Doubleshot Tuesday: Live Maritime Hall/Jerry Garcia Band

[Today: The P and I reflect on live albums we were in the house for...]

Maritime Hall was a going concern from 1995 to 2001, and during those years it was one of my favorite venues in San Francisco. It was once called the Longshoreman’s Hall, way back when it played host to Ken Kesey and The Merry Pranksters’ Trips Festival, among other psychedelic hippie blowouts. In the late-90′s it was the place you were most likely to see good reggae, hip-hop and metal shows. On April 4th and 5th, 1995 it hosted a Merry Prankster of another stripe – Mr. Lee Scratch Perry. This reggae legend hadn’t played in the United States for 17 years before these shows. I had been admiring his albums for a few years at that point, but hadn’t considered that I would ever have the chance to see him live – he seemed like some faraway reggae wizard, a ganja smoking hobbit in a storybook with characters like Bob Marley, Max Romeo and Pipecock Jackson.

Maritime Hall was basically a high school gym on steroids – stage on one side, balcony with seating on the other, maybe two basketball courts of space between. Big beautiful bar in the back on the floor. This place was one of the most permissive pot smoking venues in its time, and that’s saying something in SF. Climbing the stairs to the floor meant walking through a bazaar of hand-blown pipes and other marijuana-related paraphernalia. They used ornate tickets with original artwork. In short, everything about the place felt like going back in time to the late-60′s. Lee Perry? Awesome. He smoked from a bong that was passed from the crowd, wore a hat covered in mirrors, and is perhaps the most sinewy, energetic 60-year old this side of Iggy Pop. I went both nights, and then again when he came back a year later… [dk]

Listen: I Am A Madman

Listen: Come Go With Lee

*****

The tale of the tape…

Back in my youth, I went to a lot of shows, chasing bands on both coasts. I’ve been fortunate to take in a lot of music over time. (There’s an equation for this, I’m sure.)

And along the way, I hooked up with a dedicated and entertaining group of folks who were committed to, um, ‘archiving’ the live performances as we were enjoying them. This all started at Dead shows, where taping was allowed and even encouraged: the Dead allowed their fans to bring in recording equipment and assigned a section of the audience seating for geeks and their microphones. The Dead were early adopters of viral marketing, and realized that by allowing their fans to share their music they would expand their fan base, and it worked. But in that era, that was about the only group that welcomed taping – not many musicians were keen to be taped. Most saw it as a potential threat to revenues from purchased music.

Unlike Dead shows, there was NO taping allowed at Jerry Garcia Band shows, so every show was a cat and mouse game. The Jerry band played a lot of nights at the Warfield Theater in San Francisco, and it was a real challenge to make a clandestine recording. The first hurdle was sneaking equipment into the venue. Then you had to secure the best spot for a good sounding tape, and make friends with your neighbors. Then you had to set up sensitive equipment and camouflage your activities without getting busted by the CIA-trained, embedded security forces. And then you had to stand still during the show while making the recording, discretely checking your recording levels (and hoping those around you didn’t talk into the hyper-sensitive microphones).

If you got caught, you were escorted downstairs to the private office of a large gentleman who went by the moniker Art Abuse. There are three things you should know about Art:

– Art had henchmen.

- Art had a giant wall of confiscated DAT tapes, little scalps from his raiding parties.

- Art was not a nice man if he caught you taping.

But today’s tale is not what sort of tape deck you can fit in a jog bra. The story for today is shows being taped for future release… you know the drill: waivers in fine print on the front door of the venue, boom mics on cranes, more sound guys than usual running around with electrical tape and flashlights.

In 1991, Arista released Jerry Garcia Band, a live album recorded during a run of shows in 1990 at the Warfield in San Francisco. The double album is great – it nicely re-enacts the flow of a typical JGB show of the early 1990s: first set with a punchy finish, break, second set, encore (all without the interminable waiting between sets and scary walk through the Tenderloin after the show.)

For me, one of the great things about this particular album is the cover art, which was painted by John Kahn, the long-time bassist for the band. He painted a picture of what the Warfield audience looked like to him from the stage. His painting, above, shows the a colorful medley of faces, and portrays some folks with pipes, and others with animal heads. And, to some chagrin, he included some of his audience holding microphones.

