to throw stones, then my stone pile will remain untouched. Still... that got me to thinking about forgiveness. Where does forgiveness come from? Is it something generated from inside ourselves, or is it something that needs to come from an action or repentance from the hopeful-to-be-forgiven?
     I am rarely impressed by the things I see on television news - either the quality of the broadcasting or the subject matter - but I am occasionally impressed by the forgiveness I see there. In 2006, when an armed gunman burst into an Amish school and shot ten children and killed five before turning the gun on himself, the community's first reaction was forgiveness. They didn't quote "An eye for an eye" scripture or waste time hating the dead gunman. Instead, they said this:  "I don't think there's anybody here that wants to do anything but forgive and not only reach out to those who have suffered a loss in that way but to reach out to the family of the man who committed these acts."
     That was impressive and well beyond the scope of what I would have been able to muster under similar circumstances. As I watched them reach out and embrace the family of the gunman, one word came to my mind: grace. It is a quality I seek, but I fall short so often, which makes me admire it more in others. I also like this example of forgiveness because the didn't require anything of the offender. He was dead and gone by his own hand, which most of us would describe as taking the easy way out. And still, this community forgave him. 
     And that brings me back to the comment that originally inspired this blog: what about forgiveness for Lance Armstrong? I am not Amish, and I am not as grace-filled as I should be, because I still feel like I need something from him. Watching his interview with Oprah, I got the distinct feeling that he was only genuinely sorry he was in the predicament he was in. In the days leading up to his mea culpa, he ran the whole idea of coming clean up the flagpole to see who would salute. What if I came clean, and admitted everything? was floated around the media for a week or so to test the waters. I have a real problem with that. If you've cheated, harmed others, acted without integrity, I understand that. As the commenter noted, we all do that at one point or another in our lives. Putting out a trial balloon to see how a confession will play in the media is an act of cowardice.
     So, my perspective of the day is, this is something I still need to work on. I have gotten to the point I can forgive people, let go, and never think of it again. But doing that with no act of contrition on their part? I still need work on that.  
     Just for fun, I'm adding a link to one of my favorite songs, The Heart of the Matter by Don Henley, which covers some of this same information, albeit on a more personal level. During the years that Dawn and I were separated, I often listened to this song and thought about the ways it applied to our situation. 

Lanced

     I am not a big cycling fan. In fact, if Lance Armstrong hadn't started winning multiple Tour de France events, it is possible I wouldn't even know it existed. However, Lance Armstrong did start winning those races, and then they started showing up on SportsCenter, mixed in with the major league baseball highlights I really wanted to see.
     The more I learned about cycling, the more interested I got. It seemed like such a visceral test of will power. Yes, it took natural ability and strength, but more than anything it seemed to require an iron will. I got the feeling the riders who excelled were more than willing to find the limits of their physical endurance and then go cycling right on past. 
     Plus, this Lance Armstrong guy was pretty intriguing. He didn't just win all those races. He also beat cancer. Then he started a foundation to help other people who were fighting that same fight. He inspired many thousands of people to believe they could find a way to survive as well. Oh, and he started dating Sheryl Crow. He was at the absolute pinnacle of his profession, beloved by millions, and wrote several best-selling books, including It's not About the Bike.
     And, of course, he cheated. A lot. 
     When allegations of his cheating first began to surface, I didn't pay too much attention. I had read that doping was rampant in cycling, and it was easy to believe that the guy who was kicking their butts was doping too. 
     But then the denials began. Most doping, cheating athletes make denials. It's part of the game plan. Yes, their hat sizes may be several sizes bigger and their jock straps several sizes smaller, but they continue to deny, deny, deny.
     Lance Armstrong applied the same maximum effort to protecting his reputation as he did to every other aspect of his life. He wasn't satisfied with being defensive when he was accused of cheating, he went on the offensive. His accomplishments had made him wealthy and powerful and he didn't hesitate to use that to crush people who had the nerve to tell the truth about him. He hired lawyers to sue people that didn't have the wherewithal to defend themselves. He used his bully pulpit to do just that - bully.
     It was only when he wanted to do something that he wasn't allowed to do that he finally decided to "come clean." When he was given a lifetime ban from cycling, he was also given a ban from running triathlons at the highest level. He wanted to run those triathlons again eventually, and he hoped that by finally admitting to the drug use, he would eventually be allowed to do so.
     Here's the thing. I understand the doping. In an environment where many of his competitors were also cheating, it was easy to justify in his own mind that he was just leveling the playing field. I even understand the concept of defending himself. With the personality necessary to push himself to the extremes he did physically, some of those defense mechanisms were automatic.
     Still... when he coldly set about to systematically damage people he knew were telling the truth about him, he stepped over a moral line I can't find a way to justify. He showed himself to be the worst kind of schoolyard bully. There were ways this scenario could have played out where he might have been deserving of pity. Instead, he deserves nothing but scorn.

