22 Days To Dudes: "Claws" (Outtake From The Luxury of Time)

As Part of the '25 Days To Dudes' promotion, I will be posting an entry here about each of the 25 featured songs every day until DUDES official release November 15. If you have not already, please download the collection from the widget to your right. It's free!

Like a lot of suburban kids, I was perpetually unsatisfied with my beginnings. My family moved around more than most but, whether in Atlanta, Saint Paul, Birmingham or Nashville, we always ended up in a calm neighborhood where the houses, cars and people were rarely indistinguishable from each other. A big reason I wanted to get into the show biz was to shed what I perceived to be the boredom of a middle-class upbringing, the eternal weight of sameness and White America’s general lack of notoriety.

I had became aware of Rufus Wainwright in 1998, falling hopelessly under the spell of his debut album about eight bars into the lead-off track. Rufus and I were the same age, but his songs were about a world that I had only dreamed of living in, a far-off universe populated by neo-Victorian dandy’s traipsing the streets of New York, Montreal and L.A. A lifetime devotee of opera, Rufus was fluent in a complex melodic language that I had grazed the surface of but never fully grasped. He was good-looking, he dressed like a champion, he was friends with celebrities and seemed to be everyone’s favorite new version of The Real Deal. On top of all this, he was openly and flagrantly homosexual, which seemed to me like a pretty brave and mysterious way to be.

“Claws” was my attempt, by imitation, to gain entry into Rufus’ private musical universe. Like a teenage girl who dresses like Justin Bieber, I thought some accomplished mimicry might lend me some of his street cred.

After moving to New York, I ended up running in some of the same circles as Rufus for awhile. I even socialized with his family on several occasions, one of which was a late gathering in a room above a bar called Nightingale following the release party for his second album, Poses. There weren’t many people there, just Rufus’ band, his sister Martha, his mother Kate, and a few hangers-on.

It was a long night. At some point, someone put Schubert on the stereo. Rufus abruptly stood up, took his mother’s hand and expertly waltzed her around the grimy room, weaving in between thrift store couches and fold-up chairs, both of them laughing, brown cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

There was something so effortlessly cool about this, so easy and genuine, that all my suburban envy simply drained out of me. Suddenly, I had nothing to covet anymore. Rufus and Kate, with a few lazy turns around a makeshift dance floor, showed me that nothing real will ever be accurately imitated.

Everyone has their own story to honor, their own truth to live out. Life is too short to waste energy attempting to be anything other than yourself.

24 Days To Dudes: "Touch Of Mascara"

The United States’ Interstate Highway System has existed since 1956. It services nearly every major city in the contiguous 48 states. Once you spend a fair amount of your life on it, as I have, the entire thing begins to feel like a network of veins and capillaries, a vascular web in which you are merely a passive participant, one lone blood cell being carried along on its way to yet another bodily destination.

Whether you do or do not jive with this particular analogy might have a lot to do with your personal driving technique. To many Americans, our automobiles symbolize freedom. Most of us earned our driving licenses at age 16. To a teenager, the license to operate a motor vehicle offers, for the first time in life, the option to go wherever one wants, whenever one wants, however the fuck one wants to go there. If any feeling encapsulates The American Dream, this might be it.

Many of us carry this sense of vehicular entitlement into adulthood. Despite receiving tickets, enduring accidents and going into debt paying for scheduled and unscheduled maintenance, we cherish and nurture the idea that we own the road. “Screw those highway fatality statistics,” we tell ourselves as we careen into the left-hand lane, writing a text while abruptly stopping in front of a line of traffic behind us. “I want a burger.”

We think we can control things. We make goals, set deadlines, plan, execute, overachieve and triumph. And then a mini-van comes smashing into our rear bumper, pushing us out into oncoming traffic, right in front of the goddamn Burger King.

I wrote “Touch of Mascara” when I was 22 years old. Originally, it was intended for Trisha Yearwood, the country singer. At some point I realized that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of her ever recording it. Awash in disappointment, I came to the conclusion that, although there were plenty of macho ruminations about The Great American Road, very few dudes had sung about the highway and the application of cosmetics. I thought I could corner the market. This was well before the appearance of the hit television series, ‘Queer Eye For The Straight Guy.’

Dudes' Facebook Chat, September 22

5:31pm
W: how do I get dudes. just a quick answer. pls.

D: NOv. 15 it's everywhere. Dude.

W: awesome can't wait. 2 sentence description?

D: "Music worth getting sued over." Right up your alley, Esquire.

W: that's 1 sentence.

