I’m about to embark on the trudge to San Francisco.  Seems like I dislike driving these days.  It’s kind of tiring.  But, in order to play music, sacrifice is often required.

At my small birthday party, hosted by Marilyn Scott, I was presented with a birthday card custom made by her.  She always does that.  She’s my biggest fan!  I’m pleased to share what she gave me, a card with an image of me.

Here’s a picture of me launching into music around 2002 – 3.  I was jamming with the Talons:  David Rages, Tony Rodrigues, Jeff Carr and William Jackson.  Dave’s cousin is Mark Wright and I was so pleased to be able to play with him on occasion, as facilitated by Dave.  We did a great gig in Mountain View at the Afrobean (sp?) Feastival.  Sadly, Mountain View stopped having the festival a few years later.  But, in that moment, the jam was on and it was hot!

Honestly, folks … this is the way music is supposed to be.

Now that I’ve passed the milestone of 70 years, I feel somewhat complete.  It’s not the 70 years on the planet that defines destiny.  Rather, it’s reaching 71 years of age and finding a photograph of my father, probably taken around 1947 or 1948, as best I can tell.  At four years of age, I began to have consciousness of recall.  I recall and remember learning the A,B, C’s, climbing stairs, being in the neighborhood with other kids, chased by a bad dog, learning to ride a bicycle, nice little girls who lived down stairs and experiences like that.  I recall is listening to Ravelle’s Balero,  playing the records over-and-over again on a 78 record player, sitting down and playing on a Wurlitzer upright piano and having to go to church on Sundays.

This is a picture of my Dad.  Fun loving, hard working foreman at Moore’s Dry Dock in Oakland, California.

I’d misplaced the picture some years ago but I managed to look where I last remembered putting it and rediscovered an image of reality that defines my own existence:  Born an African American by a father and mother who were somehow different from others in terms of their love and loyalty for each other and other human beings.  So, finding the picture completes the awareness of my reality and existence.

The lesson is simple:  Intelligence randomly distributes. Some are born leaders and lovers of life, regardless of opportunities restricted by ignorance, stupidity, prejudice and arrogance.   That’s the point.  Period.

I had the wonderful pleasure of attending a concert presented by Youssou N’dour on Saturday evening.  It was my birthday present!

One songs he and his band performed featured “happiness” as the vibe and I loved it.  As I’ve told others, music is wired in my brain so that it presents measurable pleasure.  And, so it was that I was inspired by Youssou’s vibe and was working out the muse on keyboards.

The interruption occurred from the telephone ringing.  Annoyed I asked, “What do you want?” and “What are you doing?” in terrible Spanish.  The resulting interaction with the solicitor was ad hominid pitiful diatribe that informed me that my Spanish was terrible, that I was a Bitch and a Motherfucker.  I’ve no problem with that.

My Spanish is terrible.  I’ve been a Bitch when I was in charge of my household with a disabled wife for several years (cooking for everyone, cleaning and holding down a full time job) and, of course, not only Mexicans but African American brothers and others have rendered the other compliment about my prowess with mothers and females.  Of course, I told him, in Spanish, that my own mother was dead (long ago deceased).

The truth is that at one point in my young life as a human, I learned the following rhyme that I lived and survived by in the neighborhood and  conditions in which I grew up:

“Sticks and stone may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

Times have, obviously changed.  And, I guess that’s why some complain about political correctness as that’s not their world view.  And therein lies the difference.  I am old. I am old school.

So, I’d ask the solicitor to come to my house and say it to my face if he dares.  I’m quite the public person and he knows who I am and, therefore, where I live.  I’ll tell him that to his face.  I’d just hasten to remind him that where I have survived over t he past 20+ years was, once, the murder capital of the U.S.

But the ultimate insult was that I am a terrible pianist.  I didn’t have the heart, time or opportunity to tell him that (1) I am not a pianist, (2) what he was hearing in the background was the jazz organ patch on my Yamaha (not a piano) and (3), as a musician, I’m not too worried about anything except getting back to the happiness I was recording.  He angrily hung up.

