Go Ahead, Call Me A Jazz Nerd

“I’m such a nerd.” This I said out loud the other day, after debating with myself the pros and cons of letting Southside Aces fans know that Frankie Trumbauer played C-melody saxophone. Tomorrow night, the Southside Aces will feature Henry Blackburn at the Eagles. This month’s feature is The Alto Sax in Traditional Jazz. He’ll be rendering on his alto one of the most famous saxophone solos in jazz history, “Singin’ The Blues.” In 1927, Trumbauer put the song to wax with his C-melody, so technically we’re not talking about an alto song. But why make that distinction merely while I’m begging fans to make it out to the show? The C-melody is a close cousin to the alto. It’s a bigger cousin, like that one from Nebraska who played right tackle for the Cornhuskers, but a rare thing to encounter in public these days. After reminding myself—not for the first time, you may have been able to guess—of my status as a nerd, I made the decision to omit the C-melody history from the narrative. Given my normal jazz logorrhea, this counts as exercising restraint. Well, wouldn’t you know it; within a day I received notice from friends letting me know that Frankie played C-melody. 

And how about last month? We’re on the stage at the Eagles about to present the public with a bunch of Fats Waller, and Erik almost announced “Ain’t Misbehavin’” as Fats’ “most popular hit.” I tensed up, as only a fastidious historian can. Zack noticed my consternation and didn’t lose much time pointing out what a dork I was. Erik amended his words, telling the crowd the song was, “arguably his most popular hit.” I washed my hands of him, declaring, “I ain’t protecting you from the Charlies out there!” This refers to the fact that there are people like Charlie DeVore who will know exactly which Fats hit was number one. Erik and Zack laughed at me. Erik displayed mock terror with an “Oh no!” face and said, “When we’re done, I’m just going to run off the stage and get out of here, talk to no one!” Our second Fats song was “Honeysuckle Rose.” This, too, was announced as, “arguably his most popular hit.” Thus he diluted the first declaration, and with such ambiguous semantics staved off being cornered by a pack of wild Charlies and Tonys. 

You should know as soon as possible here that I am not complaining about folk writing in to supply me with C-melody information, nor do I feel it is character assassination to use phrases like “jazz dork” or “jazz nerd” in reference to a certain clarinetist when he gets starchy over a muddy history. I have for a long time considered it a badge of honor to even be considered in such light. If I ever manage, for instance, to even hold in my noggin half the knowledge that Charlie has under his white hairs, I’ll feel like I’ve lived a great life. Two of my greatest loves, baseball and jazz, are populated by people who can tell you much more than you would ever need to know about the smallest of minutiae in their respective subjects. Just ask my wife… 

Me? I’m always grateful for these dwellers in the arcane. The information they possess is considered nugatory by most folk, and perhaps rightfully so. But haven’t you ever experienced that moment when you needed to lay your hands on some bit of far-flung esoterica, and somebody in the world actually knew the answer? The moment goes in waves. First you have the “Eureka!” feeling wash over you, happy to find the answer to your question. Then you have the gratitude feeling for the person who bothered to put the answer in their heads or some easy-to-find place. Then you have the semi-mocking, pity sensation of “Wow! Why would someone spend their time collecting that knowledge?” Admit it. You’ve gone through this. We, however, need people like this.

But it all can go horribly wrong. You know, knowledge is power and power in the wrong hands and so on. I thought about this “it’s cool to be a nerd” idea some, and decided to google “jazz nerd.” I found out I am three years late to an argument that was hatched from the mind of a Marsalis. Drummer Jason Marsalis, youngest son of the famed New Orleanian jazz family, has a Youtube rant about a certain type of goings on in the jazz world. He initially coined the acronym JNA, meaning Jazz Nerds of America. Once he discovered that the problems he had with the state of jazz was a worldwide plague, he re-coined it JNI, or Jazz Nerds International. Those with membership in the JNI, he says, “reduce the music to as many complex notes as possible while ignoring the simple elements and history behind the notes. The music student has fun but the audience has nothing with which to connect and therefore is sitting on their hands.” He believes that many of the modern, young players ignore the rich past of jazz. Mr. Marsalis believes that one of the central philosophies in this school of music is “swing is old and dated, we have to use the music of today.” He despises the alienation of audiences that this can produce. “The fact is that the jazz audience could care less whether any music is “new” or “innovative.” The audience pays their hard-earned money to hear a good show.” He cautions against spending too much time as a music school technician. You need to live, at least in part, a non-academic life and have that living infuse your music. I couldn’t agree more with the elements of the stand Mr. Marsalis takes, although he needs to be more careful to not accuse everyone of the crime.