D: "Music worth getting sued over, spat upon and licked like a kitten. Like a shaved kitten, that is."

W: sweet that shit is usually my JAMZ!

D: I knew you'd be down.

W: you know it brosef, I've been outta the loop working two jobs to try and save up for school for the past year and a half so I was bummed that I missed out on all the DUDEs hype and kickstarter.
just started seeing info. about it when school started and I was spending more time around computer.

D: that's what they all say. brosef, that's strong

W: listen here scooter britches me and the ol' lady is up to our eye-balls in babies and I had to do something quick so I had to get a couple of jobs that were awful.
in addition to the job that I kinda liked.

D: sweet jesus you are fertile bunch. I applaud your move towards the decent life. and more ginger offspring.

W: thank you, I've always been interested in law and if I felt like music could support my family even just pay the bills I'd still be doing it.

D: tell you what, i'll trade you a copy of dudes for one of them carrot children.

W: done and done.

D: sweet. can ya'll fedex that shit?

W: actually we only have one ginger but we might have another one cooking we'll know in a cupla months.

I just opened the door and put a brown bag in his hand and pointed him the direction of Nashville.

Tell you what he'd probably appreciate it if you met him half way.

D: Tell him there's a good titty bar on the west side of knoxville...

W: he's already crying...sweet moses...that's gonna be a looooonnnng walk.

D: I can be there in a day or so

W: contact I can call at the titty bar? he's got his name pinned to his shirt.

D: Mona 347-666-PONG

W: perfect. there's no holes in this one its air-tite. Listen you don't feel the need to put the hurry up on the disc. I know yer good for it.

D:10-4.

W: peace. Oh...WAIT! did t-swif call yet?

D: 23 goddamn times. think it means anything?

W: as your lawyer Imma tell you DON"T answer her calls. Text her these words: "paper. you get the song when I get my paper."
she's industry savvy she'll know what it means.

D: sounds air-tite. You know what that means.

W: I don't.

D: Aaaiiight picklenuts I gotta dash off a piece about that very thing for AMerican Songwriter

W: for the mag?

D:this has been damn enjoyable
yeah the mag

W: What's the best way for me to keep in touch?
as far as what you're up to?

D: Imma bout to release a holy onslaught of shit that will be impossible to ignore
you got my everything, hit me up whenever you feel blue
and thanks

W: I don't get blue. Imma future lawyer I just clip coupons and smile dawg.
lates.

D: over and outs

W: peace.

Whoa Whoa

Woah

Key West, Remembered

The Key Wester

THE KEY WESTER

I spend about six weeks a year in Key West playing in a cover band with my friends. Breakfast is a very important meal in the Conch Republic; I have found that it can make or break the entire day. The trick is to get just enough protein to supply the long, slow kind of heat-resistant energy that the day will undoubtedly require, but not so much that you feel pinned to the couch, compelled by nature to watch yet another episode of "Law and Order: SVU." Additionally, you need a little bit of carbohydrate to help massage the protein through your digestive system, to add that touch of pizazz without leaving your belly feeling bloated and tragic. After much trial and error, I feel I have arrived at the perfect Key West breakfast solution.

Imaginatively, I call this thing THE KEY WESTER. It’s calorie-to-protein ratio is about as good as you can get while still actually calling something breakfast, and it’s goddamn tasty, to boot. Try it our for yourself at home or on your next foray to the islands:

Ingredients

2 eggs
2 pieces of Udi’s gluten-free white bread (it’s like having bread without getting that super-full bloated feeling)
2 slices of cheddar cheese
2 slices of organic turkey (yeah, get organic and make sure it doesn’t have any bullshit ‘filler’ in it. Trust me, it’s worth it.)
2 tsp. olive or favorite nut oil
Bragg’s Organic Sprinkle seasoning

The Process

Pour 2 tsp. oil into medium sauté pan. Bring oil to medium-hot heat. Crack two eggs into pan, close together but not quite touching. With spatula, gather whites into shape roughly equivalent to square inchage of toast before whites solidify too much. Leave to sizzle for a moment.

Drop two pieces of bread into toaster set to medium. Toast.

Set a medium-sized plate, the one from which you shall dine, on the counter.

Remove cheddar slices from packaging, leave on plate. Remove slices of turkey from packaging, leave on plate. Return both packages to refrigerator. Take a moment to insure that you have either disposed of egg shells or given them to the dog. (Egg shells are great for animals’ calcium.)