So when this album was released, it gave us a big laugh: we thought we were so sneaky to avoid the security goons but apparently we could be picked out from the stage by drug-addled musicians. [The P]

p.s: For the record, I hated Maritime Hall, aka the Hippie Hole. (Hi honey!)

Listen: Get Out Of My Life

Listen: Dear Prudence

The P Speaks: Rock In The Road

May has rolled around again, and once more I’m thinking thoughts of clean air, tall trees and late night bluegrass jams. It’s Strawberry season. 

Now in its 27th year, the Strawberry Music Festival is one of the best-managed music festivals in the country. I haven’t been to Strawberry in a few years, but my Strawberry memories loom large. Please forgive me a little nostalgia – I’m getting that Memorial Day itch to pack up the truck, get up to the mountains, tune in Hog Ranch Radio, and jump in Birch Lake. 

So why this festival, you may ask?

• Interesting lineups, every year? Check. 
• More music – on three stages – than you should fit in a weekend? Check. 
• Requisite pirate radio station broadcasting all the performances from the stage, to those to lazy to leave their camps? Check. (Bring batteries and tapes, or whatever it is you kids record shows with these days!)
• Set lists archived online for eternity? Check.
• Sweet venue? Check. (Hot showers and toilets that – get this – flush!)
• The setting and atmosphere? Priceless. 

From 1990 – 2004, I was a Strawberry regular – I actually worked the festival, both fall and spring,  and was paid, paid, I tell you, to enjoy the aforementioned amenities. I dragged dk to the Fall festival in 2002, and I do believe he professed his undying love for me inside my wee Northface Slickrock tent. And I believe his words to be true to this day. (I doubt there was much truth in the statement he made a month before the festival, which ran something to the effect of “camping? uh, sure, I like camping.” But I digress.)

The festival takes its roots in bluegrass and blues, rock and gospel. The festival is held in the Sierra Mountains, a stone’s throw from Yosemite, on 350 tree-packed acres owned by the City of San Francisco. (In fact, to get to SF’s water supply at Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, you have to pass through Camp Mather, the seasonal home of the festival.)  At 4500 feet elevation, prepare for warm days and brisk nights.  

The ‘rock in the road’ refers to the boulder that’s smack dab in the middle of a major Camp Mather intersection.  And for me, it evokes the informal, wandering jams that take place every night after the music has officially come to the close on the main stage and at the late night cantina, when world-class musicians come out of the wordwork to play with new friends and old pals. And for you insomniacs, Hog Ranch Radio broadcasts lullabies classic sets from festivals past throughout the night. 

Strawberry is not without its long-standing traditions, from kooky camp names to a calm and orderly approach to grubstaking space in front of the main stage. Perhaps my favorite tradition is the Sunday Morning Revival: groggy campers make their way to a Sunday morning show at Birch Lake that feeds the ears and the soul. This festival tends to bring out the best in people. And some of the loudest bullfrogs in the land.

And to all my old friends in Cabin 19 and Cabin 110 and Camp Stuntrocker/Quick Knock That Back – my heart is with you again this year, even if I am not. 

The recession is a reality, as tickets are still available for the spring festival – truly a shocker for a festival that sells out in February most years. So if you don’t have plans for Memorial Day, find your tent and your thermarest, and start packing the cooler.

Now this is the important part: Once you turn from Hwy 120 to Evergreen Road, tune your radio to 88.1, and patiently wait for the initial crackle of  Hog Ranch Radio to pull you that last few miles into camp…

[And kids, for the last time, no frogging!]

The P Speaks: Chant & Be Merry

Monks generally do good things. Some of them brew fine Trappist style ale, and I thank them for that. And other monks sing, which can be equally intoxicating.

In the childhood house of P, music was ever-present. Designed well ahead of its time, the walls of our house intentionally didn’t reach the ceiling, so music was unavoidable – it wafted from room to room. And that worked out just fine for me: one sibling blasted the Paul McCartney, another Carole King or Three Dog Night. And my father just turned the volume up a little louder on the classical offerings…

Gregorian chants crept into the earways of our house near the end of November, just as soon as we’d all recovered from Thanksgiving. If you aren’t wearing robes and upholding the Rule of St. Benedict (pax, ora et labora) Gregorian chants may be an acquired taste.

Given the season, I thought it would be interesting to see what’s topping the charts in Gregorian chants as this art form celebrates its 10th century…

Chant I + Chant II - Performed by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos in Northern Spain. Originally released on vinyl in 1974 (Santa?), this is the best-selling album of Gregorian chant ever released. Another worth a listen from the same abbey is The Mystery Of Santo Domingo De Silos – Gregorian Chant From Spain.