Perspectives on jazz nerdery, if you will, appear to be as fractured as the jazz community itself. A young trombonist, Alex Rodriguez, also despises the nerd in jazz, but from another perspective entirely. In his blog, Lubricity, in 2009 he wrote a piece entitled Please Don’t Call Me A Jazz Nerd. He told the story of how he suffered boyhood trauma on account of his being a self-described dork. He disdains the idea of the hipster-nerd. He sees the nerd as being a force of marginalization in jazz. If you want success as a jazz musician, why would you want to be a nerd? “Those of us in the jazz community today have a daunting challenge before us: on one side, we are pressured to measure up and reinvent ourselves within the artistic framework and tradition that has been laid before us by our musical idols; on the other side, we are pressured to make this struggle culturally relevant in a world in which swing — a fundamental underpinning of jazz music — no longer underlies popular music.”

Whew! I better start calling myself something else. Maybe “Professor” with a lightly snide tone or something. Both those guys are presenting good cases for not wanting to be a nerd. One says that the nerds are only embracing modern music with no respect for the past, in the process losing the modern listener. The other is saying the nerd who only hangs on to the past without at least acknowledging the music of today will lose the modern listener. What a rhubarb! But I’m not Marsalis’ nerd. I might be closer to the nerd described by Rodriguez, but I’m not that guy either. I think I need a Jazz Nerd career counselor!

I, as you know, am a ‘20s-‘40s man myself, with those New Orleans revivals of the ’40-‘60s thrown in for good measure. This brings about a whole different type of nerdocity from the ones described above. Once you get past the mid-1920s, you find well-developed jazz genres not just from New Orleans, but from Chicago, Kansas City, and New York, just to name the main hubs. Sure, there was a diaspora of New Orleans cats helping to fuel the spread of jazz, but there were people all over the country creating distinct versions of this beautiful American art. A 21^st Century bandleader such as myself could decide to just be an Armsrong band; an Eddie Condon band (Chicago/New York); a Duke Ellington band (Washington/New York); a Basie/Moten band (Kansas City); or a Kid Thomas/George Lewis band (New Orleans). And that’s just using one hand! Within each of those examples, there is a body of work sufficient to be a band’s sole repertoire. Some bands do this, although I think most travel all around the map, as the Southside Aces do. And, this is important—people have made the case that each of these highly distinct ways of playing music could be a definition of traditional jazz all by itself.

This brings me back to how the early traditional jazz nerds can muck things up. The types of nerds that Marsalis and Rodriguez describe are only the top branches of the Jazz Nerd Family Tree. This is the tree that blocks all the light so no other trees can grow. Imagine you’re leading a six-piece band such as the Southside Aces, and you play the tight arrangements of, say, a Duke Ellington small band of the late thirties. That’s when the Only-Improv-Is-Jazz Nerd emerges from the crowd during break to inform you how it’s not really jazz because it is arranged music, not freely improvised. Conversely, you might encounter resistance from the Big Band Nerd, who would prefer you not stomp all over his sweet songs with your rough, unarranged, Kid Thomas sound. Or, you’ll get the Museum Nerd saying something along the lines of, “You know, that wasn’t really the way Bix played it on the 1927 recording.” A band could also spend an evening laying it all out there on the music of Louis Armstrong’s All Star bands of the 1950s, only to run into the brick wall put up by the Hot Fives and Sevens Nerd, who only believes in Louis’ 1920s work. The Jazz Nerd Family Tree is huge, and in need of pruning. Is there a Jazz Nerd Arborist in the house?

