Sitting in the G-Spot with Honeyboy

David “Honeyboy” Edwards is here, in Los Angeles, tucked away in the corner of this very living room. One of the two remaining original Delta Blues men is twenty feet away; legs crossed in a simple wooden dining chair, argyle socks showing, thick golden rings stuck in wrinkled skin, suspenders, and a ball cap with “Honeyboy” printed across the front. Nearby is a C. Bechstein grand piano that is worth more than this entire swanky Los Angeles hills home. The owner has converted his abode into a Blues club for the evening, aptly named “The G-Spot.” It’s not polite to stare, but the eyes of the small gathering keep shifting in the old legend’s direction. From time to time, his head begins to droop and his eyes begin to nod. At the age of 94, it can be expected. In the last two weeks, he’s flown from Chicago to Los Angeles, played two public shows in Sherman Oaks, is waiting patiently to play at a private one tonight, then must get ready to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Grammy’s on Sunday. The eager crowd can’t help but stare in wonderment.

All visitors tonight have to be on a list, consisting of no more than fifty names, with the location revealed only upon purchasing a ticket. One by one, the guests have checked their coats, wound down the dark adobe-tile stairs, past the mahogany bar stocked with wine and cheese, and into the living room with large corner windows overlooking the cityscape of downtown Los Angeles. Musical equipment has implanted roots all over the space; grown from ceilings and walls, carpet and tile. Up near the bar a few people are perched on a mini balcony, floating above Honeyboy’s row of chairs below. In the miniature stadium area, the front-row seating is comprised of a curved twelve-seat leather couch. The nosebleeds consist of a handful of plastic patio chairs, placed in rows behind the VIP sofa. As the invitees shuffle in and settle, a full Blues band named Jeff Dale and the South Woodlawners takes their place under the yellow lights.

Five grown men, with wedding rings, classy suits, and sparkling instruments fill the focal point of the room. They are too clean for traditional Blues, too LA. Front man, Dale is reminiscent of a younger and bearded Geoffery Rush. Every inch of his demeanor is electric with nerves as he tells stories of his childhood growing up in Chicago, listening to the songs of Honeyboy, and his own history of playing the Blues. Each band member waits patiently between songs with pursed lips and a small bead of sweat building from the corner of his forehead. Their peripheral focus always remains on Honeyboy. Tonight, their paths have aligned with the legend, giving Dale the opportunity to add one more story to his repertoire.

All is cleared, and Honeyboy now sits ten feet away, center stage. Shaky limbs grasp a custom stained-red Gibson Les Paul into the crook of the arm, while a leathered hand helps adjust steadily from the neck, until the groove of the guitar body fits comfortable on the leg. Many of its kind have rested in this niche for over 80 years. A middle-aged man adorned in a full denim getup who has been sipping back Heinekens all night comfortably takes a seat next to Honeyboy. Michael is Honeyboy’s manager, owner of Earwig Music record label, and close confidante. Whisps of grey hair are pulled into a ponytail, complementing a pair of glasses and gentle eyes. He bends over in his seat towards a vintage miniature briefcase on the floor. Unsnapping the metal closures, he pulls out a harmonica in the key of A to play, “Sweet Home Chicago.” Standing up, he introduces his old friend with a compassionate smile and warms the crowd up with a recap of their travels so far.

Honeyboy’s tired hands wake into life with the sound of the blues harp beside. Connected to the guitar, these worn fingers are conscious of every string, every slide, every bend and fret and note and scale. These actions still are as routine to him as making toast, brushing one’s teeth, or riding a bike. With the extension of age, each joint in his rhythmic arms have worn a little rust. A note or two is skipped, but the overall sound is no less traditional than the portrait of Honeyboy playing Delta Blues in his youth. Coarse musical mumbles fill the atmosphere; about the women who chase him, his life growing up in the South, and all the good and bad in between. Cackles burst from his smiling lips when he hits a fond memory, boosting drooping cheeks upward, pupils glowing with excitement. Fifty pairs of eyes do not dare blink or look away. Mouths remain closed in respect during the set, only coming alive with cheers at the close of each tune.

