Wrapped Up in Chains

If it weren’t for Rachelleb‘s recent entry on chain restaurants she likes or wants to try, I wouldn’t have known that P.F. Chang’s was a chain at all. We don’t have any here in the City, and of course you can imagine how much attention New Yorkers pay to eating habits in the rest of the country … yes, that’s right. None at all.

Pierre and I ate at the Chang’s on San Jacinto in Austin, right across from our hotel. It’s a cushy, comfy place, and the food was excellent. Our waiter looked remarkably like Kevin Spacey and gave us the sort of deferent flat-hand reserved attention that we don’t ever see up here, where your waitperson is either wacky-friendly (“Hi! My name is Heather! Scoot over and let me sit with you for a minute!”), obsequious (“I am Karl. Give me money to be pleasant to you and watch, I will now smile”), or too pretty/ moody/ in the East Village/ hung over to be helpful (“What, are you still here?”). I was so relaxed I actually had a drink with a little umbrella in it.

I’m partial to the Heather style myself – I am hopelessly fond of waitresses and barmaids; it’s a curse – but our Kevin fellow made us feel like actual welcome guests. It makes me dislike our grubby chain fooderies – like T.G.I. Friday’s – all the more. Bah. Humbug. When’s it going to be spring?

Posted in General Musings |

It’s A Wrap, Or All Things Must Pass

Austin, TX: 3/20/04

Saturday gets into fab gear with one of the architects of the 60′s, Andrew Loog Oldham. He’s a graying gent, now, and his memory is mostly kind except in a very few occasions (“Brian Jones: he was a pain in the ass. A whinger and a moaner.” “Phil Spector: antidepressants and martinis don’t mix!”)

We hear about the early days of the Stones, from the time they’d taken over the residency at the Richmond Station Hotel from the Yardbirds; their recording of the Beatles’ I wanna be your man that John and Paul pretended to finish writing on the fly just for them; and Mick and Keith finally starting to write on their own (but not locked up in a room until they produced a song, as the legend has it.) One remark tossed off casually, that in writing songs, the sound of words is more important than the words themselves, is something that I’ve always believed to be true but that many deny heatedly. Yet a good “sha la la” or “be bop a lula” is worth a thousand words!

From the old statesman to the young businesswoman: Andrew Loog Oldham made way for Ani DiFranco, and the audience changed accordingly. A lot of her comments focussed, quite naturally, on the process of independent music making, it’s joys and its pitfalls, and its motto: “get a gig; then get another gig!”

Into the stretch… The evening starts inauspiciously: Angel Dean & Sue Garner, an old-time, traditional acoustic duo at times reminiscent of the Everly Brothers, were booked into Coyote Ugly, a new venue that takes its name too literally. The bartenders dance on the bar; they also straddle the chattering customers, whip them with leather belts and tie leashes around their necks; they do body-shots; they rub lime slices onto one another’s crotch with their teeth; they hop along the entire length of the bar like demented rabbits with taps! Hello? Acoustic music venue?

From the east side to the west: Mary Lou Lord is setting up on 6th Street as I walk past, toward the former, lamented Waterloo brewery that is now the Fox and Hound. The set-up is the same as in earlier years, a covered stage set in the middle of the courtyard on the side of the building, but what’s new is the huge satellite dish on top of the terrace, beaming some televised sport to a noisy crowd whose whoops at times drown the music down below. Steve Tannen and Deb Talan, a.k.a. The Weepies –why “Weepies,” I don’t know; their record is called “Happiness”– play on despite the noise, folkies in the mold of Simon and Garfunkel, except that they both play the guitar, and that Deb’s clenched-teeth delivery reminds me of Mike Ferrio of Tandy. They’re fun and not weepy in the least, and the audience is appreciative.

From the west back to the east. Mary Lou Lord has a good crowd on her street corner now, but we’re hurrying back toward Coyote Ugly for Tammy Faye Starlite “l-i-t-e like the adjective”, who is the one person who can be expected to be able to tame the unruly Uglies. And so she does. Tammy’s rude, she’s crude, she’s Mel Gibson’s wet dream and worst nightmare. The medium is country, the message is XXX, the crowd laps it up, and the bartenders stay behind the bar.