Flip eggs in sauté pan, taking care to not splash any oil. That shirt cost $12.99, for god's sake. With the corner of the spatula, poke two small holes in each yolk. This allows the yolk to spread a bit within the confines of the rapidly-solidifying egg, saving you from future mouth pain. There is nothing worse than having hot lava-like liquid yolk spray the inside of your mouth as you bite into the Key Wester. Be sure that yolk is mushy-to-hard.

Place slices of cheddar over each egg. Melt for one minute.

Place pieces of toast (they should be done by now) on plate. Flip egg/cheese combinations onto toast (cheese side down). Scrunch slices of turkey on top of eggs. Sprinkle with Bragg’s seasoning.

Serve hot with a cup of unfiltered apple juice. Best consumed with knife and fork but hands are fine if you don’t mind a touch of mess.

The Categorization of Days

Some days just don’t fit into a category or a to-do list or a goal-accomplishment metric. No, they don’t. Some days you just wake up and wonder, hmmm, what the fuck? Time’s a wasting here, what am I doing about it? I’m 37 years old, maybe halfway done, where’s the old carpe diem? Some days it takes so much strength to not dial up more Law and Order episodes on the Netflix that there is little gusto left to accomplish anything else except, possibly, throwing down some wandering language about that very fact.

This morning I passed Spady and his killer Scottish Terrier on the Belmont Blvd. dog walking circuit. He’s apparently 25 chapters into a novel. I wonder about Spady. He kind of reminds me of the Key West dudes, the tiny Hemingways who seem to have surrendered to the pointlessness of it all and are more than content to be carried along on the whims of existence. Experiencing his presence in Nashville is akin to witnessing a dried starfish washed up at the entrance of the Whole Foods Market. Anyway, Spady told me the plot of this book when I saw him out a month ago. Not much about it sticks with me except some allegory relating to numerology and a murder… it all gets hazy in the early-Summer humidity.

Doesn’t it, though? This document can stand as a testimony to the scatteredness of it all. Some days the Universe finds it goddamn funny to pour a vat of molasses straight into your skull and watch you stumble around the house in a sorghum daze, thinking one thing whilst doing something completely different, like trying to come up with a two-letter word that begins with ‘C’ as you take what will hopefully be the first of several dumps today. There is no two-letter word that begins with ‘C,’ you remind yourself, just as there is no particular dietary regimen that will guarantee more than one dump per day at the age of 37.

Men, I tell you. Let’s ponder the endless derogatory remarks made by women about men in certain comedic entertainments these days. If they could only peer into the gooey brains of the species itself… my goodness, the thoughts that men actually have about men. Like women, we are constantly comparing, and perhaps in not too different of a manner. Take Spady vs. Me. I don’t really have any particular desire to beat or one-up Spady in any specific area, but I can’t pass the motherfucker on the street on a perfectly good Wednesday morning without wondering whether or not my life is measuring up to his by some indeterminate scale of which I have little comprehension or mastery of. 25 chapters into a novel? Really? I have nothing to compare to that, in my mind, and here’s why: I feel completely unable to focus on anything that requires the dedication and commitment a novel demands. I have been focused on things that last for three-and-a-half minutes for quite awhile now, as well as the means by which to foist them upon the world, which are probably best suited to people who with even shorter attention spans than three-and-a-half minutes.

Meanwhile, I have male friends whose marriages are falling apart. The dark hours of abandonment and disappointment these folk are currently experiencing crush my piddling piddliness with an iron fist. They are being drawn towards real man-child moments, those seething encounters with the ego that find a dude waving a fist at life one moment and curling up in a corner like a baby the next. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Ernest… just please make it go away and I promise to either beat it so far into submission or nurture it like a lost kitten, if only to prove a point.

Years ago I was motoring around Bristol, England with my radio promotions guy. We crested a hill in the city and were greeted with the site of hundreds of students sunning themselves on a lawn that sloped down towards the city center. A lawn, that glowing, illuminated green that only occurs when the sun comes out on certain days in England, setting the grass pulsing, aglow with all the stored-up chlorophyll generated by days and days of endless moisture.

Neil (the radio guy) and I had been riding around for days at this point, hopping from station to station, plying my new single. Neil was eternally sparky and blissful, always happy to be doing his job, to be cresting another hill in another city. I was depressed, completely absorbed in the slightly confusing process of attempting to gain acceptance at radio stations and with the British public in general. Had there been a forest, I would not have been able to see it for the crab apple trees. Truly, there was nothing but grass, centuries-old buildings everywhere and young, nubile people relaxing and enjoying themselves. The moment escaped me. I imagine I was wondering how long it would be until we could stop off for our afternoon pints.