Speaking of the Museum Nerd, I admit I love arranging and having the band recreate moments off records from the wayback. It’s incredible music, and exciting to play. But I pick and choose those moments judiciously. It would be far too stifling for it to be more than just a small percentage of our book. My goal is to not let my sometimes overly-developed sense of history prevent me or my cohorts or, god forbid, the audience(!) from having a good time. When the band plays, we have to have a chance to grow musically, both individually and as a unit. Marsalis also said, regarding the million or so jazz camps, “Rather than dividing it up with categories like “traditional” and “modern” or “old” and “new,” it should be viewed as a century’s worth of information.” I like that. I love to listen to a good Bix band, but that would never be enough for me. For example, if the Southside Aces confined ourselves to just Bix, how would we let ourselves play the great brass band music of New Orleans. Or how about 21^st Century music not even intended to be jazz, such as tunes by Amy Winehouse and Lady Gaga? A 21^st Century sound through a New Orleans filter can sound fantastic!

Now, if you hang onto your hats, I’m going to switch metaphors. This is for everyone, the musician, the fan, the critic: There is a wrong side of the tracks in Jazz Nerdtown. This is where the people live who use their JAZZ SENSIBILITIES to be anti-social and confining. They’re just sensibilities, not rules. Myself? I’m a work in progress. These days, I probably still live near the tracks, but on the right side, I think. And any day now, I’m moving to an even better neighborhood!

To read Alex Rodriguez tell you why not to call him a jazz nerd, read it here:

Lubricity

If you would like to see Jason Marsalis rant about the JNI, go to this Youtube:

Jazz Nerds International

Finally, if you would like to read Jason's full explanation, go here: 

Definition of a Jazz Nerd

Tighten The Belt

Here I am, nearly three months into my life as a full-time musician. I can tell you without hesitation that I have never experienced so much internal happiness at a career choice as I have these past 87 days. I mean never. A few people, familiar with my countenance both pre- and post-Decision have even been heard to say how I appear happier, more peaceful. Anyone, however, who’s asked me to explain myself, will tell you how often I’ve used the phrase “tightening the belt” to describe one aspect of my choice. This, on account of how I certainly don’t yet make as much money as I did when the order of things was Real Job supports Messing-Around-With-Music. Now, of course, it’s simply Music Is My Work. Incidentally, while I may say, “tightening the belt,” that might not be a problem, what with the recent opening of Glam Doll Donuts over on Nicollet and 26th. If I spend all my days sitting in their cheery, vintage-furnished shop, eating my way through their amazingly creative, razed-glazed menu as I intend to, I won’t need a belt to hold my pants up. Important as this is, however, I digress.

It’s as if I feel I have to say I’m punching extra holes in my belt to prove to those inquiring after my wellbeing that I am actually aware of reality. My friends are very good to me—they’re not asking me for this proof of being oriented to time and place…and income—but I say it anyway. Erik could tell you how I have an acute ability to always be aware of the worst-case scenarios of any situation. An excellent quality for disaster-preparedness perhaps, but one that can cause unneeded anxiety in everyday life. This mechanism, or reflex, is being activated more than likely by all the ding-dang happiness I’m going through. Imagine a two-panel cartoon of me. In the first panel, I have an open, haloed face and I’m saying, “I’m a Musician! I wake up to Music every day!” In the second panel, my face takes on a stern expression as I shake my finger and say, “Don’t think I’m not aware that I could end up face down in a pool of Old Overholt in front of the public library after six hours of busking “Greensleeves” on a slide whistle because my clarinet’s in hawk!”

Now you see how far I take my disaster-preparedness. Old Overholt is a good rye for how cheap it is, but I really have no intention of ending up in a pool of it under any circumstances. To that end, I am working hard at my craft. And I am refining my sense of how day-to-day decisions in my music will affect my income. Patrick would probably frown to read this, but he is a mentor for me in this aspect. Though a generation younger than I am, and supporting a young family with his musicianing, he says, “It can’t always be about the money. You have to love what you’re playing, too.” Conversely, there will be days where it can’t always be about loving what you’re playing; you have to make a living, too. Patrick, I think, would wholeheartedly agree. But part of my current joy is stemming from this incredible freedom: the love of my music has the power to make very tiny the significance of my bottom line.