Time out for a couple of Fuller’s London Porter at Lovejoy’s, just across the street, and it’s back on 6th for a non-SXSW show: the popular Austin punk band Cruiserweight or, as they would put it, “cruiserweight” is playing at the Flamingo Cantina after midnight. Stella, the singer, is a small, jumping bundle of energy –the ultimate quantum. She pirouettes, bounces, gesticulates like a disjointed robot, and barely escapes various flying bodies and guitars on stage. The audience is mostly local, though there are a few SXSW badges here and there, and they sing along to most of the songs. My feet are beginning to complain; fortunately, that’s it for the evening.

Austin, TX: 3/21/04

If it’s Sunday, it’s softball and barbecue. Despite a dodgy forecast, the weather is cooperating. The softball tournament is already under way when we arrive to the playing field (eventually, the club owners’ team will win over the print media’s) so we pile high a plate of Ruby’s barbecue and sit on the bleachers to watch the games (injuries! flying catches! sliding into first but coming to a halt 3 feet short! a double play! a 22-0 score!) and chat with fellow survivors of another year of madness.

It’s not over, though. We’re not leaving until Monday, which leaves us time for dinner at the Bitter End (mixed green salad with glazed pecans and goat cheese, and rib eye with tomato coulis, barbecued zucchini, and penne for me, with a glass of the wee heavy; the same salad, and salmon with mushrooms, corn, and black beans for Linus, with the excellent O’Brien stout) and a final visit to Emo’s for The Dung Beatles. Crude, lewd, bewigged and bejacketted, they’re just like the Beatles except scatological, and they regale us with the soundtrack for their movie “Felch!” It’s well done, in a “what were they thinking!” kind of way, and would not breach our defenses on any other day, but by now we’re helpless and they know it. Oh, and they squat between songs, too…

Next, and also from Austin, Ping, a band with several members, and shiny lights, and … I don’t much remember what else. Definitely a guitar, probably some kind of keyboard? Not heinous, I think.

Finally, and I stayed only because Linus wanted to check them out, The Diamond Smugglers. Same guys as the Dung Beatles, plus backup singers and a Neil Diamond impersonator. I know this not. Don’t ask me.

There’s still packing to do, fitting the loot between the socks and the underwear, and remembering to put the scissors in the checked bag. Sleep.

Posted in About Last Night |

On a Wing and a Pepper

We’re back from beautiful balmy Austin, safe and sound and chilly and missing it already. You know you’re on a really small plane when this is what you hear from the pilot over the intercom when they reach the head of the runway, in place of the usual alert to the flight attendants:

“Paula, please be seated for takeoff.”

The newest part of my SXSW column is up at Music Dish; this one covers the on-stage conversation and interview with Walter Yetnikoff. And more, of course.

This New York place is cold.

Posted in Music Theory |

In The Afternoon Of The Night

Austin, TX: 3/19/04

Friday started late, with Pat DiNizio on the day stage pushing yet another copy protection scheme, one that looks like one more challenge to bored crackers everywhere to spend an afternoon writing a little script to blow the whole thing to smithereens… Still, Pat sang a few songs, in fine form as ever.

Petty Booka… Too small a joke.

Off to the Continental to see Mary McBride at the Bug Music happy-hour do. Name dropping: Patricia Vonne, David Berger, Benny Landa, Bruce Martin, Walter Salas-Humara are in the audience. Dan Baird is Mary’s guest for a few songs, starting with his Bottle and a Bible until he has to be reminded that … er … he’s supposed to be across the street at Yard Dog to play with his own band, The Yayhoos at the Bloodshot Records party. He hurries off the stage, while Mary and the band carry on bringing honky-tonk to the mother of all honky-tonks –or one of them at least.

A quick look at The Yayhoos, and it’s time to head back downtown. Somewhere along the way Linus joins me and we catch Electric Turn To Me at the Lava Lounge. They start swishy and surly, then a sudden shock and they turn angular and twitchy. Not arresting, but probably worth another look when there’s more time. For now, however, it’s first a miss: There’s a line for the Willard Grant Conspiracy at the Ritz. I saw them recently in New York, so instead we head off to Exodus for another look at Coco Rosie. They’re from New York, and have been playing in pretty serious venues, but when I saw them first at the Knitting Factory I wasn’t thrilled. They still blend an operatic voice with a pop voice full of wobbles, they still display an excessive fondness for noisy toys. There’s clearly something there, but it rarely emerges, except in the last number with the voices in unison over prerecorded tapes. They’re just too arty for my taste; maybe they need to listen to some Robert Johnson first.