It's a small world (non-Disney Edition)

     So many good things have come from writing my first book, and now there's one more thing. Last week I did a book reading at the Timberland Library in Winlock, Washington. I've written about the Timberland Library System and the impact it had on my life here. I was there with fellow writer Lynn Britton and we both did readings from our books, had a Q & A session, signed some books and had a very nice time.
     Just prior to that, The Centralia Daily Chronicle had done a nice write up on the appearance. Then, the night before I drove down to Winlock, I got a message on my Facebook Writer's Page from a man I hadn't spoken to in about thirty years. He had been a roomer at my grandmother's small rooming house in the 1970's, and he had an interesting story to tell me.
     He told me that he had gone by a Yard Sale that was being held at my grandmother's house in Centralia a number of years ago. As he was leaving the yard sale, he walked by a pile of trash left out at the curb to be hauled away. To him, it looked like photos and other family memorabilia. He plucked the box full of family treasures and took it home with him. Unfortunately, by then he had lost touch with anyone from my family, and he had no way to return the box to us.
     Until this week. He saw the article in The Chronicle about me and my book, which included a link to my FB page. In that first message, he asked me if I would be interested in finally retrieving this box full of photos, negatives, cards and letters dating back to the 1930's. Obviously, I was, and I did so on the way to Winlock. I am specifically not mentioning the man's name who acted as curator of our family's history for so many years. He is a private man, and I want to respect his privacy. 
     Dawn and I have spent wonderful hours these past few days going through this box. We found my Uncle Tom's pay booklet from when he was a soldier during World War II. His chevrons are also in the box, along with a number of school photos like the one at the top of this blog, showing the 4th grade class of Mossyrock Elementrary Circa 1944. The bottom line is, even before I get the thousands of old negatives developed to see what further treasures await, this has been a find beyond any expectation and it is priceless to me. I wanted to take this blog to say a public thank-you to our benefactor who gave us such an unexpected gift. 
     I haven't even been able to identify any of the children who are in this photo, but I love looking at it. A little quick math tells me that all those fresh-faced children are about 80 years old today, if they are still with us. It brings an interesting perspective to all our lives.