This brings me to last night at the Eagles. To make the shows at the Eagles happen, I create the themes, arrange the music, rehearse the fellas, drive around finding raffle prizes, promote, arrive early to set the stage, and of course practice and play the music. For this, I get a guarantee of $50. When all is said and done, about three dollars per hour, sometimes less. But it is worth every second. Here’s what I get for my investment:

The Southside Aces played the music of Fats Waller to a crowd aged nineteen to ninety. Pianist Steven Hobert joined the back row, and some righteous swinging was heard, yes, yes, yes! Per usual, we raffled off prizes, including Heidi’s homemade raspberry rhubarb jam. I talked to friends about my Minnesota Twins, with Cynthia showing me pictures of spring training taken during her and her husband’s recent vacation to Florida, and Hammond stadium. I partook of some of Jim Beam’s version of rye. Charlie DeVore sang three from the Fats Waller book, “Porter’s Lovesong To A Chambermaid,” (do try to be in the same room sometime when he’s doing that!) “Keepin’ Out Of Mischief Now,” and “My Very Good Friend, The Milkman.” When we traveled off the Waller path, those of the promenading persuasion filled the floor on that old Mexican waltz, “Over The Waves,” Zack sweetly tore up “La Vien Rose,” and our “Diga Diga Doo” cooked the end of the night to a nice crisp! 

This is why I said to Erik last night, “Well, I just checked and yep, this is still the most fun!” Fortunately, not all of my musically and socially rewarding jobs have such a low rate of pay. Otherwise, maybe I’d be steeping a little too long in my idealism. The point is, it balances. A man can eat, put a roof over his head, and experience sometimes overwhelming happiness on not too many dollars per day. Tighten the belt, indeed. I say, “Nice belt!”

Love and New Orleans

Happy Mardi Gras, everybody! Tonight I get to play New Orleans jazz with two different bands in two different places. Also at two different times, just so you know. I’m not one of them temporal clarinetists. One of the joints is called The Bungalow, where the Mouldy Figs will reside, the other the Fraternal Order of Eagles, Aerie #34. It is there the Southside Aces will throw in with three other bands and a vat of beans and rice. A lucky jazzman it is who gets to provide some of the Gras of Mardi Gras. I hope you will do your best to bring the Carnival Season to a swinging, crashing, whiskey-sipping, bead-throwing, second-lining, gumbo-wolfing, purple, green and gold, so-what-if-you’re-a-little-tired-on-Wednesday close! I know I will.

But why would I talk about Mardi Gras when I can talk about Valentine’s Day? Once we finish lending a hand observing Fat Tuesday, two days later the Aces come back to the Eagles to provide a Valentine’s Day dance. Sweethearts On Parade! Every few years or so, both Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day make their appearance in the same week. I checked into it, and the last time they fell on the same day was 1961, the next time 2040. It’s like the Haley’s Comet of dual holidays. One of the only other dual holidays that has come to my attention is on June 14^th. Flag Day and National Bourbon Day. Hard to beat that. Except that a Mardi Gras/Valentines has bourbon anyway, plus you get candy. At any rate, you have quite awhile before you have to begin worrying about placing your special order for a heart-shaped King Cake. 

This year Mardi Gras falls on Lincoln’s birthday. I don’t know what to do with that. Instead, I’m going to focus on the combination of Love and New Orleans. On June 26^th, 1950, the Decca studios in New York recorded Louis Armstrong with the Sy Oliver Orchestra, Earl Hines on piano. It was French pop music day, apparently, because not only was “La Vien Rose,” put on record, but the B side was “C’est Si Bon.” These were big, orchestral pop arrangements, something Louis began to do more often starting in 1949. Music critics, who found it impossible to seek out jazz in so-called “commercial” surroundings, often overlooked these recordings. In Ricky Riccardi’s book, What A Wonderful World—The Magic of Louis Armstrong’s Later Years, there is a section recounting a radio interview from around that time where Louis gives us a great education about the mistaken idea that “commercial” necessarily equates to lack of jazz. I did not feel sorry for the deejay as Louis gave him a fantastic dressing down. You’ll have to get the book and read it yourself (pages 50-51). Or call me up and I’ll read it to you. The upshot was his final word to the deejay. “Every tune’s hot until you make it otherwise, Pops.” Someday, I’ll weigh in more on that subject, but today I’m going to stick with Love and New Orleans, and “La Vien Rose.” 