Moving along, Jennifer Glass, at the Pecan Street Ale House (Rant: They call themselves “ale house” but all they have is mass-market crappy lager; before they changed owners a couple of years ago, this was one of the only two regular venues in Austin with an excellent beer selection –the other being the Elephant Room. Now it’s all fizzy piss.). Jennifer is accompanied by the esteemed Rich Ferridun on guitar, which is how we heard of her in the first place. She’s tall, she’s thin, she’s not blonde like on her web site, she has a big, bluesy voice, and this stripped down gig was obviously a serious departure from her previous dance/trance tunes. I liked the sound of it but I must hurry on to …

Scout Niblett at Buffalo Billiards. She’s small, she’s thin, she’s blonde, and she’s all alone on that big stage. When I arrive, she’s manhandling a <voice=”Viv Stanshall”>Heavily Distorted Electric Guitar</voice> in front of rapt girls who mouth the lyrics to the songs. Nice, but I think she should try using a bass instead of a guitar; I have a feeling the result would be nicer.

What do you say about a band whose sound-check song is better than the rest of the set? Swearing At Motorists is a duo from Ohio; at least they were not shooting at motorists, so that’s good, but we take it as a sign to get out of there and head west for a beer at the Bitter End.

The Bitter End is an excellent brewpub and restaurant; tonight, we’ll stick to the brewpub side of the operation: During the entire run of SXSW they have extra-festival bands in the side bar, and the Dexter Romweber Duo provides the soundtrack to an hour of R&R; then we’re on our feet again. We say hello to Jeff Pachman and Megan Hinckey on our way out, and along the way to the Crowne Plaza to see Trish Murphy, we catch two songs by Megan Reilly at the Ritz Balcony; one sounds like the Rolling Stones circa Fingerprint File, the other is a light ballad. Who’s the real Megan, we’ll have to find out on another day, for we’re moving along toward I-35. [Read more about it just below; it's not worth a link for such a short jump.]

Posted in About Last Night |

ECHO ON

While Pierre has been keeping you abreast of the doings and goings-on down here, I’ve been scribbling some bits and pieces in my secret identity as a mild-mannered correspondent for Music Dish Magazine. The first two instalments are up; for the point/counterpoint Pepper experience of the SXSW Music Conference, compare the Pierre’s-eye-view here with my coverage of the Swollen Circus first night preview and of Little Richard’s remarks and the music between.

We’re back in town Monday night, ears satiated and feet sore and ouchy.

Posted in Music Theory |

The Return Of The Prodigal Daughter

Austin, TX: 3/19/04

Austin “Favorite Daughter” Trish Murphy is back at South By Southwest after a few years of internal exile. The room at the Crowne Plaza’s 18th floor lounge is much smaller than La Zona Rosa’s the last time around (the view is better, though!) but the show is utterly spectacular, an exciting blend of rock, country, and honky-tonk wrapped around Trish’s unmistakable voice and sometimes Dylanesque phrasing. She is happy and at ease, the band (including her brother Darin on drums, last seen with her on Tuesday at the Swollen Circus) is just right, full and strong without being overpowering, and the blend of the two makes for one of those gigs that stay etched in one’s memory.

Trish plays mostly brand new songs from her latest album Girls Get In Free, and along the way we learn about dreaming of Lucinda Williams singing on a flatbed truck in Cleveland, about the perils of innertubing on the Guadalupe, and we chuckle at her self-inflicted blonde joke and at Darin’s quote from The Mighty Quinn. All that and a standing ovation are a fitting cap to Friday night in Austin.

[At this point, the laptop crashed. To be continued in the next installment.]

Posted in About Last Night |

Oooh! My Soul!

Austin, TX: 3/18/04

Little Richard is a legend. Or more precisely, A Legend. He says so himself, and agrees with it, too.

When he walked in Thursday morning for his SXSW keynote interview with Dave Marsh, a circle finally closed for me. Back in late 1966, I had just moved to Paris to go to school, and for the first time became able to go to rock shows and catch up with what I’d been missing. It was at the Olympia that I saw Little Richard, the first in a long succession that quickly included Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Bill Halley, and many, many more. But it all started with Little Richard.

