Saturday in Austin, Texas: Frosty and the Amazing One-Handed Drum Solo

Last Saturday I was in Austin, and my friend and I went to Antone’s to see a few bands. One of them was Mike Flanigin, who was groovin’ on a Hammond B-3 organ. Since I play the drums, so I sidled up close to watch Mike’s drummer, a veteran session musician named Barry “Frosty” Smith.

Frosty can play, which might explain why his discography is two pages long and includes names like Delbert McClinton and Parliament/Funkadelic. Frosty also plays with his eyes closed.

Barry “Frosty” Smith playing the drums. My cell phone takes such bad photos, they look like they’re printed on cheap t-shirts.

So, Mike and their rhythm guitarist (I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t catch his name) do their thing, and their thing is goodly. While they power through their set, I was content to watch Frosty put on his drumming master-class from about 10 feet away.

My sometimes drum teacher Justin Matz suggests going to see drummers who are a bit better than you, because you’ll see how they fit things together. Justin’s advice didn’t really apply, because Frosty is a bit better than a bit better than me. He was doing some pretty slick things on his kit, such as playing a polyrhythm by alternating between the surface and the bell of his ride cymbal, and keeping time with both feet. But that was part of the fun.

Then came the last song of the night. Mike or the guitarist (I forget which) played the first few bars of the intro, and then Frosty was going to join in. Only just as he was about to get going, Frosty dropped a stick.

This happens when you play the drums. Unlike Animal in “The Muppets,” to be any sort of drummer you can’t clamp your sticks in a death-grip and swing your arms like windmills. To play with speed and finesse you need to hold the sticks lightly, so that they bounce off drum heads and cymbals. When you hold them lightly and your hands are moving quickly, sometimes you drop ‘em. Sometimes you drop more than one, as one of Justin’s cute young students demonstrates:

Anyhow, since drummers drop drum sticks from time to time, they have a little stick bag that they typically attach to their floor tom. Frosty, his eyes open for a change, quickly pulled out a stick, and away he went…

… Until the end of the song. When he somehow he dropped another stick.

And this is where it got really interesting. Miles Davis once said, “It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note — it’s the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong.”

So how did Frosty cope? For some reason either didn’t have a backup stick, or couldn’t reach it because it was in the middle of the song. At this point, as the song was reaching its crescendo, Frosty’s eyes were open really wide.

He was managing to keep the beat with the stick in his left hand, but he was clearly having to rethink how he did everything. Then he switched  his one stick to his right hand to play crash, ride and hi-hat, played the snare with his left hand … and finished the drum solo.

And Mike Flanigin, his band leader, never even noticed.

Friday in Austin, Texas: Pool, Country Music, and Chicken Shit Bingo

I happened to be in Austin, Texas last weekend, which bills itself as the “Live music capital of the world.” I was visiting my friend Rob, who took me out to a local honky-tonk to hear some. We went to Ginny’s Little Longhorn Saloon.

Ginny’s is  a simple rectangle of a building with an assortment of castoff decor. The pavement under the pool table had potholes. The paint on the ceiling was pockmarked and peeling. The door to the beer closet had no lock on it. You could call it run down, beat up or dingy. It was my kinda place.

Here’s my cruddy cell phone pic of Ginny’s. Those are some genuine Beautiful People (what other kind of man wears a pink shirt?) standing near the bar. Better still, that’s an elderly couple dancing in front of the band.

We bought a couple of beers, my friend asked for quarters for the pool table. We could play for free, the bartender told us. The coin-op part was broken.

The table was tucked into a corner between the excess chairs, and a spare stage riser. For certain shots near the rail, there was no other way to get behind the ball than to park your ass on the chairs.

The table’s felt was stained, one rail was warped, and one side pocket had a hole in it wide enough to let the ball fall out the side. At one point I sunk a shot in that pocket, and my friend ran out the front door like the joint had caught fire. He returned holding the ball.

The game paused when a large bug landed on the 8 ball.

But you know, the quirks were part of the fun. We shot pool and drank beer and listened to the band.  “Peewee Moore is a self proclaimed Honkytonk/Outlaw Country Singer/Songwriter in the same vein as Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, Johnny Paycheck, and Hank Williams. He has been barnstorming around the country with his trio dubbed “Peewee Moore & The Awful Dreadful Snakes” doing an endless string of one night stands from Austin TX to you name it. “

Deep into the band’s second set, Rob said that at some point, all the trucks, hard times, whiskey and women become interchangeable components of some greater country ür-song. “Freightliner woman, you jack-knifed my heart.” “I would drown myself in whiskey but my wife used it to bathe the dog” … But I digress.