Chant Music for Paradise - Featuring the Cistercian Monks of Stift Heiligenkruez (near Vienna), this album was released in the last year to great acclaim. Their PR monk sent a weblink in to a competition sponsored by Universal, and they won a record contract without ever having to soil themselves in front of Simon Cowell. World fame followed – here is their Dancing With The Stars video. 

Lost in Meditation: Meditative Gregorian Chants II by Capella Gregoriana. Released in 1994.

 
Salve Regina: Gregorian Chant – Performed by Benedictine Monks of the Abbey of St. Maurice & St. Maur of the Abbey of Clevaux, France. This recording is unadorned and – to its credit – sparsely produced. Highly recommended by Gregorian purists, it came out on vinyl in the 60′s and was released on cd in 1990. 

  

Eternal Chant - This French three-disc box set features a variety of performers, um, I mean monks, including Les Ambrosiniens of the Fontenay Abbey, Venance Fortunate Ensemble, Chevilly Choir of the Fathers of the Holy Spirit, Children’s Choir of the Dijon Cathedral. It’s a bit of a mishmash, and not all Gregorian. What’s up with the cover art? I’ve placed it last for a reason…
 
*****

So get in touch with your inner Latin-speaking choirperson and have yourselves a Kyrie or two…

The P Speaks: Books On Tapes

graphic borrowed from the wonderful site historyshots.com

A friend from Atlanta recently heard an interview with Tom Moon, hawking his book 1,000 Recordings to Hear Before You Die. While I am generally annoyed by “to do list” books (gah! aren’t we busy enough?!) I do enjoy books like this one that help define the before-and-after plotlines for an artist: who influenced? who followed? Here’s Tom Moon’s searchable list of 1000 though you will have to buy the book to benefit from his essay on each artist. Don’t confuse this with 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die edited by Robert Dimery, which takes a chronological approach to this same concept.

We have a number of these guides on the shelves already: the Music Hound series, with separate volumes for rock, jazz, blues, etc; about thirty flavors of Album Guides curated and published by a wide range of folks, and books of passionate writings from various authors about their favorite album. Some are good, a few great, and most are a bit scattershot. So here in a house full of books, I find the easiest source for the “plotline” level of information, as well as full discographies, is AllMusic.com.

Other recents words about music that I’ve been enjoying…

Ian Frazier’s entertaining New Yorker article on Derrick Parker, the “hip hop cop”

Saki Knafo’s great piece on Daptone Records and its cofounder Gabriel Roth in the New York Times magazine pays homage to the dusty  funk and soul records – and artists – of the 60′s and 70′s.

Various pieces about the 100th birthday of  classical composer Elliot Carter, who has churned out more than 40 published works since turning 90.

And on my list for Santa (I’ve been good! really!): this fantastic graphic by Reebee Garofalo. His Genealogy of Pop/Rock Music covers artists from the 1955 – 1978.

The P Speaks: Songs That Reflect Late November

Somehow we’ve snuck 40 odd weeks into the year and Thanksgiving is upon us, again. dk and I were recently talking about “Thanksgiving Songs” – songs that are uniquely American, like this upcoming holiday. It’s hard to disassociate this holiday from childhood memories of this time of year, like getting up before dawn for the 8 hour drive (Ford Torino wagon, fake wood paneling) to our cousins’ house in Syracuse (where the giant wood console TV was always tuned to football) and post-feast dishwashing that required drill team precision.

Now that I’m approaching my 20th year in Northern California, Thanksgiving is a hike along the ridgeline, friendship and laughter, good pinot noir, tupperware fighting for space in the fridge, and a lovely four day break from the office. We have been blessed with friends who are excellent chefs and excellent hosts, so we rarely cook. (There was the infamous creamed onion and midnight turkey incident of 1992 at 21 Belcher Street, but we won’t go there now…) 

While I love Arlo and Alice’s Restaurant, there is other music that speaks to this time of year. Here are some candidates that might make you put a log on the fire and stare into the flames…

