12th Night : "Forces of Nature"

Every night when I watch Audra McDonald and Anne Hathaway play together through a swarm of bugs, I remember what Lucas Papaelias told me about his time doing Romeo and Juliet 2 summers ago: “Being in the band for Shakespeare In The Park is the best job. Those actors will go through hell being outside. You get to sit and watch it."

Last night was the first night that everyone in the show felt the bells ringing. Even the bugs gave their best performance yet. Entering at the end of Act 1 Scene 5, they clearly had their choreography together, sending to the stage a fraction of the numbers that have flown around the actors on previous nights. In the moment when love overtakes Olivia, they formed a perfect dazzling thought bubble in the air around her.

Perhaps Mimi Lieber our choreographer had worked with the bugs on their moves earlier in the day or perhaps after showboating for the past week, the bugs finally decided to leave their egos backstage and be a part of the ensemble. But I suspect they finally realized they are no match for the force of nature that is Audra McDonald...

It's the final moments of the same scene on Tuesday night. Olivia gives Malvolio the ring and sends him off after Cesario. Then Audra McDonald turns strongly to give the audience the totality of Olivia's feelings in her final lines.

"I do not know what - " she starts, her eyes wide with the wonder of love. Her next inhale perfectly takes in an air born marauder.

There is a most dramatic pause. Olivia's face hardens and her eyes dart to the ground. In the instant, you can see Olivia confronting an uncontrollable wave of anguish following the love that's just bloomed in her. With yellow flower in hand and watering eyes, you can feel Olivia, terrified, asking her brother if it is okay to proceed towards the possibility of new life before her. She is stiff, still, holding herself together, and you imagine that Olivia's time of mourning has now reached it's end.

You can experience these things most completely if you do not think of the bug that presently wanders the rich interior of Audra's golden throat. Like a tourist at Notre Dame Cathederal, I imagine it tiptoeing around, appreciating the warm acoustics, taking pictures and calling home to say, "Guess where I am!"

Then Audra McDonald as Olivia swallows hard. She continues, eyes still to the ground.

"-and...fear to find...Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind"

I marvel at the display of focus and control it must take to deliver these lines while suppressing a gag reflex. The effect gives Olivia an angry truth, placing her thoughts even more within the shadow of loss.

At this instant, I become aware of the Hem score which will come up in a few seconds to transition the scene. It's a bright and uplifting melody that perfectly suggests a progression out of melancholy. So no matter what the dramatic possibilities might be for Audra to end the scene within her present painful response to love, she knows we're headed to happy land. Audra, the amazing actress and singer that she is, knows this.

"Fate, " she says, a harsh address, "Show thy force".

...Olivia, tired of mourning has grown impatient, and speaking to fate as she might a servant. But then her body relaxes. A greater, natural sense seeming to overcome her.

"Ourselves we do not owe," says Olivia roughly, but with her head now raised, her eyes returning to search the bright places in the distance before her.

"What is decreed must be -" A brilliant musical note rings within the word "Be" and cuts though the humid air. Audra and Olivia are singing again.

"And be this so!"

The music comes in, perfectly in synch with the world thanks to the timing and rhythm and tone of Olivia's last words. And Audra McDonald as Olivia exits the Delacorte stage as she does most every night...to great applause.

12th Night : "Rain Delay, Part 1"

It’s raining in Bushwick an hour before I have to leave for rehearsal. I am never sure about the weather, but from the outset, this looks to be the worst day of weather for our play since previews started last week. I don my Kentucky Colonel rain jacket and head for the train, forgetting for ½ a block to check if my backpack is open. It is unzipped, proud rain drops chilling in the firewire ports of my laptop.

So far we have had two nights when our performance has been delayed for rain. The first rain delay occurred on the night of our second show, moments after Andrew Aguecheek’s arrival in Act 1 scene 3. As he and Toby Belch spilled their drink following Maria’s exit, the voice of Stage Manager Steve Kaus came over the "God mic" to interrupt the scene.

"We are going to pause for precipitation," Kaus says, asking the audience to bear with us.