Rob also mentioned that the table we were playing on was mildly famous. It turns out that one night a week, Ginny’s puts a board over the table, and a cage of chicken wire over the board. The board is a grid, and each grid has a number. Contestants pay money to stake claim to one of the numbers.

Then the chicken comes goes in the cage and cruises around does some version of the Poultry Strut. Sooner or later, the chicken takes a shit. Whoever owns the chicken shit-besmirched square is the lucky winner of Chicken Shit Bingo. Yee haw!

(You can skip the first three minutes or so, if all you really want to see is the, um, money shot.)

The Best Thing I Overheard Today

It’s somewhat ironic how often I struggle to get out the front door to walk the dog, because there are plenty of days that that walk is the highlight of the day. Last week I saw a blue heron in the woods (you might have seen my failed attempt to take a photo of him).

This morning’s highlight wasn’t visual, though. It was auditory.

Common Yellowthroat. Photo by kenschneiderusa via Flickr.

As dog and I returned to the corner near our street, a little boy with short blond hair was standing there waiting for the school bus. Walking toward him was a girl about his age.

“Hey!” he called out to her. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” she answered.

The boy pointed to some Douglas Fir trees behind a nearby home. “The birds! They’ve returned from migration.”

The girl stopped, looked in the trees, and listened to the birdsong. She said, “Cool!”

“Know why they’re so chatty today?” he said. “It’s because it’s sunny.”

I have no idea if those were actually birds freshly returned from migration, or whether they actually sing more in the sunshine. Doesn’t matter. The boy was outdoors, he noticed the birds singing, and he knew that many of them migrate, and they often come back in the spring. He shared what he knew with the girl, who appreciated it.

Damn, that made me happy.

Son of Sasquatch in the Suburbs

For a couple of years I’ve been walking my dog through a path in the woods. There’s a creek in there too, and where the path wends through it’s flat, so the creek flattens out. It’s more like a wetland, really, and it’s popular with ducks. There’s also a blue heron that comes by, when things are quiet.

I’ve been trying to get a photo of that heron for almost a year. Last May, I managed a grainy shot of the heron that’s only visible with either 1) a magnifying glass, or 2) a hearty imagination. (See “Sasquatch in the Suburbs” for previous middling photographic attempts.)

But last week on a quiet weekday morning, there he was again! But my standard-issue dog-walking equipment includes my cheap old cell phone,  not a camera with a zoom lens. So, I snapped a photo:

To assist with definitive identification, I even circled the blob heron this time. Can’t you see he’s facing to the right? Can’t you admire his noble profile? Can’t you tell I need to start bringing a better camera?

To answer your question: No, National Geographic has not called about the photo rights. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

[Insert Your Tuba Player Pickup Line Here]

These things always start kind of innocently. Today it started during the afternoon dog walk, when dog and I strolled past a home and heard the unmistakable blatting of a tuba.

I came home and immediately made some inane wise-ass remark on Twitter:

“Walked the dog past a house where someone was practicing the tuba. I didn’t know people took vows of chastity like that nowadays.”

But the Twitter hive-mind was having none of my japery. “Tubas are so hot right now!” said @janedonuts. As incontrovertible proof, she steered me to America’s foremost authority on cultural/tuba trends, The New York Times, which is reporting that ‘Tuba Raids’ Plague Schools in California.

At this very moment I can almost hear you starting to utter “What the …” so here’s the gist:

In the last few months, dozens of brass sousaphones — tubas often used in marching bands — were taken from schools in Southern California. Though the police have not made any arrests, music teachers say the thefts are motivated by the growing popularity of banda, a traditional Mexican music form in which tubas play a dominant role.

The story quotes a music teacher who says that banda used to be uncool, but now it’s cool to have a live band with a tuba, or to be a tuba player. Not only that,

As a result, sousaphones have made work in bandas more lucrative. A banda can make at least $3,000 for a night’s work at a wedding or quinceañera, said J. D. Salas, who teaches tuba at Stephen F. Austin State University in Texas. And the tuba player, who is often the leader of the group, usually gets the largest share.

Gimme all your lovin'

Big money! For tuba playing! (Who says it’s impossible to make a living as a musician?) Since I’m already playing three instruments that are not the tuba, I sadly admit I don’t have time or oompa-power to hoist a fourth. A shame, really, since I could have been the next version, of … well, this guy.

And two women on Twitter leapt to the sousaphone’s defense. One said, “Do not diss the tuba! Tubas are awesome!” And when I teasingly asked Jane Donuts if she’s dating a tuba player, her response was, “Not yet.”