The Band | Twilight

Uncle Tupelo | Screen Door

Josh Ritter | Me & Jiggs

Fleet Foxes | Blue Ridge Mountains

Lucinda Williams | Big Red Sun Blues

Whiskeytown | Jacksonville Skyline

John Phillips | Malibu People

John Fahey | I Am The Resurrection

Allman Brothers | Blue Sky

M. Ward | Duet For Guitars #2

Yo La Tengo | Night Falls On Hoboken

Hank Williams | Settin’ The Woods On Fire

Dave Alvin | Dark Eyes

Fred Neil | I’ve Got A Secret (Didn’t We Shake Sugaree)

Neko Case | Fox Confessor Brings The Flood

Stevie Ray Vaughan | Little Wing

My Morning Jacket | Steam Engine

Johnny Cash | Breaking Bread

The Long Ryders | Ivory Tower

Joe Ely | Gallo Del Cielo

Flying Burrito Brothers | Wheels

Willie Nelson | Moonlight In Vermont

The P Speaks: Storage Issues

We can completely relate. 

None of our vinyl has been relegated to the basement, yet.

We have two zones of albums on about 75 linear feet of shelving: 70% of the albums reside on a hand-me-down Ivar unit from Ikea in the music room, and Ivar’s Swedish sister Expedit controls the remaining 30% of the chaos* in the music annex. (We are not an Ikea family, but these units seem pretty well suited to the heavy load.)

So, dear readers, how — and where — do you store your vinyl? in a crate by the bed, like your college dorm room? on elaborate racks in a climate controlled vault? or does your vinyl live on only in memory?

*To be fair, dk’s inner librarian keeps the chaos to a minimum, and he can locate a requested record in less than 4 seconds. Perhaps someday he’ll describe his album filing system, and one of you can explain it to me.

The P Speaks: SFO To MIA

Today I’m on a cross country flight, and seeking protection from humanity with my iPod.

I normally don’t chart the oddities of the iPod Shuffle, but the juxtaposition of the first two songs made me pay attention. So this post will likely be of interest to me, and me only, but that’s why the mouse was invented. Here’s my SFO to MIA playlist…

‘I Don’t Want To Be A Playboy’ –  Archie Bell + The Drells

‘Pimp Of The Nation (Jackal + Hyde Cost Cutter Coochie Mix)’ – Kid Rock

‘Salty Dog’ – Lester Flatt + Earl Scuggs (live at Newport) ['finger on the trigger and eye on the hog?' um, okay.]

‘Last Night A DJ Saved My Life’ – In Deep [who hasn't been saved by a DJ?]

’2nd Avenue Blues’ – Little Annie + the Legally Jammin’ [a sad drama of a drag queen with a uterus, with some maracas in the background]

‘Feelin’ Alright’ - Jungle Brothers [this song just makes me want to dress like MC Hammer and stroll the aisle wearing my kangol cap and fancy pants]

‘Shining Star’ – Earth Wind + Fire [don't mess with my funk classics!]

‘African Hustle’ – Mombasa [more funk!]

‘Los Angeles’ – X [just classic X. this song will always be associated with road trips to the sierras + yosemite.]

‘Humanoid Boogie’ – Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band [love love love…it's a wow, it's a scream]

‘Callin’ Out Remix’ – Lyrics Born (featuring E-40 and Casual) [note to self: go to Cactus Tacqueria when you get home. Ratio of veggie tacos consumed to LB sightings: about 20 to 1.]

‘Quem Cochica O Rabo Espicha – Jorge Ben [I really should learn some spanish]

‘Dance Reaction’ – Metro Area [it's a bit of a drag to have my running mix pulled in – though probably more annoying for my seatmate, as I'm now thumping away to the beat]

‘Christian St’ – Marah [guess this is a sign I'm supposed to be rooting for the Phillies. And for those of you who don't know Marah, start with Kids in Philly.]

‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco’ – Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band [though the sentiment is true, this particular rendition is a bit off. Sorry BDDB!]

‘Great Balls Of Fire’ – Jerry Lee Lewis [ah, the killer...]

‘Pachacuti’ – Soul Ascendents [I should be running a discoteca]

‘Machien Sun’ – Commodores [why didn't the Jerry + Merle every take this one one?]

‘I Can Only Give You Everything’ – MC5 [I am thumping the seat again. Sorry neighbor.]

‘Fried Neckbones And Some HomeFries’ – Willie Bobo (Dan The Automator Remix)

‘Bixo’ – Manu Chao [again, I could be using this very time on this plane to learn Spanish!]