Today I have a yard that is in desperate need of cutting and flower beds that could be weeded but should probably just be completely dug up and begun again. I have what feels like an endless list of administrative tasks to do, most of which seem daunting and mindless. I am writing from the confines of the nicest house I have ever lived in, one that needs some attention here and there but is remarkably perfect. Yes, something is telling me that I am, once again, missing a great moment here, but I feel incapable of reaching out and grabbing. Recent experience has taught me that taking small steps towards the goal is the best way to proceed. I suppose that this little missive is the first one of these. However, I am still thinking of Law and Order: SVU and wondering how they will solve the next hideous crime they are faced with. I would still very much like to get through at least one computer Scrabble match. Neither of these tasks would involve engagement with the world on any level and would, I fear, only draw me a little further into a particular hole.

And thinking back on what seems to have been written so far here I am taken with how completely self-absorbed it all is, how I will never care to read it again and how it probably serves no purpose whatsoever. About how Social Media, the most tempting outlet for these labors, would actually accept this load of hooey with open arms as something worth sharing, having contemplated and commented upon. I just can’t get with the ide of airing these thoughts for consumption. We really have to rise above the idea that this crap is worthy of sharing with each other. That is the problem with art today, I believe; we have become utterly convinced that these type of musings constitute a relationship with an audience, an interaction when, in fact, these kind of musings are exactly the shit that we should keep to ourselves, the grist that will (hopefully) propel us to creating something higher, something infinitely more useful, for our compatriots in existence to chew on and to share.

Did someone mention breakfast? Since moving in with Liz three years ago, I have become infinitely more attuned to the needs and goings-on of my body. I know that part of the issue with getting this day going is merely the fact that I have given myself nothing to work with on a cellular level besides caffeine and nicotine. I need protein mixed with just the right amount of carbohydrate to achieve a roper balance that might assist in seeing things in just the right light. That solidity that sets in after a couple of eggs or even a fat dose of almond butter. Meat is a possibility but some days you just don’t feel like thinking through the reality of the death, the slaughter of innocents, the very real possibility that you could just as easily be eating the dog you were so tenderly walking only hours ago. Goddamn meat. Why are you so tasty and wrong.

Our friend Emily Leonard is a startlingly good artist. She gave us a gorgeous print for our wedding, a gorgeous print that I have yet to have framed. A plane of happiness that currently sits furled up on a bookshelf, its joys hidden from me. It is a painting of a forest, oddly enough, one rendered impressionistically enough so that there is not really a hard option of actually seeing individual trees so well. It’s like the perfect existential rendering of woodlands. Just merge with it, don’t let the small stuff get you down. Asshole.

One of my favorite avoidance pastimes is reading The New Yorker. I don’t recall at what point in my life this magazine took hold of me, but goddamn it, it did. Its promise of weekly sophistication and high-mindedness has driven me toward of number of unrealized ambitions, such as being an eminently cool musician, a well-regarded writer, a long-time resident of New York City. All things I have touched upon at various junctures in life, none of which I would say that I have ever really achieved. But the New Yorker still comes every week, still promises and idealized frame of mind that seems achievable somehow. I don’t know why, anymore. I have finally reached a stage in life where I feel comfortable not reading every goddamn word of it; yes, I am now capable of skipping ahead after reading a few paragraphs of the 15,000 word piece on Ugandan sheep hymens without feeling as if I am cheating myself out of some seriously necessary life knowledge… or merely not getting my money’s worth. It’s a step.

I am beginning to question my newfound allegiance to the IPhone. I waited ages until my Verizon contract was up last October to jump on board but, once I did, I was shocked by how it immediately influenced my life. Everything seemed to get infinitely more organized and categorical: blobs of unintelligible ambition aligning themselves into brightly-colored squares on my ICal, legions of unforeseen needs suddenly met by the acquisition of another smartly-programmed app, badly-written emails from other IPhones instantly replied to with my own badly-written email.

But in recent weeks I have begun to wonder if all it has, ultimately, been for naught. If all these perfectly-scheduled new events (with reminders) are actually getting me anywhere or merely serving to fill up all of that undefined white space on my calendar. If these apps that get used maybe once a month are really just filler to camouflage the Scrabble and FIFA 11 games that get most of the action. If those badly-written emails are just going out into the universe attracting more half-baked thoughts and ideas.