Halfway through the set, Honeyboy begins to tire. Michael pauses the show, and begins plucking musicians out of the crowd to join as special guests. There is a Grammy Award Winner on the trumpet, a music producer armed with a guitar beside Honeyboy, the editor of LA Times on the pristine Hammond B3 organ near the cityscape windows, and the South Woodlawners on drums, harmonica, and guitar. Each musician possesses his own style and background; joining from all corners of the country. For the finale, the stage is snug full of musicians standing and sitting in every nook of the stage. Turning heads look to one another, the drummer gets the go-ahead, and the group begins a jam of the classic Muddy Waters hit, “Got My Mojo Working.” Beer and wine glasses rest empty on tables at this point, and the crowd joins in, gently singing and tapping their toes.

Honeyboy remains seated center stage. He is now free from the bright lights, but not the line of meet-and-greeters. A few stay behind, helping clean, chatting amongst each other as friends, reminiscing about the night, still in disbelief. Dale helps break down the stage area, perpetually wide-eyed, shaking hands, still absorbing the night’s events. Lights begin to dim towards a midnight blue and the crowd continues to thin. Empty bottles and glasses are collected, chairs begin to disappear, and final goodbyes are passed between acquaintances. Up the stairs, grab the overcoat from the rack in the cozy entrance, through the threshold onto the winding road of this LA hillside, and into the night sky. Tonight will remain tucked away as a collection of memories 50 individuals will remember as a lucid dream. But outside the G-Spot, Honeyboy’s legend will remain forever as one of the last surviving cornerstones of Delta Blues.

The Strange Things

Rain leaks from the black shadows of the stormy winter sky. The clouds have been crying for two days, leaving an aftermath of puddles throughout the Detroit parking lot in Costa Mesa. Tonight, the crowd is bundled up in the corner, each individual keeping warm amidst friends and fellow musicians; waiting for Billy, waiting for Railroad. In through the threshold, a slight left towards the active stage, and a vision of Francisco the Man appears behind a soft glow of red lighting.

Three male musicians are positioned in a triangle; two guitars and vocalists in front, golden drums in the back. Around the perimeter rests an aged organ, a second drum kit, and other various instruments. The concrete dance floor slowly begins to collect inhabitants as the trio sings of broken romances and lost dreams. Just a taste, and it’s time to wander. Francisco the Man and Billy Kernkamp exchange places, and the room slowly begins to pulse with more and more life.

Kernkamp settles center stage, drums and bass player close by. Up against the stage-right wall rests an off-white organ, now occupied by its owner. After losing his normal guitar player to a broken collarbone, Kernkamp has chosen a shaggy-haired young man to act as substitute for the foursome. Tonight the charming lead is less quirky than usual, with less humorous chatter, and a more solemn look radiating from his dark eyes. The tender twang of an acoustic guitar leads the songs of heartbreak and gentle despair. Despite this, a hint of playfulness slips from Kernkamp’s lips. “Thanks to Francisco the Man, who gave me a boner this big,” he says, raising his pointed hands shoulder-width to indicate the size.

A thick fog begins to permeate from the stage and bleed through the venue, attracting prey to the dance floor. Darkness now hides the four members of Railroad to Alaska. Deep ruby light saturates the figures and every piece of equipment on stage. Then an explosion of sound and flashing colored bulbs overwhelm. In an instant, the four young men have stolen the attention of the audience with powerful orchestrations meant to melt faces and destroy eardrums. Aside the demented guitar riffs are sharp lyrics that claim, “Theeerre arrre violent sentences, I have not written, but the less I count my arrows, the moooorrre I realize, there are better ways to destroy the sun.” The crowd swims in smoke and gathers toward the spectacle, mesmerized.

A brief pause, and the shaggy-haired guitar player from Kernkamp’s set is summoned to the stage once again, and centers himself between the two lead guitars. Transition to blue lights and a down-tempo composition. An artillery of guitarists line the Detroit stage now. Each work their fingers up the neck of their own instrument, releasing a collection of haunting riffs. They feed off of each other’s twisted melodies. Stage right, the guitarist with a dark fro and electric demeanor begins soloing, shaking notes from his quick fingertips. He passes the spark to his left. The guest beside him picks up the torch and continues. Energy is not emitted from his personal movement. Instead, it is funneled into the strings from rapid fingertips, scratched into his pickup, and blasted violently from speakers. The transition continues towards the lead member of this disturbed trio of soloists. Restless eyes flair amongst the frame of thick-knotted curls of hair as the lead macerates the neck of his Gibson. He is the most vicious to his guitar, forcing contorted riffs that creep uneasy into the soul.