He’s now past 70 years old, and would look faintly silly if he weren’t who he is, but we do expect Richard Penniman to wear a bright red jacket, almost-bouffant trousers, and rhinestone-studded boots. Any less would be, well, less.

The interview tuns into a monologue from the very first question, and there’s no turning back. The words come easily, and they rhyme; the recurring verse-and-chorus structure keeps the aphorisms coming, while maintaining an underlying coherence to the whole. Trust yourself –especially with the music; don’t trust anyone else –especially with the money is the take-home lesson, and everybody nods appreciatively. Of course, they will forget it all the moment they see a contract with a few fat zeros on the bottom line…

Had I never seen Little Richard on stage, I probably would have made an effort to see him headlining at the Austin Music Hall, but I have my memories, and anyway I doubt he’s still climbing on his piano and jumping off it.

Instead, I start my evening with Stinking Lizaveta at Room 710. This Philadelphia trio is loud. Quite loud. Quite, quite loud. Without even singing. So loud that the plastic garbage can next to me is resonating with the bass and acting like bellows. Think Hawkwind riffing on Sunshine Of Your Love. Then there’s the three belly dancers in golden sequins. Very nice. And scary.

Their set is short enough that I can catch the end of New Orleans’s Telefon Tel Aviv at Elysium. They slowly build crescendos from slow and mellow premises, with two-voice harmonies. Very nice, too, and not scary at all.

Following them, Austin’s own, splendidly named I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness has a guitar-driven, ringing 80′s sound with insistant bass and repetitive motifs that remind me of Terry Riley‘s A Rainbow In Curved Air. (I think; I’ll have to check when I get home.) There’s also a bit with a Rock Lobster rhythm thrown in. Good one.

And now for something completely different. Carolyn Mark, outdoors at the Lava Lounge, is as funny and potty-mouthed as ever. I saw her for the first time a few SXSWs ago at a Canadian showcase and was instantly converted there and then to her brand of boisterous B.C. country music. She has never disappointed since, whether solo or –as tonight– with her Room-Mates, or with her co-conspirator Neko Case in the Corn Sisters. An expected delight, and she delivers once more.

A quick march on 6th Street — Mary Lou Lord is back at her familiar spot– and down Congress to the Elephant Room. Lalo is a New Yorker whom I’ve already met a few times; her music is quite unlike what I listen to most of the time: jazz vibraphone, sometimes solo, sometimes with a band or, as tonight, with just one sidekick, Mike Meadows, on various percussive and boingy things. She plays a mix of originals and covers (Sex In The City anyone?) with light deftness; just about as far from Stinking Lizaveta as anyone can imagine!

We’re not done yet; a quick trip way west, to Mother Egan’s first, to check out the South Austin Jug Band. It’s not a jug band, rather more like a mountain string band with two guitars, mandolin, fiddle, and bass. Close to bluegrass but not quite there, fun and fast, but I can’t linger, there’s still another historic pilgrimage to make: Gary U.S. Bonds is playing at the Cedar Street Courtyard. Another pioneer, one that I’ve never had the opportunity to see until now. I make it in time to catch a few songs from his new record, an Otis Redding cover, and his old hit Quarter To Three. But in Austin, things close earlier than that: it’s 2 a.m. and time to go.

…And Mary Lou Lord is still playing on 6th Street, but the cops are getting closer as the street is being re-opened to traffic (yes, in the heart of Texas, they close the street to traffic on week-end nights) and the code word “John Lennon” is heard from the corner. Time to pack up and fade away for the night.

Posted in About Last Night |

Is It Feedback I Hear
Or Is It Just The Accordion?

Austin, TX: 3/17/04

It’s opening night at South By Southwest. While all the fancy folks are at the Austin Music Hall for the annual Austin Music Awards (Los Lonely Boys win big, OK?), Linus and I set out to explore and in typical fashion start with a New York band that’s eluded us so far on the home turf: Sea Ray, at Buffalo Billiards. Splendid band (but stupid pop-up web site!) with lush soundscapes over a twitchy background video of lights, shapes, and colors. They start late, we leave early to cross the street and check out French actress Julie Delpy. The place is packed with bold names, we’re told; the music sounds like an uninspired rehash of American standards. We move on.