I love to look at the IPhone. It brings me pleasure. I won’t be getting rid of it anytime soon; the transition would be way too much of a pain in the ass. Nothing is really that big of a deal, anyway. This I should know by now. All things get done eventually, just don’t get too stupid about it. Right now babies are being born, children are starving, divorce papers are being served. Life is coming to a series of very hard and immediate conclusions, whether I am paying attention or not. You can’t get an app for that shit, no way.

Tune Yards

WOW. Now this is interesting: http://youtu.be/_wjrmjvfsa8

Where did she come from? Where is she going?

Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee

I finally found this today. I love Bill DeMain and his pickin,' and I think the guys in Indianapolis did a fine job of capturing us in pretty good form.
Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee

More Photo History

I Got An IPhone. Finally.

Sorry I have not posted for so long. Here is a photographic look, in three parts, through some highlights of the last two months:

"The Happiest Day"

Another sunshiney jingle for this unbelievably gorgeous day:

"சுன்றிசே"

Wow! No idea what is happening in the title of this but it is pretty cool and entirely unintentional. Cyrillic? Five bucks and a box of Jelly Belly's to the first person to figure it out.

Anyway, I just wanted to post another jingle called "Sunrise" from the Vitamin D collection. I think it would be good for a Folger's ad. Or maybe Trojan? Lemme know what you think.

Opinions

(Ed. Note: I write a bi-monthly column for American Songwriter magazine about independent music called "Under The Radar." The following will, hopefully, appear in the next issue.)

UNDER THE RADAR

By David Mead

We are happy to report that, after two years plagued by complaints from concerned neighbors and Democrats, the UTR staff’s annual Spring Bunny Fry-Up went down without a hitch this year. Afterwards, suitably chuffed and covered in rabbit remnants, we hungrily sat down at our Remington’s and got down to the business of reviewing us some records. The gamey taste on our lips had us in the mood to be pushed around a little; we required immediacy, a few aural quickies, some serious jiggery-poo. It was not to be. All of the music was charming in a slow-burn, when-can-I-meet-your-family sort of way, but none of the discs were really grabbing us by the throat.

Thankfully, during an extended visit to the Gents, I happened to notice the new Ghostkeeper album, seemingly abandoned in the magazine basket. An hour later, I was seated at my desk, positively GROOVING to the fresh cassette dub that our tech guy had just handed me.

“Who left this in the crapper?” I screamed. “I LOVE THIS!” I turned it up until the speakers on my Panasonic boom box distorted.

“I KNOW,” said Kenny, hopping up and down on one foot. “It’s like the Velvets meets Grandmaster Flash meets…”

“Shut Up!” I smacked him across the cheek. “It’s like Dylan doing Black Betty’s with the Hell’s Angels. You moron!” I frantically shuffled papers on my desk, looking for the press release. “Damn it… what’s the name of the album?”

“It’s self-titled. Eponymous (Flemish Eye).”

“DAMN IT!” I was scattering papers left and right, looking for any information on the band. “Where are they from?”

“Canada. Alberta, Canada,” said Kenny. I looked at him and noticed a string of rabbit meat stuck between his third and fourth incisors.

“Well, that figures.” I was suddenly exhausted. I slumped into my chair and let my mouth hang open for a few seconds. “Fine. Let’s make them famous.”

“Let’s!” Kenny hopped off in the direction of the candy machine.

This month’s winner in the Conceptualization category was a no-brainer: Bradenton, Florida’s very own Have Gun, Will Travel. Their handsome sophomore effort, Postcards From The Friendly City (Suburban Home) is almost as notable for its ingenious design and packaging as its organic, infectious brand of Americana Pop. We here at UTR are big fans of bands that claim their hometowns with pride and, like the finest local produce, HGWT’s music has a refreshing immediacy to it that can only come from a innate connection with its native environment. Like a Sunshine State-sanctioned answer to New York’s Fountains of Wayne, the band expertly canonizes the displacement of suburban existence on such gems as “Land Of The Living” (We belong to the land of the living/ but we don’t live there anymore) and conjures up a disturbingly cheery dystopia in “Maritime Rag” and the aching “Salad Days.” And, really, in these days of managed expectations and digital-only releases, not enough can be said about the great lyric insert in the album package, cleverly reproduced to look like a folded miniature copy of the Bradenton Chronicle from 1955. Excellent work, fellows.