What gets written down gets done

     Since this is my first blog of 2013, the International Bloggers Union requires that it be about Goals or Resolutions. OK, that's a slight exaggeration: there is no International Bloggers Union, and even if there was, they probably wouldn't care about what I blog about. So, there's Goal #1: Try to make stuff up less. Except when it comes to writing my fiction. Then it kind of comes in handy. 
     In truth, I only have one rule with regard to goal setting: Set goals for things I control. You will never see me set a goal based on how much money I make, or how many books I sell. I can write and publish a book, but I can't control how many people might want to buy it. 
Writing: I have to face the facts. I have not been a prolific writer. I am 52 years old and I have one book published. That single, 66,000 word book took me five years to write. That doesn't bode well for a lot of output from me in 2013, does it?  The answer is, "Yes, it does." The reason you'll be seeing a lot more titles from me this year is because now I know I can do it. The power of positive reinforcement should never be underestimated. From 2006-2011, I spent a lot of time asking myself if I could really get a book written that other people might want to read. Now, I know I can, so I will. (Does that make sense?) My goal for 2013 is to write 150,000 words for publication. I have three things already planned for the year: A short story called The Lucky Man that should be out in February, a novella-length sequel-of-sorts/companion piece to Feels Like the First Time that will be called Both Sides Now, and a full length novel called Rock and Roll Heaven. For those keeping score at home, yes, every one of those titles is also the title of a well-known song. All three should be published before Christmas 2013. Of course, one of my favorite truisms is "Man plans, God Laughs."
Reading: I have been a reader all my life. About ten years ago, though, my eyes started to fail me, and reading lost a lot of its pleasure. The Kindle, and especially the Kindle Fire and Paperwhite, brought it back to me. The hard thing for me is that I am a single-minded individual. When I am in a writing cycle, I write. When I am in a reading cycle, I read. I rarely do both on the same day. I am going to seek better balance this year, and my goal is to finish 50 books. I will add them to my Goodreads account as I finish them to keep myself honest.
Blogging: I have been inconsistent with my blogging habits, and I know it. I might update the blog three days in a row and then go two weeks with writing a new one. This year, I am going to aim for more consistency here. My goal is to update at least once every week. We'll see how I do!
     I can't guarantee that I will reach all these goals. What I can guarantee, though, is that at the end of the year, I will drag this blog out and publish it again to see how I did. So, how about you? Are you setting any goals this year?

Have you hugged your newspaper today?

     I've been reading newspapers all my life. Growing up where I did, my paper of choice was the Centralia Daily Chronicle. Centralia was 40 miles away from Mossyrock, where I lived, but it was the closest daily paper. The Chronicle was delivered late every afternoon, and it was one of the highlights of my day.
    Life was very different in the mid-70's. I was a fledgling news junkie without a dealer. Obviously, there was no internet, but there was no 24 hour news stations either. My access to news was limited to local and national news on ABC and NBC (we only got two channels, and really, ABC was the only one that came in clearly) and the Daily Chronicle. 
     I was usually out at the box, retrieving our paper within minutes of our carrier delivering it. I was the biggest St. Louis Cardinals fan in Lewis County (I may have been the only St. Louis Cardinals fan in Lewis County) so I would always pull the slim sports section out first. The emphasis was always on local high school sports, so there would only be a small write-up of each Major League game, but the Chronicle was great about printing every available box score. I could spend 15 or 20 minutes poring over a single box score, recreating the game in my mind. 
     The front page itself focused on local comings and goings, which interested me less than the national and world news, so I always read the inside of the front section next. I don't know why, really, but I was fascinated by reports from the war in Viet Nam or what was going on with the Watergate scandal.
     More than a source of news, though, the Chronicle was also a record of personal milestones. The story at the top of the blog today was the first time my picture ever appeared in the Chronicle. Of course, it had to be when I was wearing Kabuki makeup and platform shoes. I'm sure my mom was so proud. When I made the honor roll, or was in the Prom court, news of it appeared in the Chronicle.  My first published writing was a letter I sent to the Editor of the Chronicle in 1976, chastising them for alleged bias in their presidential coverage that year. If they had known that the person on the other end of that letter was only 16, I don't know if they would have printed it, but they didn't know, so they did. I still have a copy of that letter, 36 years later.
     And... that's what I'm wondering, I guess. With news and information moving more and more to the internet and blogs and the 24 hour a day news cycle, everything seems so much more disposable. Will anyone be holding on to an online posting decades after the fact?
     I'm happy to say that the paper I grew up with is still in business, changing with the times. They have a Facebook page. They have a thriving online presence, updated constantly. When we decided to have a KISS II reunion a few years ago, the Chronicle was there once again, telling the story of another chapter in our lives. Newspapers large and small have been closing up shop over the last decade. It makes me happy that the paper I grew up with has beaten those odds and is still bringing Garden Club meeting times, high school football scores and local political corruption to the masses, just like they've done for 123 years.