What Louis did with that Edith Piaf-penned hit was remarkable. For four bars the orchestra holds a gentle C, while Earl Hines gives us beautiful piano glissandos; all creating a soft cushion of space that literally makes me take a deep breath before Louis’ entrance. Here he is playing this slow, slow melody, all the while making you feel the swing of the thing. And there’s his old Chicago pal, Earl Hines, dropping in piano phrases behind him. You’d think a full orchestra would be unwieldy to these two jazzmen, but not so. The conviction of their swing could shrug off an orchestra of a hundred. He finishes the melody, and Earl and the orchestra go back to the top to give us that C cushion again. Then Louis sings.

Not many people use the word “tender” when describing Louis Armstrong’s vocal qualities. I consider this to be perhaps his most tender vocal on record. And what kills me even more is how he combined that real tenderness with his unequaled syncopation and swing. He creates a feeling of true love…and of wanting to do something about it. And just about when you’re saying, “Dang!” over what he just sang, the orchestra goes up a fourth to the key of F and Louis puts his trumpet to his lips to finish the song. It’s soaring and powerful, yet filled with the same tender tone of his vocal. The orchestra pauses right before the end, and he hits and holds a high C that makes you shake your head and think, “Nobody but Louis!”

The Southside Aces trumpet man, Zack Lozier, hasn’t been overlooking Louis’ “commercial” recordings. No sir. If you step into the Eagles Aerie #34 this Thursday, you will get to hear “La Vien Rose.” Though you don’t have to admit it to anyone, you’ll probably swoon just a little bit. It’s all right. How else are you supposed to respond to a strong dose of Love and New Orleans coming at you all at once?

Check out Louis for yourself:

"La Vien Rose"

Highlights of 2012

Do you hear that? It’s the sound of me coughing and hacking after blowing the dust off my blog. I pulled it down off the shelf and decided not to bring it into the Goodwill along with the four extra Thesauruses and those skinny-Tony pants. I’ve had a week to ponder the year past—from Buttons to Aces, Eagles to Santaphones—and I want to tell you some about it. 

January

2012 began with me at the Aster Café with Patty and the Buttons. The café had just given us a raise, a rare occurrence in the world of playing for restaurants. A propitious start to the year for sure. Andrew “Diz” Gillespie joined us on his drums, and baritone sax man Scott Fultz also found a place on the stand. We gave the crowd what for all that afternoon, blazing away on “Big Chief Battle Axe” to finish. On our last, ferocious chorus I caught Diz in my peripheral vision coming out of his seat to put his whole body into the last note of the day. The crowd roared. The Aster’s raise is money well spent, I don’t mind saying.

February

The Aces were again the house band for the Best of Midwest Burlesk. During the last show of the weekend, we surprised the cast by removing our black and whites to reveal what a jazz band looks like performing in red Union Suits. We liked this so much, we made it a part of our Christmas album. Now everyone can own a copy of us in our long underwear:

March

The Southside Aces featured the music of the Hall Brothers at the Fraternal Order of Eagles Aerie #34. Several of these monthly features would be in my top ten musical experiences of the year. Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, Jelly Roll Morton, King Oliver, just to name some. And Erik loves MC-ing the raffles. In fact, he is unsure which is more exciting for him at this point, playing the music or drawing raffle tickets. I know I’ve painted a couple pictures of the scene there in the past, but I can’t resist giving you a couple more. I overheard this shouted bar conversation from my vantage in the ballroom: “Hey, Rick! What was that that shot my dad’s finger off?” A man, presumably Rick, laughed and answered, “I think it was a Red Ryder BB Gun.” Another barstool percher weighed in, “No, that’s how you shoot your eye out.” Another time, I was there with Patty and the Buttons when I heard an impassioned monologue from another Eagles Denizen. I had joined the conversation with the smokers out on the patio when she launched it: “I don’t understand our government. They work so hard to get Americans to quit smoking and drinking, but those are the two vices we got that they make the most money from! Now, I don’t drink that much,”—we had to take her word for that—“but I’ve been smoking for forty years and I’m never going to quit! With all the taxes I pay for smoking, you wouldn’t think they’d want me to quit! Look at me!” she yelled, waving her cigarette aloft, “I’m a patriot!” The Eagles, ladies and gentlemen.