Finally, let’s not forget the fine forthcoming effort from Snow & Voices, Anything That Moves (Electric Ruby). This is the sort of record for which the “warm, ethereal and ambient” modifier would be tempting to use, but there is something inherently edgier here that reminds us of the more interesting and unpredictable aunts of the Lilith’s; Maria McKee, Johnette Napolitano, ‘Til Tuesday, The Hotels. There is no yogic serenity in vocalist Lori Kranz’s fragile state of mind. She sounds like she’s singing beautifully because beauty is the last thing she’s got. And we believe her.

"We Are The Sunshine"

Another sunshine jingle for a commercial, please to like:

"Let Your Sun Shine Out"

I'm currently over at the Bug Music studios on Music Row in the 'Ville, putting vocals on some of the sun songs. Earlier I was writing lyrics for a new one and found myself short of sun verbs. I Googled "sun poetry"to see if anyone had a few I could borrow and came across this jewel by allan james saywell:

"Here Come The Sun"

Sun, Sun, Sun, here it come
The dark becomes light, why?
Because Sun, Sun, Sun, here it come
Sun, Sun, Sun, here it come
At the end of the night
The light is bright, Sun, Sun, Sun
Here it come,
Here come the Sun


I was tempted to just throw in the towel. My flowery language will never hold a candle to shit of this magnitude. If you, like me, need more saywell in your life you can find it here.

And if you require a humble soundtrack for the experience, here's another freshie from Vitamin D called "Let Your Sun Shine Out:"

Well, damn it. My MP3 player is not happening but I don't have time to mess with it at the moment. Will post this afternoon, all apologies.

"On A Sunny Day"

As promised, "On A Sunny Day," the first selection from the forthcoming album for advertisements, Vitamin D:


(By the way, I found this little player here http://www.blogcastone.net/player.php just in case anyone else is looking for one.)

A Different Sherrie

Last night, in an exceptionally odd instance of life imitating art imitating life, I was introduced to a girl who appeared to be of Persian decent.

"David, this is Sherrie."

"Hi Sherrie, it's nice..."

"Oh, I know you, " she said. "You went to David Lipscomb, right?" She said, referring to my sinister alma mater.

"Oh yeah! Sherrie -----..." I remembered a warm Summer evening, a year or two after high school. I had run into her at a friend's house. After several-to-many beers, we ended up in a bedroom together. It was one of those moments in which you assume you are inspiring the tender loss of innocence but, years later, realize that you were merely developing into another set of bad habits.

Smiling, I leaned in to embrace her.

"Oh! No, I'm Sherrie ------."

Which led to an altogether awkward scene that can more eaily be imagined than described. The even stranger thing about all of it was that my good friend Daniel Tashian had once had the exact same experience with the same two women (incriminating circumstance need only be supposed, not assumed). He actually wrote a song about it, a fine version of which was eventually recorded by his band, The Silver Seas. I was fully prepared to provide you with a link for streaming but cannot locate it anywhere.

Don't Be Afraid

When I was three, my mother took me to various coffee houses around Atlanta to watch her and her friend Patricia perform. They both played acoustic guitars and sang in excellent harmony. I admired them from the audience, usually posted up at the table of one kind stranger or another. It was odd and thrilling to be in a dark performance space with music.

Soon I knew most of their songs by heart; I had not yet learned to read and my memory was unbelievably uncluttered and accurate. All of the songs were of the gospel and inspirational variety and my mother and Patricia were very convincing in their performance. I remember one in particular entitled, "Rattle Me, Shake Me," a song about a girl who is suspected by various authority figures of being under the influence of one narcotic or another but, in fact, is merely high because 'she got the spirit inside.' Another favorite of mine was "Be Still And Know," a directive from God himself to 'stop runnin' through the streets and alleys of your mind, for all your hurried, worried runnin' only makes you more blind.'

It seems important to note that all of these songs were delivered in a very relaxed manner more Judy Collins than Jerry Falwell. Mom and Patricia were not of the hellfire variety of Christian entertainer that so often seems to get the headlines. They were the evangelical mirror of Joni Mitchell, Linda Rondstadt and Juice Newton. They probably got hit on after the shows. It was the mid-70's. There was a real electricity to the performances, the hormonal angst of twenty and thirty something people of the opposite sex stuffed into a room with no options available besides coffee sipping and bible verse quotation. People yearning to burst out, to get their game on, stuck having to squeeze their ambitions into tiny little messianic packages to be thrown at the wall and hoped for. It was very rock and roll.

After the shows I ran around the adjacent bookstore, or church sanctuary, or whatever institution's activities supported the coffee house. Sometimes I walked on the stage and strummed my mom's guitar while she talked to other adults. She taught me how to pack it up. It was too heavy for me to carry.