But, wait.  There’s more.  I live by the Four Agreements:

•  Speak with integrity
• Take nothing personally
• Make no assumption
• Do the best you can.

Those are the keys to the mastery of love and, thereby, life.   Conqur the predators.  Avoid the creditors.

Commerce off.

WHY AM I PAYING FOR A SERVICE THAT

ENABLES  AND EMPOWERS OTHERS TO

INTERRUPT ME?

I remembered:  “It you don’t like what’s on, turn it off!”   It’s the Silence of the Ringer.

Onward, in silence. Keep calling  and expending the irreplaceable time of your lives ye Bastards of Commerce.

Happiness on.

How we learn.  “We” meaning “humans.”  And, link of course, vialis 40mg I AM THE MONKEY!

Breathing … inspiration … taking in the breath and width of the Muse …

The Muse is a living spirit entity.  It manifests through the human experience of life.  It sustains those who recognize its existence within themselves.  In its manifestation through one living being (serving as a conduit of its existence and life) it is received by another whose is aware  experiences reciprocal emotional exchange.

It’s forms are universal and many.  They’re called “genres.” Musically, the Muse speaks through and to everything living, one way or another. That the Muse has a sense of humor is equivalent to saying, and meaning truthfully, that life itself enables us to enjoy and experience its humor, irony and joy.

I present to you the evidence:

 

The times we live in are abundant in change. However, capsule at the core of change is motion. Motion does not change. Although that appears as a paradox, motion is actually, simultaneously, a constant.

Some are wise enough to document their moment,  their vibe in this life, yet actually a connected enlightened spirit far from this world. I am one of those “males” who experience such love and connectivity to a feminine being human.

Jan Channel and I were married.  I am pleased to present a posthumous tribute to her genius and spirit. She was an inspiration to me and she wrote the following song,  performed by Kimiko Arimoto, another wonderfully sensitive musician and friend. The song is titled, Song for Donne.

Enjoy!

http://www.donsiegelman.org/

The Least I Can Do!

C

The title of this post may seem strange, but (read on) you’ll understand in a moment.  First, the $328.  That’s the amount of cash I’ve got in pocket from gigs at this moment.  What that means is I do not have to go to an ATM.  My practice and dedication to learning how to play the bass is paying me enough to earn petty cash.

Sure, I’d never have been able to support a family or to even pay for a crawl space to sleep in earning that kind of dough.  Homeless I’d be, for sure; but, I am meeting a goal of earning enough to feed myself.

Last night (October 6, 2015) I earned a little cash performing for another musician who held a house concert (something all music lovers who can afford it should actually do).

Teresa presented a program that featured a program was multi-media and there was one clip presented that included Henry Mancini.  When I saw him, I had a flash back.

In 1961, I was a bass drummer with Jimmy Farrell in the Santa Monica High School Viking’s Marching Band. It was an award winning band (1961 – 1962) that I’d joined after chickening out of becoming a member of the football team (no need to digress to tell you about that now).

One day, the first chair trumpet player (or somebody in the Marching band) approached and said one of the guys father, who was a producer or director or something, wanted a band to play at a party in Bel Air.  You know, where the really big stars live.  $20 bucks!

They needed a bass player, he said.

“I don’t play bass,” I replied.

“Yea, but I heard you playing ‘Peter Gunn.'”

The truth was that the bass line to Peter Gunn, by Henry Mancini, was about all I could thump out on the bass.  It was a cool line.  I think I could kind of do a couple of other licks, but mostly I’d farted around with the upright bass for fun, like kids do today playing Louie Louie air guitar.  I wasn’t really serious.  I think I also knew the line to Song for My Father or something like that.

“Uh, yea, first I don’t even play bass and second I don’t even have a bass,” I said.