On our way to Momo’s, we espy Mary Lou Lord in disarray: usurpers have taken over her favorite spot on 6th Street, across from the Driskill Hotel! What’s the world coming to? We walk on. Danielle Howle is at Momo’s, just above Katz’s Deli. Keeps things familiar! We sit right at the edge of the stage at the owner’s table, unoccupied for the nonce. Danielle is a slip of a singer with a huge voice, full of élan and fun, who blends effortlessly blues, jazz and country, with even an occasional nod toward flamenco; she tells stories and sings songs of relationships gone weird –and all those preventive measures that should have been taken, but usually were not.

Rose Polenzani follows, and with her comes the first accordion of the evening, wielded by her banjo player. Her guitar picking is delicate, her voice so small compared to Danielle Howle’s that it’s unfair; but most of all, she is plagued by obnoxious feedback that squeals and squeals without pity. It is anyway time to leave: the proprietor is soon to reclaim our table, and we have to hurry a few blocks to the Cedar Street Courtyard for Marynka and her Lovely Girls, whom I’d missed in New York last June. She’s Russian, she lives in Amsterdam, she plays keyboards and accordion, but by the time we get there the accordion has already been squeezed. The music (keys, fiddle, bass, percussions) is somewhat drony, with fractured rhythms and vaguely Eastern modes. The songs are happy, exuberant, narcissistic –in a good way. We catch a few songs, it’s the end of the set and Marynka comes out from behind her keyboard, wearing a transparent veil skirt over a thong –in a good way. We can’t stop to … er, never mind … Back toward Buffalo Billiards.

Mary Lou Lord is still across from the Driskill. The interlopers are still there and she is about to give up, but a bird has just made a donation on her windbreaker. I counter with a donation of a couple of moist towelettes, and we forge on.

The Dears (another annoying pop-up web site!), from Montreal, are still trying to figure out various sound problems. Eventually somebody connects the proper tongue to the appropriate groove and finds the vocals somewhere. The music is an effective blend of shoe-gazing and head-banging, with swirls and swoops, and big noise. The twin keyboards drone on, guitarists and bassist jump and crouch and whirl. An original mix from recognizable elements, all very good, but we can’t stay: the Dresden Dolls are already on stage at the Hard Rock Cafe. This duo’s Teutonic “Nico-meets-Clockwork Orange” cabaret sound is at odds with the room; they really belong more in an ill-lit underground cave in the Latin Quarter, but they sound splendid, cerebral and theatrical, funny and deep. They close their set with a Jacques Brel cover, “Amsterdam”, which would have been perfect in French but still hits the spot in English translation.

Ever eastward, to Emo’s Annex for Sleepytime Gorilla Museum. I’ve seen them a couple of times in New York, but it’s a premiere for Linus, who I’m sure will expatiate at length on their subject in his Music Dish column, so I’ll just say that they are solemn and bombastic as ever, and would be hypnotic if they weren’t so manic and funny. The front line consist of a violinist with a dendritic flash-of-lightning make-up, a lead vocalist in pigtails and bushy throat beard, and a Klingon with a triune Mohawk chanting monasterial drones in whiteface. In the back, they hit on objets trouvés, up to and including the kitchen sink. By far the best show of theirs that I’ve seen!

To close the evening, we await Secret Chiefs 3. And await, and await. There are 9 of them, and they all experience glitches of one kind or another. There’s a violin and a viola, an oud (electric), a sarod (electric), a samisen (electric), a mundane bass, things to hit, things to pound. And an accordion. Now, frankly, between you and me, you have an oud (electric), a sarod (electric), a samisen (electric), and you need an accordion? Do you?

It’s now 1:45 a.m. and Austin locks up and goes home at 2:00. The band is finally tuning up. They start playing; they’re damn good, but even stretching the official clock, they’ve got 20 minutes to play, max; for them, that’s about two songs and one ditty. They sound as fascinating as their line-up suggests, a blend of Asian and western Arabic rhythms and melodies, but they’ve barely begun and they are done. The stage manager is firm, no encore. Go home, go to sleep. Little Richard is coming to town at 10:30 a.m. and you don’t want to miss that!

Posted in About Last Night |

Meet The New Hole
Same As The Old Hole

Austin, TX: 3/16/04

The Hole In The Wall is one of Austin’s landmark venues, and for years it was host to a preview show on the eve of the South By Southwest music conference, in the guise of the Swollen Circus organized by The Silos‘s Walter Salas-Humara. After a one-year hiatus and some remodelling, the Hole In The Wall is back in action, and the Swollen Circus came home after last year’s edition at Stubb’s.