Turning his back to the crowd, the lead singer sets his guitar aside, then returns center stage to release the mic from it’s resting place. He invites a friend from the audience to come occupy the empty pair of bass drums located to the right of the drummer. At first, the band plays muddled, taking time to find a rhythm, then one, two, three, four… A heavy boom-boom-boom-boom builds from the back of the stage as each sound aligns, and explodes over the mass of bouncing bodies. The man with the mic inches his way to the edge of the stage, hovering over the crowd. A demented voice creeps from the speakers. A distorted face claims there are, “oth-er ways, oth-er ways, oth-er ways, other ways to live.” Lights flicker vigorously as all focus is directed to the additional drummer, soloing with forceful arms flailing in rapid succession.

Smoke settles and flashing light cease. As the dementia finally begins to wear off, the crowd slowly creeps their way back towards the smoking patio, back to the depths of the dark sky that rain brings. Misty clouds of silver are shifting, finally dissipating from over the neighborhood. And though the storm has begun to lift, the chill remains; forever to torment the dark souls surrounding Detroit tonight.

Fight Night with Pistolero and Friends

Highway patrol, police units; they are roaming in packs tonight, taking down anyone they can in sight, trying to make their Christmas quota to receive their bonuses. Alcohol checkpoints are set up all over the county, including right down the street from La Cave in Costa Mesa. Take the back roads, lay low, and finally take a space in the steakhouse parking lot. The crowd is mixed at the show tonight. Techno DJ’s, a metal band, and a surf punk group will serve as the combination for the perfect storm in the red cave on this warm December night.

Downstairs, the bar is full with replicas of dudes and the chicks that orbit around them. On the dance floor, youth are treated to a feast of house and techno beats. Neon red and green lights are on the ceiling, spinning, dancing, whirling in patterns. Security is short tonight with no one to man the back door. Out on the smoking patio, a crowd begins to gather. A police car circles the parking lot, searching for mischief and drug paraphernalia.

Pistolero is still waiting, waiting, waiting to drag their equipment down below. But the trance party continues. The stage is slowly cleared and reset. Both DJ’s linger, leaving their soundboard for the metal band to plug into for the show. One DJ begins leaning on an amplifier, still dawdling with a smirk. This sparks heated words between Pistolero members and the DJ’s, and chests begin to puff in defense.

An uneasy vibe floats over the swarming crowd as Pistolero finally takes stage. The five members begin to feed off the electric energy that emanates from the sweaty, intoxicated youth who have now huddled before the small corner stage. A deep bass line bumps from the speakers. A warning, a preparation for battle. Nowhere to escape, nowhere to run. The bass line drops, a humming silence, then screaming vocals cut through the air, “Live for tomorrow like there’s no today, death is the reason that you have to praaaaayyyy!!!” The reckless moshing begins and the crowd is set ablaze. In the depths, the DJ creeps towards the soundboard to pick a fight.

Before he can reach his destination, the DJ is blocked by the Pistolero entourage. Frustrated in his attempts, the miscreant takes a swing at the nearest member. The young man being attacked returns the hostility and drops the aggressor to the floor. From the stage, a guitar player joins in, flying from his position, sending the sole of his boot straight towards the chest of the DJ.

The masses react and begin tearing themselves apart from the inside-out. Glass shatters on the wooden stage. But the classic metal never stops. The four mobile members line the front of the platform, chests full to the audience, ready to fight. The lead singer reassures the crowd, “I’m gonna rape every last one of you…” Hands pull the lead deep into the black hole as he continues to scream demented lyrics. He throws an instigator aside into a dark wooden cocktail table. Again boots fly into the crowd. The guitar player grabs the vocalist and drags him back to stage. The lead guitarist looms nearby, ready to fight, but never missing an earsplitting solo. The bass player constantly curses towards the adolescents, veins bulging from his screaming neck. The drummer, tucked away in the corner now adorns a deer mask. Despite the obstructions, he continues every time change, every beat, every transition with ease.

Then it’s over. As the security guy crosses through the threshold, the battle ceases. Amidst all the damage, the DJ’s are nowhere to be found. A few decide to make a run for it, clearing some room for movement on the dance floor. Despite the disorder, the band remains on stage, pulsing with heavy Sabbath-like guitar riffs. Destruction is the theme, and there’s no slowing down at this point. As the set finishes, Pistolero still twitches with electric testosterone. The crowd has finally calmed, and the instigators have made their apologies. Everything is finally settled.