Hmm, eh? Hmm.

But wait — in a third shockingly unforeseen event, it turns out there are tuba player pickup lines:

1. How deep do you want me to go?
2. In my section of the orchestra pit, we all have big brass
   ones.
3. It’s not every day you meet a guy with a huge instrument and
   great tonguing.
4. Wanna play Baby Elephant Walk?
5. You’re so fine, I’d drink outta your spit valve.
6. Stand back, I’m not sure how big this thing gets!
7. Your lips say “oom,” but your eyes say “pah.”

[It's a good thing I don't have to try and use any of those. I just can't see the elephant one ending well. ]

Still, I’m not persuaded that tubists are now the hawtest musicians on stage. When the nation’s other revered arbiter of culture, The Onion, updates their story “Area Bass Player Fellated” to something involving a sex act and a tuba, maybe I’ll change my tune.

Facebook Outrage of the Week, etc.

For the past few months I’ve been writing for a fine literary-type site called The Nervous Breakdown. I write essays and humor and whatnot. To help share what I’ve written, I also post links to pieces on all the usual social media outlets such as Twitter, Facebook, and Google+.

But this week there’s been a catch: When I tried to post a link to my latest piece on Facebook, I got this:

Obviously this is insane. Everyone in my Facebook feed shares stuff. I’ve shared the last three things I’ve written. And The Nervous Breakdown has its own FB page … though lately it isn’t sharing stories from its site on its page either.

Yes, I think I am seeing that pop-up by mistake: Facebook’s mistake. I hope they fix it soon.

How Low Can You Go?

I had a chest cold last week, and for a day or two it gave me a deeeep voice. When I wasn’t coughing or having those lousy viral out-of-body experiences, I felt a little like Barry White, with a low rumble coming from my chest. Here’s Barry White doing his secksy voice thing. (Warning: the song lyrics are suggestive — worse, the graphics are deeply cheesy.)

As I was coughing out the remnants of my cold, I had one of those instances of news-coverage-imitating -life-imitating-art. I heard an NPR story about Decca Records, who are on the lookout for someone who can sing a low E, nearly three octaves below middle C. “The note is featured in a new piece called De Profundis (Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord — Psalm) by the Welsh composer Paul Mealor,” sez NPR.

To give you some perspective, that’s almost to the left edge of the piano keyboard, down where all the notes sound like a pissed-off T Rex. NPR even added the score, on the off-off-off chance that would help you sing it:

Just in case you’re musically inept and can’t figure out which note they’re referring to, they even circle it. As much as this amuses me, I really wish they’d added a little “Sing This” note and an arrow.

Know that we know the note is waaay the hell down there, can anyone sing it? To prove it was possible, NPR did something cool. They got back in touch with Roger Menees, the record holder for the lowest note ever sung (NPR profiled him in 2010). For him, singing that note is not even an issue — his record is and F-sharp that’s actually lower than that low E.

How low? “When Menees sang “A Little Talk With Jesus” at a church in Canada, he hit a note so low that it shattered an Electro-Voice speaker.”

Doesn’t matter if I have a cold or not. Compared to him, I sound like Mike Tyson.

When Athletes Commute by Bike

I commute by bike when I can, and blog about it sometimes. Lately I’ve seen a neat trend: celebrities talking about transportation. Not long ago, Brad Pitt was on The Daily Show, and someone pull-quoted this gem from him:

After looking at this (exhaustive) page of celebrities on bikes, it seems he isn’t the only one. But a lot of those look more like weekend cruises than commutes. Yes, but! Look at LeBron James:

LeBron James biking to work. Photo credit: @jacknruth

King James is jamming in traffic, on the way to work. Just like a regular guy! (Except for $16 million difference in our salaries, I mean.)

But that ain’t all, sports fans. Turns out that in 2008, at least, a large number of pitchers for the Baltimore Orioles were commuting by bike: “At last count, the cyclists include Jeremy Guthrie, Luke Scott, Aubrey Huff, Brian Burres, Garrett Olson and Lance Cormier.”

The original story in the Baltimore Sun is unavailable, but coverage in Streetsblog said that Guthrie rode to Camden Yards six days a week during long home-stands (on Sundays his wife dropped him off after church). His comment:

“There are some side benefits,” Guthrie said. “It’s the overall idea of being outside and exercising instead of driving. I hate cars, I hate driving, I hate doing something I don’t have to do. For me to drive downtown is a waste of gas; it’s a waste of my time. I can ride faster than I can drive.”

I can’t ride faster than I drive, but I do like the idea of having healthy legs.