Thumbprint cookies, The Hardy Boys and Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots

     With all the sadness in the news the past few days, I turned to my version of mental comfort food: happy memories. 
     One of my favorite memories was always Christmas baking day. We didn't have a lot of sweet stuff around our house most of the time, but the week before Christmas was one big sugar-rush bacchanal. Mom made two different kinds of fudge, divinity, no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookies, jello candies with powdered sugar and frosted cookies in the shape of trees and angels. All that was fine, but for me, the highlight was the thumbprint cookies.
     I remember jumping off the bus after the last day of school before Christmas break and running into the house, hoping she hadn't finished with the thumbprint cookies. "Of course not" she would always say. "My thumbs are too big. I had to wait for yours." Pushing my thumb down into the soft dough so Mom could spoon the jelly in meant that the Christmas season had finally arrived. 
     We always opened our presents on Christmas morning, but we were allowed to open one gift on Christmas Eve, as long as it wasn't our "big gift." Our "big gift" was probably different from what kids get today. I remember getting an electric football game one year and a Hot Wheels track another. In retrospect, it's hard to believe how the electric football game worked, which was like this: You arranged all your men on a metal playing field then hit a switch that made the whole thing vibrate like a bed in a cheap Vegas motel. Much excitement ensued, but none of it resembled a football game in any way.
     In any case, one year I had been examining one particular package under the tree for weeks. It was shaped like a mysterious pyramid and was oddly heavy. I knew that would be my Christmas Eve present. The moment when the adults were finally ready to abandon their hot toddies and buttered rums finally arrived and my nephew Tommy and I ran to the tree to pluck out our identical presents. Before I ripped off the wrapping, Mom stopped me with a cluck and a shake of her head. "Why don't you pick out a different one for tonight?" I was sure she was discouraging me because I had picked the most awesome gift under the tree and she wanted me to save it for morning. 
     Tommy and I both tore into the paper at the exact same moment, only to reveal... a bird feeder made out of a Clorox Bleach bottle and filled with bird seed. I made a mental note to trust Mom's advice about what presents to open on Christmas Eve from then on. The next morning, Tommy and I both opened another set of identical boxes. Inside each one was four brand new Hardy Boys books. 

     Forty years later, when I think of happy Christmas memories, I think of laying upside down on our couch, resting my head on the floor, reading my Hardy Boys books.
     Then there is the Christmas wish that went unfulfilled. The Christmas of my eleventh year, all I really cared about was getting Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em Robots. If you're not familiar with this toy, it was a small boxing ring with two robots inside. Each player controlled their own robot and tried to "knock the block off" the other robot. That was it. There were no levels, no bosses, no strategy. But man, I wanted it.
     Sure enough, a week or so before Christmas, a box that was the perfect size to hold Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots appeared under the tree. I spent every night leading up to Christmas playing the game in my dreams. I'd never even touched one, but in my own mind I was already a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em champeen. 
     That Christmas we had enough family to rent the hall in Mossyrock for our celebration. My half dozen or so gifts were set in front of me - a baseball, some new Hot Wheels, a giant candy cane - but I only had eyes for the big box with the battling robots inside. When it was finally set in front of me, I tore into it like the secrets of the universe were inside. I flipped the box open, and... there was a new winter coat. Time froze for a moment, as I tried to mentally transform the blue corduroy into the colorful plastic of the robotic boxing ring. When the coat refused to budge out of its reality, I looked up and caught the eye of my Mom. She shrugged a little and mouthed "Sorry" from across the room. My perspective shifted at that moment, and I saw things from her side. I knew that I had outgrown my old coat, and I knew money was tight. I saw things from her side.  I smiled a small smile and mouthed back "It's OK" with a shrug of my own.
     Then I saw that my brother-in-law Dick had brought his guitar and was singing "The Green Green Grass of Home" as a prelude to the Christmas Carols that were to come. I always loved that song, especially when he sang it, because he changed the words around and made it funny. I wandered over to listen (and join in, much to the chagrin of people with functioning ears) and soon forgot about the robots that had been the most important thing in my world a few minutes earlier. My big gift that year was  the ability to handle a small disappointment without making it bigger than it is. That was a good gift, almost as good as those Hardy Boys mysteries.