Until a young hooligan sprints past the front-door bouncer. He checks a chick into a wall as he hurries down the stairs. Into another female near the bar. Boyfriends begin to take notice, and are prepared to team up for a fight. Glass begins to fly and shatter through the hallways. Strong hands collectively imprison the flailing young man, and force him into the elevator for a good beat-down. Through the smoking patio and into the parking lot. The boyfriends are having their fun, pummeling the miscreant. Someone calls the police, and as two fire-trucks, an ambulance and four cop cars enter the scene, the fight dissipates. Just another night with Pistolero. Just another evening at La Cave.

Spreading the Seed: The Transfiguration of eVocal

Enter through the back gate, and funnel into the small bubble of the eVocal courtyard.  The back of the lot remains corned off by a handmade bar where food and drink is being served.  Moving towards the outdoor stage, a large mural of spray paint catches the eye.  A list of nicknames adorns the corner of the painting.  To any outsider, they are just a few random characters.  But to the Family, they are the nicknames of the crew that makes the survival of eVocal possible. 

Walk inside the venue and enjoy the music that is spilling through the doorway this evening.  Take the time to admire the local artwork that rests peacefully on the wooden walls.   Meander to the front of the shop to browse through the clothing, jewelry, furniture, and a few smaller pieces of artwork.  See familiar faces, community musicians, and others driven by the need to experience a creative environment.

This was the normal setting at eVocal until July 2009 when the shop closed the doors and faded away.  But the disappearance was merely temporary, as eVocal is more than just a business stuck to one location.  eVocal is a Family of artists working rapidly to fuel the progression of community artwork in Orange County.

During my college years is the time when I first noticed hints of eVocal.  Working around Newport Beach and regularly checking the OC Weekly introduced the idea of the Costa Mesa-based business.  It brushed through the mind as a place for artists, for music, for a local scene.  But there were many aspects of eVocal that I could not fully grasp; always picturing an ambiguous business walking around Orange County wearing many different hats.  There was open Mic night, local concerts, an art gallery, a clothing and craft store, as well as local event promotion.  As college continued, this vague entity was never fully realized, I became too distracted to visit, and thoughts of experiencing eVocal left my head.

            A few years later, I found myself in Huntington Beach.  Working at a surf shop for over a year introduced me to the scenster kids.  Every weekend they liked to throw their cash away on getting wasted and boogying down to electro music at local venues like La Cave and Detroit Bar in Costa Mesa.  One little spot in particular, named Avalon, was a hole in the wall bar right next door to eVocal.  Wednesday nights provided an excellent scenster dance party, but I started to notice the activity going on next door at the quaint hangout spot.

            My roommate and I began to check for shows at eVocal.  The venue always hosted 18-and-over shows, always featured local musicians, and always had the walls dripping with pieces from local artists.  A warm vibe of acceptance and genuine passion radiated from the part-venue, part-store, part-art-gallery.  Eventually we made friends with musicians in the area, and began frequenting shows there on a regular basis.

            However, just as I began to absorb the idea of eVocal, the final Open Mic night occurred, the last show was played, and the doors were closed.  Just as many other businesses had fallen victim to the supposed Recession, so had eVocal. 

Despite the setback, eVocal remains a translucent entity that is not known for doing one task, but a whole multitude of them. To be a part of eVocal is simple.  Every honest person is accepted with open arms.  To be part of the “Family” is another story.  Just outside the base of the business are a handful of closely-knit members who specialize in a range of artistic abilities ranging from advertising, to screen printing, to graphic design.  Brett Walker is the hard-working head of the “Evocalism” movement, and also the cornerstone of the Family.  When it came time to shut the doors of the Costa Mesa shop, a small piece of eVocal disappeared, but the Family still remained.  From there, a new opportunity arose.  The Camp.

            Down the road from South Coast Plaza and across the street from the anti-mall, The Lab, is a relatively new shopping complex simply named The Camp.  A green, eco-friendly lifestyle is the focus of the modest collection of stores and eateries.  In the center is the Seed: People’s Market.  After floating like a soul without a body for a few months, eVocal finally settled here.  In the People’s Market, a shopper will solely find environmentally safe products and gifts that are made locally.  Many of the pieces are hand-crafted, and made with extreme attention to design and detail. 

            Next door to the store is the Gallery.  During the Fall of 2009, the doors were opened wide for the artists of eVocal to make the space their own.  Currently, barren walls are slowly filling with artwork from such seasoned artists as Warren Heard, Jesse Miller, and Theo Hetherington.  Swing by any sunny afternoon and find Walker in the back room designing clothing, while Miller instructs a stain-glass class in the bright main room. 