The Apparition on My Counter

The other day we had an epiphany on our counter. Actually it took the form of a coffee stain, which took the form of a face:

Needless to say, we were thrilled. As you can clearly see, this is not just the image of a face, it’s some sort of religious icon. It is clearly not, as my heathen friends have argued, a reincarnation of Mr. Bill, the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, or the Were-Rabbit from the Wallace & Gromit movie.

No. It closely resembles the Jesus Pierogi (sold for $1,775 on eBay to a casino), or the Virgin Mary on a toasted cheese sandwich ($28,000 on eBay, also to a casino).

The Jesus Pierogi. Proving that the son of God digs Polish food.

“We will definitely use the sandwich to raise money for charity, and we hope it will raise people’s spirits as well,” said Richard Rowe, the casino’s CEO. “We believe that everyone should be able to see it and learn of its mystical power for themselves.”

You see, if people believe my counter stain apparition is some sort of pop-culture icon, it won’t have the same revenue potential mystical power.

But enough of this time-wasting. If you’re a casino and want to make an offer, call me!

Reunited and It Feels So Good

You remember Barfy, that dog whose family accidentally stranded him in the jungles of Borneo? You know, that inspirational story about how he fought off hungry natives, making his way to that rough port town, where he did whatever it took to survive until he could stow away on a ship, only the ship was hijacked by Somali pirates, but then he escaped, and he had to trek across Africa until he met up with a kindly Portugese man who smuggled him to western Europe. But the man wanted to keep him as a pet, and Barfy’s mission was to return home to his loving family in Marietta, Georgia. So Barfy charmed a widower into giving him her frequent flier miles so he could fly to the US,  but the only flight he could get was to New Jersey, so he had to walk the rest of the way.

Of course you remember. His family thought he was dead, but he turned up six years later, mangy, riddled with heartworm, missing one leg and blind in one eye. They made a heartwarming TV movie of the week about him, “Barfy’s Story: One Dog’s Incredible Adventure All 10,385 Miles From the Dog-Eating Savages of Borneo Back Home to God’s Country.” You must have seen it. Jaclyn Smith starred as an improbably good-looking and not morbidly obese Marietta housewife, and at the end, the real Barfy had a cameo role.

True, it was a brief cameo, since by then he was blind and arthritic and senile, and even after a fortune in veterinary bills, he was as gray and mottled as an old dish sponge.

Even if you never caught “Barfy’s Story” on channel 588, you get the point. Small, plucky pet, a living example of how loyalty and unshakable will conquers all.

(Though, even though I hate to quibble, there had always been rumors that Barfy took a few ethical shortcuts to get by in that port, and the “heartworm” was actually venereal disease. And then the widower’s family came forward, claiming that Barfy actually absconded with the frequent flier miles, though that was settled out of court. There was also that inconvenient detail about Barfy’s family forgetting about him, and getting Bella, a yellow Lab. No one talks about that, and they really don’t talk about how Bella made lame, demented Barfy her bitch. … But none of that’s important, because the story’s really about devotion and overcoming incredible odds, isn’t it?)

That’s why the movie is in heavy rotation on the Hallmark Channel in the 2 am slot, between the infomercials for miracle mops and the Abdominator.

Lovely as that story is, it fairly pales to a heartwarming story of our own. You see, like zillions of other parents, my wife and I stumble through our days and weeks with one hand clutching our belts, valiantly trying to keep from suffering the logistical equivalent of having our pants fall down, whereupon we trip on them, fall on our face, and inadvertently moon our mother-in-law. Or something.

Despite this fervent vigilance, child-the-younger’s reusable lunch bag went missing.

It’s not like we have a substitute, a “Bella bag,” so we had to troll the lesser household storage areas for sacks to use. And the bag had to be at school, though time and again we hunted through classrooms, and the lost and found, and the gym in search of the darned AWOL bag.

Weeks passed. And its absence gnawed at us, one of those things that was off. Out of order. Not working. Not right.

We contemplated replacing it, but that meant spending money and time, not to mention a dreaded trip to the department store — shockingly, there is no Greek-named phobia for the dread of wandering aisles of crap merchandise and various Chinese-molded plastics, in search of something you don’t even want to buy.

But just before we girded our souls and credit for such an ordeal … the bag reappeared! It was at school, sitting in the very bin where it was supposed to be. And it didn’t even have heartworm. In my tearful elation, I took a photo of it to include in the blog, but then …

You see, Jaclyn’s currently between projects. And Barfy’s story sold for a fortune. And my 401(k) isn’t doing that great, and — you know how it is.