“Hey, Charlie, that don’t matter, we got a gig and we need a bass player.”  He paused.  “And besides,” he said eyes gleaming, “there’s a bunch of basses in then band room.”  He paused, jammed his hand in his pocket, looked at me with a glint in his eyes and said, “I got the keys to the band room!”

“You got a car, right?”

My 1956 Ford awaited the adventure.

The evening of the gig, we met at the band room after school shut down, got in the band room and scored the bass.  Directions were given and we did a caravan to Bel Air, driving past Bob Hope’s house and up higher and higher into the hills.  We eventually came to some Star’s house.  I don’t think it was Barbara Streisand’s place, but I think she was some where in that neighborhood.

We came to a house, stopped and began loading-in on-time, but we were very close to the down beat time and it was  …

(to be continued)

10/16/2015 (continuing)  … really tight.

We set up.  As I recall, there was an entry way,  a few stairs leading down to the living room that extended out to a balcony that had a view of Los Angeles’ lights.  When we arrived, there were a couple of servants handing out wine from silver trays as you entered.  We didn’t get any, of course.

We were almost late so we had to really hustle to get set up.  To the right and above the sunken living room leading to the balcony was a 25′ square space and that’s where the band set up.  There must have been about 7 or 8 of us (maybe more).  It was a little tight, but we’d barely made it on time.  And, sure enough, the guests started to arrive.

We began playing and I noticed that no matter how we sounded (and we were not sounding that good, at all), nobody noticed and nobody cared.

Ladies would kiss each other on the cheeks, exchange pleasantries and move on into the massive living room chatting endlessly.  Guys would come in and hugs would be exchanged.  And guys in the white jackets would hand out goblets and crystals filled with red or white wine.  I guess you’d call it a Hollywood social affair.

The trumpet player called another tune.  And then another.  Meanwhile more people came, oblivious to the noise we were making, as they made their own in animated conversation.

All was going well … until one guy walked in wearing a very sharp suit, narrow lapels and a skinny ties that was the fashionable at that period of time.

He stopped in front of the band and, of all the people who come to the party, he was different.  He cocked his head to the side.  And I perceived that he was listening.  Well, not just listening.  He was listening to everyone in the band.  And, then, I felt his attention shift. He was listening … to me … no … not me … but to each musician playing.  I remember thinking, “He’s listening to see if there’s a real outstanding player among us.”

And as he stood there, each player he attended to began to lose composure, intonation, time and harmony.

Train wreck!  I lost it when he listened to me — the drummer who was trying to play the bass.

I was not alone.  You see, his attention shifted first to each musician playing, from the trumpets,  trombone, to the saxes and to the bass (that’s when I lost it). And, we all crashed like a mangled pile of steel rails falling off of a flat bed freight car.

He continued to listen for a moment, as we tried to regroup and get the groove and then — mercifully — turned, walked away and his attention went to the party and the hostess who had rushed up to greet him.

We only played four or five numbers or so, (including Peter Gunn) and we packed, got out of there and I got my $20.  I thought the kid who had arranged the gig would be pissed at my poor performance, or that the hostess would be pissed and not pay us a dime.

I swore to myself:  “I’ll never try to play in public like that again.  Never.”  It was so bad and I was embarrassed and totally ashamed.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

The gig-master wasn’t phased, at all. “Yea, it was great!” said the kid who handed me the $20.  And, he said that the hostess had told him “thank you” as we were leaving.

Who was that guy who was actually listening, the only one?’ I wondered.

Years later, I saw the picture.  Crap on myself!  It was Henry Mancini!!!!

Lessons:

1.  Assume there’s ALWAYS at least one great musician in the audience
2. I’ll never play as poorly as I did that night, under any circumstance (and I haven’t)I’m playing, at every opportunity, always improving and playing better than I did that evening
3. No matter what, get paid and there’s no reason to stop playing (or trying to)!