Bits and pieces belonging to the eVocal of the old days continue to emerge at the Seed and Gallery.  The roots of eVocal have been implanted into a new soil, and into an environment that will allow the Family of eVocal to continue to spread the creative seeds of inspiration throughout the population of artists in Orange County.  The Vocalism Movement lives on within the Family, and will continue to morph, evolve and survive into the future.  Say goodbye to the old, and become a part of the new.  eVocal has not left.  Rather, it is waiting for you right down the street.  Join the movement.

How I Learned to Love Van Allen Belt: A Review

Eerie vibe, quiet, listen, the ear draws in close. Trembling piano begins to resound in the room, soon joined by layers of strings and hymnal voices. A white light bursts! A strong female voice is so clear, so concise. This graceful woman with a long silk gown resting over her body takes center stage. She gently curls her fingers around the boxy shape of a glistening old-fashioned mic, standing strong, yet with elegance. Vocals spring from the microphone like gold satin ribbon, curling weightlessly through the air. Tables, chairs, walls around her begin to erupt in slow motion, deteriorating piece by atomic piece, crumbling into dust. Each word is a knife, aimed at the elite class; the fools, herself.

Partaking in a little Pittsburgh-based Van Allen Belt tends to send my fingers to my laptop. From there they begin to rapidly scan over the keyboard, hunting for proof and clarification of the band's lyrics. Eyes frantically attempt to absorb the political and social issues belonging to VAB's new album, Superpowerfragilis: Or How I Learned to Stop Caring and Love the Drug. Subtle statements are thrown into the wastebasket when it comes to this group of musicians. Their tune is one of constant satire, co-mingled with despair, anger, and hopelessness.

Van Allen Belt may be a somewhat advanced and strange listen in the beginning, but those folks truly focused in discovering the darker image of America will no doubt be interested in using VAB as a means of guidance. Every lyric, name, and idea is carefully thought out and holds a deeper meaning only discovered by critical thinking. If education is the means to providing change during our current (and constant) pre-planned economic instability, then consider Van Allen Belt just another adviser. They may confuse, they may offend, they may seem to be a little over the top and extreme in their message. That being said, dig a little deeper into these lyrics if you dare...

You're Still the One: A Goodbye to Denim Blue

         A dark and hazy Huntington Beach sky glowed faintly as the crowd began to build and spill out the doors of the local vintage store, Denim Blue.  Inside lights were low.  Outside, pizza and snacks were available.  Alcohol and tobacco permeated the young locals.  Musicians and music appreciators alike, gathered, packing closely together amidst racks of used denim, jackets, blouses, and boots of various styles and colors.  This single place, and a single person served as the reason for each audience member's attendance.

Local musician and shop owner, Billy Kernkamp had given notice that the doors to his beloved vintage location would not longer remain open.  On this warm autumn evening, those he had given support, inspiration, and a place to play their music, came to return the generosity by collaborating in an evening of cover songs.  Over 15 bands and musicians, over 30 "Unexpected Covers."  A sea of recognizable faces--members of Melanoid, Honeypie, Handsome G., Yellow Red Sparks, Railroad to Alaska, (echo echo), Parker Macy Blues, We Are the Pilots, Stanley Lucas Revolution--stole the dark corner of the shopping center one last time.

         Kerncamp, himself on the microphone, wooed the crowd with a charming smile and eyes that radiated a touch of bittersweet sorrow.  Lyrics belonging to, “You’re Still the One,” by Shania Twain, shocked the audience for a brief moment, but quickly caused grinning mouths to follow Shania’s words.  The normally cheesy, country-pop song now emanated a genuine romantic feeling of devotion.

As friends nearby exchanged playful glances in response to the strumming of the acoustic guitar, a moment of camaraderie swept over the congregation.  This is what Denim Blue had meant to so many. And though doors close and situations change, the feeling of acceptance and inspiration that existed here will continue.  Thank you...

An Introduction to Devendra

            Sweaty, sticky for the last three days in the Indian-Summer heat, and I can’t take anymore.  Even though day has become night, the humidity still zaps all excitement, all anticipation from those who preoccupy the small black Volkswagen mobile that cruises down Katella Ave.  Tonight at the House of Blues in Anaheim would be the third time crossing paths with Devendra Banhart.  A long time ago, stories from other mouths implanted a vision of the musician; an imagination run rampant, a single guitar, and an audience of unblinking eyes that left my mind whirling.  One day, I would have my own Devendra story to tell.