It all started on a bleak morning in NewYork. With a 6:55 a.m. flight, there was little point in trying to sleep, so Linus and I bowed to tradition and fortified ourselves at d.b.a. until closing time. It wasn’t snowing yet by the time we arrived in Newark, past that huge repository of unmentionable ersatz beer, and into a not-so-sparsely populated terminal. After a quick and painless check-in and boarding (but $1.05 for a bagel? A plain bagel with nothing on? Who let the robbers in?) we lifted off for Detroit in a half-full Airbus. Detroit is not on the way to Austin, I know, but airlines work in mysterious ways and there are things we are just not meant to understand…

Snow was swirling low on the ground when we landed in Detroit. We made the connection comfortably, walking to Terminal A through a futuristic gallery of shimmering panels in blues, greens, oranges and magentas, to the appropriate musical soundtrack (no, not Music For Airports, but close), and after a thorough de-icing spray of antifreeze from a giant mobile shower that looked like a praying mantis in the snow, we were off to Austin, where it’s partly sunny, with daytime temperature in the 70s and night around 50. Nyah, nyah, nyah!

Advance registration is a Good Thing, with comic relief provided by a new twist in badge design: there are warning notices at the booths explaining that the badges now incorporate an electronic validity tag –an anti-theft device, for you and me– and that No, it’s not collecting personal data…

Belated lunch. Curra’s Grill, on Oltorf, is one of Linus’s favorites (can you spell margarita…) Sitting on the front terrace, we sipped and supped (my Live Oak ‘Big Bark‘ was an OK amber brew that did not get in the way of my beef guisado with rice and black beans.)

Since the weather was so nice, we left a few taunting messages on various answering machines back in New York, and headed back up South Congress toward Jo’s coffee shop, a little open-air affair almost across the street from the Continental club, of which more in later installments. Some more taunting, and it’s back to the hotel for a nap. Soon, it’s evening, and time for a beer at Lovejoy’s. They don’t have their classic stout tonight, so we try the AJ Porter. Not one of their best efforts, but nice enough, and at $2.50 a pint, it’s hard to complain. A touch too bitter for my taste, in the end.

It’s finally time to get the show on the road. We leave the smoky Lovejoy’s behind (I’m already looking forward to coming back to smoke-free New York!) and make our way to The Hole In The Wall, just in time for New York’s own Mary McBride. The idea of the Swollen Circus is to present a quick preview of bands (mostly from New York and Austin) and drum up interest for their showcases later in the week. Each performer plays about 3 songs and is on and off the stage in 12 minutes, just enough to whet the musical appetites of the packed audience.

We hear from Austin’s local hero Trish Murphy, with her brother Darrin on drums, the newly named Lane Drifters, Michael Hall & the Woodpeckers, the Silos, Tom Freund, Gingersol, Mary Lou Lord, the Fighting Brothers McCarthy, and the Rock Odyssey; many of these bands will be revisited in the coming days, so I’ll stop here with the music.

Instead, I’ll finish by mentioning that judging from the sartorial choices of audience members, Kinky Friedman‘s campaign for governor of Texas in 2006 seems to be starting strong: the people support him in T-shirts!

Posted in About Last Night |

Austin Powers That Be

So near, yet so far out - but we're not staying at this oneOnce a year, the legends say, when the girls are prettiest and the beef is so tender it peels off the bone and onto the barbecue, leaving little unwrapped baby cows and leather jackets and cowboy boots already made behind it; once a year, for one week only (the legends say), when the hours of the Texas clock spin and turn and the days last for just one moment, and the nights that follow last forever, until the next day comes; once, just once a year, and once a year only, say the wise women and the shadowy men, it’s time to go to Austin for the South by Southwest Music Conference.

Where we will eat ourselves silly, drink until our feet hurt, ponder the impossibilities of this strange music business, and see all manner of bands.

There’s a laptop in the bags this year, so there may be some Pepper posts over the next week; I’m corresponding for Music Dish Magazine, but Pierre may find spare hours to bring you up to date on the flavor and shennanigans. If we aren’t able to keep in touch, we’ll see you next week. Pardner.

My Dad turned 75 on Sunday; it was the first day, as he puts it, of his fourth quarter. Now that’s a milestone. Happy birthday!

Posted in Music Theory |