The love you make

     We all have private moments that we'll never forget... our first kiss, a singular accomplishment or maybe hearing of the death of a parent or loved one.

     But then, there are those cultural touchstones - memories that we share with everyone else we know.  

     The first of those touchstones in my life was in November of '63, when JFK was shot.  Everyone who was old enough to be aware (and I barely was, but do remember it) can tell you where they were when they heard of the death of a President.

     July of 1969 was another, when Neil Armstrong took his little hop onto the moon.  It was my Mom's birthday that day, and I still remember her saying it was nice of them to plan the first moonwalk as a birthday present for her.

     In January of 1986, I was live on the air on KMMZ radio when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded shortly after take off. I suppose that to some people who were living in Greybull Wyoming that day, my voice announcing the crash is part of their own memory of that tragedy.

     More recently, I think Kurt Cobain's suicide in April of 1994 (and the subsequent reading of his suicide note by Courtney Love at his memorial) has that same sort of iconic pull, but I was a grown up with a family to raise by then, and although it was sad that someone so talented was so epically unhappy, it was still by his own hand, on his own terms.

     Today,I am thinking back on another of those "Where were you when..." kind of moments, and it is the one that has had the greatest effect on me.

     On this date in 1980, I was sitting in my apartment in South Seattle (just far enough away from White Center to not actually be considered a part of "Rat City) watching Monday Night Football when I saw a scroll of words across the bottom of the screen.  Unlike today, when we are inundated with information overload when we watch TV, that was unusual, and it attracted my attention.

     I don't remember the exact words, but it said that John Lennon had been shot outside the Dakota Apartment house where he lived.  That initial announcement didn't say whether Lennon was alive or dead or what his prognosis was, but I stood up from the bean bag chair where I was sitting in total disbelief.  

     Why would anyone shoot John Lennon?

     Aside from the orange bean bag chair I was sitting on at the time, there was hardly any furniture in my apartment... There was a ratty couch with a hide-a-bed stashed away that my nephew Tommy slept on (he was the third roommate to arrive to the two bedroom apartment.) The TV I was watching wasn't much, probably a 19", but at least it was color and hooked up to cable so we got a decent signal.

     But the decorations on the walls!  Ian (my best friend and other roommate) Tommy and I didn't have any artwork to put on the walls, but what we did have was one of Seattle's better collections of Beatles memorabilia. Virtually every square inch of the living room, hallways and bedrooms was covered with album covers, magazine covers and articles, newspaper photos and every conceivable piece of Beatles minutia.  

     When people came to our apartment, they often spent hours wandering around staring at the collection, like a visitor to an odd museum, which I suppose we kind of were.

     Without waiting to learn more from the TV, I ran to my car so I could get to Ian, who was working as a cook at the Roostertail Restaurant in Seattle. I wanted to get to him before he learned the news from someone else.  I would like to think I am the biggest Beatles and John Lennon fan, but the truth is, that was Ian. On the short drive to the Roostertail, I heard nothing but John Lennon songs and in between them I heard the truth: John Lennon was dead. I felt numb and lost.

     When I burst into The Roostertail, I immediately saw Ian back at his cook's station, and it only took one glance for me to know that he'd already heard.  He didn't say anything at all... his face was a mask of anger and he just shook his head twice, telling me everything I needed to know.

     When we got back to our apartment we found that we were not alone by any stretch... There was already a gathering of friends standing outside our front door.  Some were crying, some just had somber looks on their face but our normally happy group was quiet.