 

 

 

 

I often use the word “muse” when describing or inviting or invoking the power of music and dance and poetry.  That music is a spirit leaves no doubt to me. Whether it is living or inanimate is arguably a tautology. The proof is in the vibes that manifest and empathiate you and i or you or i.  I believe that whether or not you or i do not exist (and will not exist at some point in time), the muse continues.

Victor Wooten said the muse is feminine.  I think so.  Likewise, I believe God — simply (to me) a word I use only to communicate the concept (don’t assume i believe God exists or that my belief of who or what God is aligns with common or popular beliefs). God maybe by nature, a feminine in characteristics, despite what’s commonly published in the compilation typically called the Holy Book.

A thinking and intelligent person must consider the context and content of what we’re taught.  If, then, God said “man” was made in his image, what is the image?  The image, of course, is male and female.  Thus, the contradiction of irrationality.

The bias is that the male image first occurred. That, however, is contrary to nature. At the cellular level, think “mitosis” and “meiosis.” Taking the latter scientific truth, one cell bifurcates into male and female components. At the macro-biological level (visibly male and female), birth is from the female component.  Fertilization is, therefore, from motion of the male component joining the female component. Although fertilization must first occur, that which is to be fertilized must, by definition, have pre-existed that which is fertilized. Furthermore, at some initiating point in time, One must have split that was together.

The motion that created the split is the manifestation of what a person may consider God to be. I do not.  Rather, the motion is created by the “emotion” is what God is to humankind: the unknowable whatever that caused the so-called “Big Bang.” After all, in science there is always cause that creates effect.

The problems between religion (ignoring the massive problems between religions) and science is a mere illusion.  It is simply a matter of the epistemology.  Simply put, it’s the difference between “knowing” and “believing.”

One can know what we call “fact” and one can know what we call “belief.” Knowing the difference is the distinction between superstition and reality.  Religion typically rationalizes belief as knowledge.

The question of the muse emanating from religion cannot be ignored.  The so-called Negro Spiritual, which has fueled the popular music of the day, came from those who were “born” in the Church.   And, before that, the ecclesiastical music of the Baroque era, etc. manifested the muse in one form or another.

The muse, thus, manifests through the spiritual belief domain in a scientific manner, as does animal (and plant) life manifesting between the joining of male and female.

There is a spiritual world that does not obey the laws of the physical world. If you enter that world, time is different (if it exists at all).  You know that to be the truth.  Sometimes, time itself expands or contracts depending on your experience.

Under extreme stress, for example, time tends to appear to stand still or move slowly.  When you have a good time and are in a state of enjoyment, time passes quickly, which is why you don’t want to stop having fun and amusement — a muse moment.

 

 

 

What means Freedom?  What is Truth?

This evening I thought about my cousin, Alma Laverne.  She is beautiful.  And, as a child she suffered from asthma.  Her mother, Octavia, was my most loved and enjoyable Aunt.  If I needed a place to sleep, I’d choose her household — even if I had opportunity to sleep at her sister’s house, in a better part of Oakland on Shattuck Avenue.

You might wonder what this has to do with Eddie Harris’ Freedom Jazz Dance.  Well, actually, nothing … except the thoughts of Octavia beating the asthma out of Alma, as the most effective therapy at hand, bubbled into consciousness.

I don’t think it worked, despite the adrenaline rush Alma experienced which seemed to make it go away.  And, with my own eyes I witnessed the failure of that therapeutic method.  That she survived is the evidence that at least one god exists.  It’s actually evidence of the miraculous nature of life itself.  And, somehow, somewhere a hot steaming pot with some funny smelling stuff seemed to kind of help her through it, better than the thrashings.  It was not pleasant to witness, so I know feeling it was worse.  Sometimes, inhaling on a hot towel didn’t seem to deliver that well, either.

That’s one of the reasons I have always loved Alma.  I guess I can also mention that I was really in love with her sister, Bobby Jean, after Alma was born.  But, that never worked out.  She married a guy in the Army.  I didn’t like him at first. But, at 11 or 12, what could I do?

Family!

Back to the bass:  Freedom Jazz Dance.