            First meeting: Love-In.  The Valentine’s Day inspired underground warehouse-party lingered just outside downtown Los Angeles.  Devendra wore white fur and kept to himself in the midst of hundreds of faces.  Instead of celebrating, his focus was to play.  Unfortunately, his performance was a foreign one.  There was no folk music.  No beauty.  No intimate musical experience.  Just Devendra, dressed in a royal green and purple Knight’s costume, rapping over cheesy electro beats.  This horrible techno music filled the high ceilings of the dimly lit warehouse, and a self-absorbed image of Devendra drove the crowd away before the set came to a close.

             The Coachella Valley Festival intertwined us yet again.  This time, the man strumming his guitar, wearing vibrant vintage shorts and loafers appeared like the man who once wrote “Little Yellow Spider.”  As he began his performance, Devendra was overwhelmed with giving thanks.  Diverse people, a gathering inspired by music, a sunset spraying light from rolling hills; he couldn’t ask for a more beautiful moment.  But an intoxicated crowd of sweating youth begged for pop songs, for the sound of  “Lover.”  Although he refused the crowd that specific trendy track, the rest were bouncy, and played loudly by his band.  Unable to focus on anything but the debauchery around us, we lost any possibility to experience a heartfelt moment.  The sun slowly lowered itself behind the golden mounds in the distance as we exited the Gobi tent.  Again, we had missed him.

            Weave through the parking lot, the tourists, the churros, the Lego store, the Monorail, the restaurants.  We trek like ants in search of home base.  Arrive at the House of Blues, awake and bustling with fellow concertgoers. Wait in line, receive an armband, get waved over by a metal detector, and it’s up the stairs into the upper balcony. 

Local band, The Growlers, already have the venue packed with a sea of swaying adolescent bodies.  From the corner of the dark wooden banister, I manage to find lead singer, Brooks Neilsen, wiggling and jiggling between the obstructions of bobbing silhouette heads.  In their month of August residency at the Echo, the Growlers took on a few hundred at a time.  Tonight, they face an army that has treaded their way through Downtown Disney to see a show.  From above, the crowd swirls as the boys mesmerize the inebriated with the hollow twanging of a guitar during “What It Is.” Neilsen’s eerie voice recites from “Wandering Eyes.”  Each word floats in the dim light, “I’ll tell you I’ll never leave you, if you believe me, then it’s your fault.”  They hold the gaze of their listeners.  They lure more shadowed figures towards the spectacle on stage.  They have prepared the audience for a trip with Devendra.

No one fights for a spot in the front.  It’s no use at this point; the crowd is packed tight as sardines. Confined by surrounding people, the chit-chatter, the moisture in the air.  The stifle from summer heat begins to return.  But the uneasiness felt is not important in a moment such as this.  Devendra is soon to appear from behind the deep colors of the quilted curtain.  We must press on.

Thick fabric lifts, cheers fly into the air, and vision of the stage is clear.  Devendra enters the scene from stage right, adorning a bowtie, white button-up shirt with rolled sleeves, and a scruffy complexion.  His lanky body moves with a humble embarrassment as he stretches his legs toward the microphone.  Strap on an acoustic, and he faces his audience alone, surrounded in blue light.  “1, 2, 3, 4…” he begins with soft picking of the guitar.  In this moment, the cheers of the crowd are muffled.  All focus is on Devendra, moving his lips to “Little Yellow Spider.” Finishing the simple song, he then transitions to “The Body Breaks.”  Eyes closed, a delicate aura surrounding, voice trembling.  Don’t blink.  Not as he sings, “The body burns, yeah the body burns strong, until mine is with yours, then mine with burn on.”  Spiritual smoke burns from these words, from the stage, moving upward, wrapping in ringlets with the dusty blue light. Tonight Devendra has found comfort and acceptance in Anaheim.  Tonight he has the chance to share his true self with a collection of eager listeners.