     I guess our unofficial Beatles Museum had made our place the natural meeting place for all our friends.  When we went inside, everything seemed way too bright, so we turned the lights all out, lit every candle we had in the apartment and started putting our Beatle and John solo records on the stereo. Clear up until Midnight, more and more people came until it was almost standing room only in our little place.  There wasn't a lot of conversation that night... we mostly just sat and listened to the music, one song and one album at a time.

     No one slept that night.  We kept the vigil until the light chased us all to bed.

     Things changed for me, for us, that night. I grew up in an era of assassinations.  JFK. MLK. RFK. I also grew up watching my musical idols die young. Janis, Jimi, Jim Morrison. That was all a part of the texture and background of my childhood. That night, 32 years ago, though?  That was the end of childhood.

Cover Me

     One of my Facebook friends, Corinne Bridges, posted a question on my wall yesterday, asking me how I felt about remakes of songs, or what is generally called "cover" versions. Like all musical questions, it got me thinking...
     First, I started thinking about the many hit songs that are cover versions, but most people are not aware that they are covers.  If I say Blinded by the Light, I'm guessing that what pops into your head is the version by Manfred Mann's Earth Band.  I'm sure at least a few folks will know, though, that the original version was by Bruce Springsteen. How about the Classic Rock staple Love Hurts? Nazareth, right? Off the Hair of the Dog LP? If that's the only version you know, click here and prepare to have your mind blown.  Yes, that's the harmonies of those clean-cut Everley Brothers, 15 years years before the Scottish rockers recorded it.  There are tons more. If you think Elvis Presley's Hound Dog, Aretha Franklin's Respect, or Janis Joplin's Piece of My Heart are the original versions, you'll have to tell that to Big Mama Thornton, Otis Redding and Erma Franklin (little sis of Aretha, no less.)
     But let's forget about the cover versions that are so well known they seem like original versions. How about when a band takes a run at something that is so obviously someone else's song? Honestly, many covers just seem like a money-grab - see Michael Bolton performing Drift Away/When a Man Loves a Woman/Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay/pretty much anything he ever recorded. There are enough what were they thinking? kind of covers to fill ten blog posts... Ugly Kid Joe covering Cats in the Cradle, Big and Rich doing You Shook Me All Night Long, Limp Bizkit murdering George Michael's Faith or Madonna sucking the life out of Don Mclean's American Pie, to name just a few.
     All that being said, then, here are five cover versions that I really love. I won't absolutely say I think they are better than the originals, but they are pretty awesome. In no particular order, then:
     Simple Man, originally done by Lynyrd Skynyrd, cover version by Shinedown. As a general rule, I belong to the school of thought that says "Don't mess with Skynyrd." This one is so strong, though, I have to let that go.
     Jealous Guy, originally done by John Lennon, cover version by Roxy Music. I've always loved John's simple, understated take on this song, but Roxy Music's more polished version and Bryan Ferry's practically-perfect vocals just do it for me. And that sax solo halfway through? Yowsah! Admittedly, though, it's still John's version that brings tears to my eyes.
     Always on my Mind, originally done by Brenda Lee, cover version by Pet Shop Boys. In case you're wondering, yes, I do know that Elvis and Willie Nelson also recorded this. I just love the Pet Shop Boys, and this song perfectly captures why. The synth-y, disco beat, the soaring yet ironic vocals... it's basically the 80's all wrapped up in one glossy 4 minute package.
     Crazy, originally done by Gnarls Barkley, cover version by Ray Lamontagne.  Don't get me wrong, I love the original version - CeeLo Green is immensely talented, and it's one of my favorite songs of the last ten years. To me, this just shows that a great song can have so many different dimensions.
     Now That I've Found You, originally done by The Foundations, covered by Allison Krauss. This is genius. The original was a little piece of fluff, quickly forgotten. When Allison and Union Station got a hold of it, she delivered one of the most angelic vocals ever recorded. Simply untouchable.
     So that's it for my five for today. I might do another blog on covers in the future, because there are a lot I love that I didn't get to today. But now I wonder... what are some of your favorite or least favorite cover versions?