April

The Aces played at the Social Dance studio. Erik came running back down 38^th Street during our second break, dismayed that the Tom Thumb a couple blocks away was closed for the night. He was SO hungry. A somewhat perpetual state for that man. “I think I’m going to order a pizza!” Sure enough, Pizza Luce showed up during the third set.

May 

The Midwest Lindy Fest had the Buttons on the Anson Northrup riverboat. Some of you may not know this, but Patty is a genius at target marketing. Looking to capitalize on the swing dancer’s ability to sniff out a deal, he offered them an extemporaneously-created contest he entitled Once Over Lightly. “The first dancer to come up to the stage with a Summit for me gets a free CD. Now,” he added the fine print, “if there is more than one Summit, the band will take care of them, but we can only give away one CD.” In the second set, “The first person to bring a whiskey for Tony gets a free CD.” The third set Once Over Lightly contest procured a Bombay Saphire for Meat Plate. 

May also saw me on the stage of the Cedar in a Butch Thompson band. For anyone there, this had to be one of the most memorable concerts ever. We had just finished “Mournful Serenade,” the third song of the second set, when poof! No lights or sound! The West Bank had been thrown into a brownout on account of a blown transformer. Charlie DeVore yelled out into the darkness, “Well, I guess they’ve already cut the Arts and Cultural Heritage Fund!” Butch was feeling certain that they would stop the show, given as how they only had flashlights and some crepuscular light creeping in through the thrown-open back doors. I urged him on, “We can play in the dark! We don’t need power!” He agreed, sat back down at the piano, and a few seconds later cheers erupted in the crowd when they heard my foot stomp off “Isle Of Capri.” We finished the tune to the loudest cheers of the night. Our drummer, Peter Johnson, shouted, “They like us better when they can’t see us!” We played for forty minutes in the near-dark, including a great moment when everyone got really quiet, both band and crowd, to hear Charlie sing “Mister Johnson.” And the dancers danced! Shadows, moving about the Cedar.

June

Near the end of the month, the Bill Evans New Orleans Jazz Band played several tunes to commemorate the fourth anniversary of Doggie Berg’s death. My favorite moment of that night at Bennett’s was when I had the opportunity on a break to sit next to Mimi, Doggie’s widow, and share a few quiet words. She was tearful at first, but then she smiled, determined to shake it off. “You know what Doggie would say right now?” she asked me. “Let’s all get drunk and be somebody!”

Later that week, Lance Conrad, owner of Humans Win! recording studio in Nordeast, Minneapolis: “What could be better than a New Orleans Christmas album recorded in the middle of summer by an atheist Jew engineer?” Indeed. Not much can be better than that. The Southside Aces went into his studio at the beginning of a Twin Cities heat wave. I’m sure folk in Southern climes are accustomed to accompanying their Noels with dripping sweat, but it’s a bit surreal for we Northerners. I remember the day in late May when I sat at my piano in nothing but a tee-shirt and madras shorts, hammering out an arrangement of “The Christmas Song.” I looked out my open window across the short space between mine and my neighbor’s house. I imagined the conversation he had with his roommate later that night. 

Roommate: “Were you just humming ‘Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire?” 

Neighbor: “I guess I was.”

Roommate: “What’s wrong with you?”

Neighbor: “I don’t know. It’s in my head for some reason.”