The announcement of the delay is met with discernable laughter from the audience. On my way back to our dressing rooms, a woman walking behind me says, “Pause for precipitation! That’s the funniest thing I ever heard!” I can’t tell if she is leaving or going to the wine vendor.

Once the ensemble is backstage and dry, Kaus comes over our in-house speaker, this time asking us to bear with stage management. “Once the weather clears and we clean the stage, we will return and pick up from Cup of Canary, Cup of Canary.” The protocol for returning from a rain delay is to pick up at the previous beat or from the top of the scene, whichever makes the most sense.

The rain stops. Johanna, Brian, Maggie and Buzz hit the stage with squeegees and wring the set as dry as they can while the sky continues to spit. Backstage Kaus asks us to take our places to reenter for “Cup of Canary, Cup of Canary”.

Waiting on the wheelchair ramp for our cue from Buzz, we hear Kaus over the God mic once more requesting that the people in the audience close their umbrellas. Down go the beaten colorful things to reveal faces that pucker in anticipation of the raindrops that quickly hit them.

Buzz says “Standing by” and leans into her earpiece for the message that comes over her headset. Then she nods a pleased co-conspirators smile and says, “Ah, you may go.”

The band return to the stage to deep and gracious applause befitting a baseball game or rock concert. I want to applaud back. Hell yes - we are doing this. Then Hamish and Jay come back out to even greater applause. Andrew and Toby drink their second cup of canary and things roll proudly forward.

Steve “Tally” Curtis leans over his guitar and says, “The audience looks bigger.” I look around and take a deep breath. During the delay, people moved down to take the empty seats closer to the stage, heating the area around us. I am awed feeling the will of the audience, cast, and crew to make the night happen. It cuts through any and all bullshit. This is it. The collaboration. Make the space for it to happen, and with nature's mercy it may be so.

12th Night : "Parade"

Somewhere past the turtle pond and behind the castle, the thundering rhythms of the Puerto Rican Day Parade - it's deep bass rumble soaked in the sound of yelling and cheering so steady and strong that it seems like a recording. You feel the sound emotionally whether you acknowledge it or not - a whole people are gathered close by, shaking their skin from their bones. Puerto Rico has gone for a walk today and Puerto Rico is very excited. I decide that for this year, imagining the parade through the sound it makes will be better than seeing it. Next year I will seek out Boricua weekend first hand. This year I'm sitting on the edge of stage of the Delacorte Theater rehearsing.

Onstage the ensemble members involved in the finale dance are storming through their new and improved choreography. They cook in wet sunlight and keep time with the recorded portion of Hem's song, "The Rain it Raineth", the title of which I imagine Hem might have thought twice about in a band meeting: Steve pipes up from behind his coffee “Uh, guys, what can we do with this? I just wonder if ‘raineth’ really our best option here? Anyone have a Thesaurus?” Then Gary drops his fist on the top of the piano making the meteronome fall in Dan’s lap. “Dude, these are Shakespeare’s words you’re talking about. You don’t fuck with the Shakespeare!”

The band is called onstage to add our parts. I grab my bodhran, my tipper, and my shaker and meet Steve, Leslie, Andrew and Chris at the top of the fantastic stage-crafted hill. Chris and I have monitors that we wear in one ear to make sure that the live band stays in time with Hem’s orchestrations. Except for a technical glitch on the first night where the volume of my earpiece was compromised and the audience, dancers and band played the whole finale a half beat off, we've had no problems. From our present position onstage the thunder of the parade through the trees is actually giving the recorded track a run for it's audible money.

"The Puerto Rican Day Parade is the best parade in the city," Christopher says. "Much better than the St. Patricks Day Parade." These are serious words coming from a man with bagpipes. "So boring," he continues. I tell him that by comparison to what we are hearing, I can easily imagine St.Pats Day as far less fun. No pulse to dance to, boring colors. "Plus, they don't let in gays," Chris adds. Well, there you go. 

Unreal

Tim called today to tell me that the Bill Gates Foundation came by his Salvation Army outpost on Saturday with a glistening new tractor trailer decorated and filled with computers to give away to needy foundations. Tim and I have been biting our nails trying to get internet into his kitchen for our COHR streams - I immediately identified with how cool this could be. 