Lights change, and Devendra softly picks at the electric guitar he now holds in his hands.  The band tip-toes into view, but each take time finding their specific spot for the evening.  Melody continues slowly as each puzzle piece falls into place.  Heat rises as music bursts into “Carmensita.”  Hundreds of voices sing the foreign words at the top of their lungs.  But after a handful of songs, the need to detach from the crowd, to find fresh air takes over. Slither through the human obstacles, step past the dance floor threshold, and wind up the stairs.  Perhaps there is a chance to work my way in close to the handrail.  On the right, bodies ruin any chance to find a window of vision.  In the center is the same.  On the left, a 30-something Hispanic security guard blocks off the section.  Take a loop through the outside smoking patio, and quickly end up near the television screen mounted over the watchman’s head.  Beams of color dance behind the perimeter of the screen.  On television, the lighting radiates over Devendra and his band in a deeper color than on the stage below.

Pulling out a handwritten letter, our host takes a moment to tell a story.  He had received a note from a fan, asking for him to play a particular song.  This song belonged to two lovers, and they would use it as “a song to bring you home,” whenever they parted.  Guitar strings bounce as the plea from the lover cries, “Put me in your suitcase, let me help you pack, cause you’re never coming back.”  The entire audience cannot help but sigh as the band plays, “At the Hop.”  In these moments, the security guard nearby has felt compassionate, and subtly releases his watch.  Nylon tape belonging to the barricade zips back into its black shell, and the man in his official yellow polo sets the unconnected bases aside.  After one final glance about the area, he walks away. 

After a moment of keeping a lookout, it’s time to slip into the half-empty section.  The view is still tough. Propping up on knees on a nearby barstool, I watch a dancing Devendra pop in and out of view.  Quick thrusts of twanging guitar are set ablaze.  Bomp--bomp, bomp--bomp, the drums crash.  The beat of “Long Haired Child,” is recognizable in an instant, and the crowd begins bopping.  Devendra begins slowly, curling into a ball, then morphs into an orangutan dancing in place on stage.  The guitar players match Devendra’s playful energy with expressions of their own.  All sound suddenly cuts before the song has finished.  Silence from the stage.  Wait, wait.  And lyrics burst, “But when my baby slips out my mama’s womb, we’re gonna enter a new life, enter a new life, that’s for shooore.”  The crowd squirms and offers their own back-up vocals.  With a loud crash of the symbols, and an echoing “shoo-bop, shoo-bop,” the song finishes its last note, and the audience erupts in cheers.

As the show rolls on, my eye is on the roped-off balcony entrance to the right.  Security is watching, is opening the velvet rope as a few people come and go up and down the three stairs.  In the top row, near the center of the back row, are a few empty barstools resting at the base of the handrail-crowd.  Creeping to the corner where the rope is attached, elbows rest on the deeply colored wooden rail.  From this angle Devendra is more visible as he advances through the rest of the energized set.  We have experienced, “This Beard is for Siobhan.”  We have absorbed every word of, “A Sight to Behold.”  We have listened to the Jewish love story of, “Shabop Shalom.”  And it is time for Devendra to finally say goodnight. 

As a few of the rich ticket-holders exit their seats in the center balcony, the security guard leans in close. Go now, sit at the stools, if anyone comes back, move down out of the way.  Speechless, I nod and smile, slipping through the small opening of the retracted rope.  In place, dead center.  A rush of excitement explodes from the crowd as Devendra appears yet again, this time without bowtie and shirt.  Shakers in hand, monotone movement, he starts slowly, “…If I lived in China, I’d have some Chinese children.”  A few lines of lyrics to tease, and the melody morphs into something else.  Shakers now ablaze in his hands, Devendra cries out, “From sucking on my mama’s breast to when they lay my soul to rest, I’m a child.”  The fellow children of the crowd are singing the anthem of “I Feel Just Like a Child,” dancing, twisting, clapping in the final moments they have left with Devendra during his encore.  Lights dim on stage, and he gives a sheepish wave and a smile as he makes his official exit off stage.

Gather final moments, slide off the barstool, and down the front steps of the establishment.  A splash of cooling evening air refreshes the body.  Downtown Disney is no longer bustling.  We reconvene at the paisley-shaped fountain near the ticket booth, and begin to retrace our footsteps to the parking lot.  A buzz is in the air, the excitement and satisfaction radiating off everyone who had witnessed the performance.  Finally, a moment to meet the man who gave, “This Is the Way.”  To see the movements of his face, his eyes closed, true emotion being emptied into every word.  Of course an element of Spectacle had been present during the show; blinding lights and an expensive establishment full of corporate advertising.  But the collection of pure moments of admiration outweighed any bit of the show that seemed tainted.  An experience to be remembered.  A story of Devendra to finally tell.