July

The Mississippi River Fund hired the Aces for the first in a series of chautauquas, this one entitled, “Drinking The River.” A band playing New Orleans music, a Mississippi River brewery historian, a waste treatment scientist, a singing Park Ranger, and a dude in fur-trapper attire walk onto a paddleboat. No punch line, this really occurred. I want to know what kinds of things have to happen in your life in order to find yourself in the position to make some of your livelihood by slipping into your fur-trapper getup…not for the purpose of trapping fur. Of course, some people want to know what happened in my life that I find myself making my livelihood playing eighty-year-old music on a clarinet.

The Buttons also had their fare share of July fun. We were at a farm helping a couple celebrate their nuptials, when we met a man, six feet six, eighteen-inch beard, wearing a kilt, and claiming to possess skills at the arts of Jews harping and gargle-singing. I feel more certain than anything else ever, even than of the love of my dearly departed mother, that that particular list of attributes has never been applied to just one person before. I have trouble deciding on my favorite line of the night. “I recently attended a Jews harp convention.” Or, when he gargle-sang “Harvest Moon” with us, “You can’t use beer because it foams up too much.” Or, “I haven’t worn pants since last September.”

August

Sidney Bechet feature at the Eagles, special guest Henry Blackburn. One of the best concerts of the year. While getting set up, Henry had trouble with his clarinet reeds. He looked at Steve Pikal and me and said, “The reed is the most important thing.” He paused, smiled, and said, “Actually, it’s Attitude number one, reeds number two, and…” he trailed off, pausing again to consider. “And talent, number six.”

At the end of the month, the Buttons play “Corinna, Corinna” in the Ramberg Senior Center at the Minnesota State Fair, accompanied by 42 trombones. That sentence can stand alone.

September

In one week, I play a kielbasa Fest, a beer fest, and an oyster fest. What a delicious week! At Meritage’s 2^nd Annual Oyster Fest, the Aces experienced the pleasure of being booed by St. Paul Mayor Chris Coleman and his cohorts. This on account of the band being “all the way from Minneapolis.” It was in good fun, but Erik still made an effort to calm down the border tensions by offering up Dave as our Ambassador to St. Paul, him living over there on Snelling after all.

October

Halloween playing jazz and Balkan folk music with Sam Miltich up north in the Grand Rapids VFW, dressed as the historied Dallas Cowboys coach, Tom Landry. Another sentence that needs no further elaboration, right?

November

On the 21^st, the Southside Aces released the video for the title tune to their Christmas album, “Santaphone,” our paean to the adventures afforded by procrastination. Friend and fellow musician, Roc, said it helped him to feel better about shopping at 6:45 on Christmas Eve. We followed up two days later by the release of the album itself. 

December

The Santaphone CD release party. The band and a cavalcade of guest singers, plus a spare sousaphone player, entertained the biggest crowd the Aces have ever seen at the Eagles. Charlie DeVore’s clucking chicken vocal on “Winter Wonderland” may have been one of the best uses of a chicken vocal I’ve had the pleasure to hear. You’d think that there would be a narrow range of uses for such a thing, but seeing as how I’ve spent a lot of years around Charlie, I know this not to be the case.

Maud Hixson knocked “Sleigh Ride” out of the park that night. This was an especially proud moment for her. She had confessed to the song being somewhat her nemesis: “I’ve been putting that song off for so long. Every year, I would tell myself I was going to do it, than I would avoid it until Christmas was past. It’s like that scene in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure when the pet shop is on fire. Pee Wee keeps running in saving animals. Each time he passes the snake cage, he makes faces and shudders and saves the other animals instead. Finally, just the snakes are left. He fills both his fists full, runs back outside screaming, holding them over his head, and faints on the sidewalk. That’s me doing ‘Sleigh Ride.’”

Finally, you should know that I’m writing to you as a full-time musician. I ended my year by jumping with both feet into being, as George Lewis called it, a “musicianer.” For many years I worked as a reflexologist at a local hospital to support my musical habit. I now get to awaken every day with only music ahead of me and it feels great! It must, because I seem to be using some form of the word music in every single sentence. I am a happy man, even when my good friend Bill ribbed, “You’ve left gainful employment to become a musician.” I love my good friends. And I loved my year of music.