Hi, Hi, Miss American Pie

     My love of the music of Don Mclean started in the summer of 1973 as I was touring through the wilds of Alaska. I was staying with my brother in Seward and I ended up spending an entire day riding around in a car that had an 8 Track Tape player and only one 8 Track Tape: Don Mclean's American Pie. I had never heard of Don Mclean or that song before that day, but by halfway through our trip that day I knew I had found someone I would love forever. And, I have.
     Somehow, I had never managed to see him in concert, even though he has toured almost continuously. I have a list I keep - my musical "bucket list" of people that I want to see before I die, or they do. In the last two years I've managed to stay alive, but two of the people on my list didn't: Gerry Rafferty and Bob Welch. I am on a mission to see the others - Paul Simon, Chris Rea, Chris Deburgh, Dennis Locorriere - before they stop touring forever.
     On Saturday night, four decades after I first heard him sing about "the day the music died" I finally got to take Don Mclean off the list. I almost missed him again. I hadn't heard he was coming to town, and he was playing in a small venue 150 miles from where we live. Then, last Wednesday, my friends John and Kristen Damazio posted that they had tickets to the show but were out of town and wouldn't be able to go. They posted on Facebook, wondering if anyone would like their tickets? I couldn't type fast enough. 
     Two  years ago, Dawn and I went to see John Sebastian of The Lovin' Spoonful, and although it was a fun and interesting show, the truth was, he had almost completely lost his voice. I had some concern about whether Don would sound like I remembered him. I needn't have worried. He sounded perfect.
     He played at the Skagit Valley Casino just north of Mt. Vernon. It was an intimate room that held about 500 people, and the acoustics were perfect. John and Kristin's (now Dawn and my) seats were six rows back - right in the sweet spot for hearing every note.
     The truth is, Don Mclean has never been a dynamic live performer. He's more of a stand in one place kind of a singer. With him, it's all about the songs and his magical voice, and both were put to sublime use. He led off with a couple of Buddy Holly songs, including his hit version of Every Day and I admit it was a kick to hear him bend his syllables just like Buddy did on the A-hey-a hey- hey-ha-hey chorus. Don has always had two disparate tracks in his career: one as a songwriter (he's in the Songwriter's Hall of Fame) and one as an interpreter of other people's songs. During this show, he also did cover versions of Crazy, made famous by Patsy Cline and written by Willie Nelson, and his famous version of Roy Orbison's Crying. It was toward the end of Crying that I knew that the years had not hurt his voice at all. It had the same supple ability to slide effortlessly in and out of falsetto without a misstep. 
     Most of the audience was there to see him perform his epic American Pie, and of course he delivered. He sang the whole nine minute song, then circled back around to the first verse so the audience could sing it along with him. Personally, I was waiting for three songs, although he only did two of them. The first was And I Love You So, which is his song that touches me the most. We played that song as we walked down the aisle at our wedding and I included it as a chapter title in Feels Like the First Time. Sitting in that room, just a few feet away and listening to him sing it while I sat there with my arm around Dawn was almost too much happiness to be contained in one moment. 
     Not long after, he played Vincent which many people think of as "Starry Starry Night." It has always been a sad and melancholy song, but on this night, he slowed it down even more and wrung every bit of emotion he could out of "I could have told you, Vincent, the world is not ready for one as beautiful as you." It was, simply, gorgeous.
     The one song that I so wanted to hear that he didn't perform was Castles in the Air, and I don't know why he didn't do it... he wrote it himself and it was one of his biggest hits, but for whatever reason, he chose not to include it in his set list.
     It was well worth the 300 mile round trip to see him, and I will long remember it as one of my favorite concerts ever. Thank you John and Kristen, for the tickets, we wrung every bit of joy possible out of them!
     Because I love trivia, I'll leave you with this tidbit: Did you know that the song Killing me Softly with His Song was written by Lori Lieberman after being inspired by a Don Mclean performance?
     So, I'm wondering... who might be on your musical Bucket List?