Philosophy of Listening

How many people really listen to music today? I know frustrated worker bees sit in traffic with the Clear Channel radio stations replaying song after song.  I know MTV still plays videos from time to time.  I know it's in every movie we watch.  But most people are sitting in an elevator, humming to a melody that travels in one ear and out the other.  No chance to absorb.  No thought.  Just something to tap toes to.  Just background sound to preoccupy the space of real thought.

Give me headphones.  Eyes closed.  Full blast.  Let the sound fill every crag of my mind.  Let the body fade away until all that remains is a head swimming in the sounds of melody, harmonies, lyrics.  Relax all thoughts until they melt away.  Every worry, love, hate, emotion dissipates until the warmth of musical connection is the only feeling traveling through muscle, nerves, bone.  Then, pure meditation through music can be achieved.

A single second may be all that a mind can muster.  Brain tends to kick in.  But practice, practice, practice can extend this enlightenment.  Reeelax.  Take it all in.  Don't think.  Just feel.  This is what it is to listen.

The Dark Corner of Detroit: The New Limb's Residency

Detroit is full tonight. Man I hate clacking my worn heels this far across the parking lot to make it to the entrance. No matter. Nod to the bouncer reading his book, then through the threshold. Yellow Red Sparks is on! Already. Sprint through the puzzle of people; front and center, second row back.

A team of two guitarists own the stage bathed in soft blue light.  The lead vocalist is recognizable.  Yellow Red Sparks, lead man.  But the other quiet presence, I know him, I know him.  A night...Gypsy Den...a memory of Melanoid strumming guitar under a single hanging bulb.  That face belongs to the same man who now sits on the stool before me.  According to a nearby friend, the two entertainers are siblings.  Generally, the two pursue their own musical interest, but tonight they combine powers; wooing the crowd of eager listeners.

Blue light changes focus.  A pretty little female with dimpley cheeks, dark bangs, and a high-waisted shimmer skirt has set up and now taken the mic in place of YRS.  Test, test, back-ups, and guitar, and drummer.  Stacy Clark is precise, but the audience grows impatient.  Darling, opaque vocals are strong but seem effortless.  But background vocals bulge from speakers.  A twin voice materializes to aid Stacy.  Instead of incorporating other musicians, she implements recorded copies of herself, and the floor begins to thin.

Twisting hands, stomping feet, eyes rolled back in a posture to speak to God.  She is a Greek Oracle, in a trance, singing prophecy.  But it is stiff, it is strange to watch.  Stacy gives thanks to Yellow Red Sparks, to the residency, to the New Limbs.  Plural Limbs.

Smoke.  Final drink.  And The New Limb is tuning, playing along side The Zombies, working out the kinks.  Spectators begin to congregate, but keep their distance from the artists.  "Come Be With Us."  The sign adorning this message rests on the base of the stage, beckoning followers to join.  To join in on the experience, the freedom, the beauty, and a purer level of existence.  The New Limb are the perfect guide.  A few make their move to the front, then tease the rest of the audience to inch closer.  Then the music takes over.

Harmonies resonate, eery, enlightening.  The feminine counterpart is feeling hoarse tonight.  She glitters in a beaded orange dress, showing no exhaustion on keys.  Special guests take their place next door to her setup.  A cello, a violin.  They move up and off stage as necessary.  A tall dark lead vocalist stands center, sporting his vintage Hawaiian button-up and charming smile.  His voice crashes, collides and intertwines with the voice of an energetic lead guitar man.  Harmonies, float smoothly in the air.  An Orange beauty amp glows a blacklight purple in the corner.  Twisting, bending, rhythmically tight kicking, this guitar player releases delicate, scratchy, psychedelic sounds from his guitar throughout the set.

Pace, pace, pace, of a drum keeps the group in unity as each song morphs and changes levels.  Only a mere moment occurs when he is taken over by distraction.  A faint combination of flickering projector lights produce a movie over his face and covers the back wall.  Turning, looking, the sight entices him to focus on the motion picture.  But his fellow musicians pull him back.

A growing crowd is comfortable now.  They step closer and let the music swallow.  "Weeee are the dust, wee are the dust, we are the dust..."  Simple lyrics in repetition become something more; an awakening.  But the musicians are still growing, experimenting, testing their limits.  This positive force is on the rise.  Gentle harmonies seduce the company of Detroit to, "come be with us."  We'll be following.