‘W.O.E is Me (World of Entertainment)’ – Jurassic 5 [what's up with J5 these days?] – {Editor’s note: Jurassic 5 broke up in the spring of 2007.}

‘Dance with Me’ – Peter Brown [gotta keep on making me high, gotta keep on making me high…come on and dance with me]

‘Daft Punk is Playing in My House’ – LCD Soundsystem [this seems like an appropriate time to stop this chronicle, as I will listen to this song about 6 times in a row before I move on…]

If you got this far, you need a hobby!

Thanks for playing. The P

The P Speaks: Basement Treasures

On our recent trip back to the P family homestead, I was reunited with an old friend.

Continuing the tradition of rescuing (read: pack-ratting) ancient (read: heavy and breakable) components and dragging them across the country, I carried my 32 year-old friend back to California in my suitcase.

As you might imagine, this looked a bit unusual in the airport x-ray machine, so the nice TSA folks tossed the contents of my suitcase like a ceasar salad. (Any person crazy enough to pack this 30 pound case of wires must be a true security threat!) And once I’d emptied my pockets to show that I wasn’t hiding a reel-to-reel or any wayward 8-tracks and we’d collectively negotiated the threat level back down to chartreuse, the war on terror and air travellers was pushed to the background for a few minutes as the Agents all gathered around to take a look at my treasured receiver and offer their opinions on its merits.

This little gem was the heartbeat of our household for many many years, and has a strong affinity for classical and jazz. She’s a little powerhouse, with snappy push buttons and strong, solid tuning knobs. Her signal window is downright sexy.

But the best thing about her is her warm green glow.

Welcome home!

The P Speaks: Winds And Bikini Disrupt Musician; Newport Flutist Turns Back On Audience And Breeze

[Jayne Mansfield, circa 1964]

WINDS AND BIKINI DISRUPT MUSICIAN; Newport Flutist Turns Back on Audience and Breeze

By JOHN S. WILSON

Special to The New York Times

July 4, 1964, Saturday

Page 9, 633 words

NEWPORT, R.I., July 3 — The wind and Jayne Mansfield played unanticipated roles this afternoon in the Newport Jazz Festival’s annual program devoted to new, or relatively new talent.

Miss Mansfield arrived at Freebody Park on the second day of the four-day festival while the program was in progress. She was wearing a blue bikini and a short open jacket and she carried a beige Chihuahua whose toenails were painted red. While Miss Mansfield listened to the music, ate a piece of pizza  and nestled the dog in her lap, photographers clustered around.

During most of this time, Rod Levitt’s octet was on the stage attempting to retain some share of the audience’s interest with Mr. Levitt’s avant-garde jazz composition. The musicians did reasonably well until Miss Mansfield got up to go to one side of the part to have some pictures taken with several bearded jazz fans. The parade of photographers and photo enthusiasts who followed in her wake succeeded in burying one of Mr. Levitt’s pieces. 

Mr. Levitt was also the victim of the unplanned intrusion of the slight breeze that was blowing through the park. His group makde two false starts on a piece called “Vera Cruz” until George Marge, a flutist, who played the opening passeages, pointed out that the wind was blowing into Mr. Levitt’s flute, creating notes that were not on the score.

To outwit the wind, Mr. Marge turned his back on the wind and on the audience and played his solo from a stooping crouch as he sheiled his flute from the elements.

Mr. Levitt’s group used clothespins to keep its music from being blown by the wind, often without success. Clothespins are the customary device for this purpose. George Russell, leader of another avant-garde group, arrived on stage with an avant-garde solution – or at least a different one. He carried a bag of rocks.

Aside from the wind and Miss Mansfield and Mr. Russell’s rocks, the most impressive performance….

***

We are sharing this bit of history because as you read this, we are off to the land of blue bikinis, breezes and clothespins. (And cocktails and badminton and jazz…)

The P Speaks: Ah, the Fleet Foxes

The Fleet Foxes have been getting lots of late night airplay around the ol’ campfire. On vinyl, of course. Not sure we even own it in any other format.

Anyway, these five lads from Seattle are grand.  A bit My Morning Jacket, a bit Sigur Ros, a bit Moody Blues. Rich harmonies. It works. (dk just likened them to Handel’s Messiah crossed with Fairport Convention. Fair enough.)

Anyway, the message here is to check them out. Thanks Sub Pop!

Listen: White Winter Hymnal