"They were all set to give us computers and then they told us that they wanted to wait until Monday so they could get better press," Tim said. The SA director in charge of this matter is a young 25 year old guy who was hyperventilating all weekend preparing for today's visit and the press conference that he would have to participate in. 

But the Gates Foundation never came back. No calls, no nothing.

"They must have found someone else to give the computers to," Tim said, an audible smile in his words. The total absurdity of the whole scam. 

I have noticed that when you commit to things the way one does when working for Salvation Army, you develop a sense for savoring the ridiculous that plays out as you try, by any means made possible, to do your work with what the world can give you. People value so much the idea of charity that the government created whole new tax laws to inspire big businesses to buy big busses, load them with computers, and go around looking for all the free press and tax write-offs they can get. Maybe Bill Gates Foundation deserves a better shake than this, but prioritizing their effort based on media coverage makes them open for the shot: Douches! Every rock star has long since known the best press is NEWS! You reach more people and its free. Just ask all the new pr firms popping up that specialize in benefit operations and non-profit operations. 

Even Kind Monitor got some juice out of an idea of making a benefit cd where they decided afterwards (by asking the artists) what organizations to give money to. 

I'm gonna knock my balls around the chinashop here for a minute more ...Tim and I have had many discussions about the ideas of non-profit work. I think that soon the matter is going to have to be held in different regard. Non-profit is, or was, the 8th largest economy in the world. And it is highly unregulated. It has been a haven for people who have abuse tax laws, but it is also a choice for people looking to be creative in their business structuring, a viable means to an end. The problem is that the title "Not for profit" suggests a kind of benevolence, as if the NFP business got certified as official do-gooders and are therefore to be trusted. You're then not just playing with people's money, you are playing with their trust.

In planning Motherlodge, the theater people I spoke with took it as a foregone conclusion that I was or would soon be a non-profit. And no wonder! We would not have what meager theater there is in this world if not for people using the non-profit fundmaking to support their program. No harm in that, but I have to say I am interested in seeing what comes from the independent theater once the effects of the funding dry-up pulls the financial carpet out from under and we see who still can't stop writing, producing, and performing. 

Makes me think of Mike's lyric in "Unreal"

"It's so thoughtful when billionaires are philanthropic

our cultrual landscape might wither and die if not for their help"

I lit a candle so I can fart to the darkness, and this soap box won't be a polarized position. If non-profit big money funding can make possible something as incredible as Shakespeare in Central Park, it won't be hard to get me to kneel before the concept from time to time. I have no axe to grind, really, except with pompous bullshit. I am just curious why a benevolent for-profit business that works to break even don't get the same respect as a lazily conceived concept waiving a 501(C) banner? This is a casualty of unexamined anti-capitalist feelings and an easily abused system called Not For Profit. 

What are we saying about the value of building community when businesses labeled as "community building" are non-profit? I don't know about how it works in Peoria or Illyria, but in Bushwick, a little profit can build community just fine. I guess it just doesn't seem as trust(news)worthy. 

Night off, nearly.

I'm exhausted but I know I'm going to wake with my heart pounding.  I finally sent the last Motherlodge press e-mail with the full schedule today....now I get to turn and see the stacked-up pile of "need to's" that has been sitting next to me while I was down that rabbit hole. 

Like, "need to be all lovin' with my lay-day"...

Hay hay.

A quick list:

1) next year, take into account SxSW when sending press stuff. Too many out of office replies today...

2) Make packing list - clothes...taxes for Dad..band equipment...merch...uh....

3) Call the performers and say hello. 

4) Now that I got a social security card, get a photo i.d. 

5) Facebook my brother.

6) Birthday invitations for Dad's dinner next week.

7) Send Chef Tim his DVD so he can prepare for his CNN interview on the 28th.

8) Sip bourbon. 

9) Have sex with cat.

10) Surf porn, erase history.

11) Beg every human I know to come to Motherlodge Louisville.

...I met with David Van Asselt today from Rattlestick Theatre on Waverly. We talked for 10 minutes about getting together with Scott Morfee at Barrow Street and laying plans for Motherlodge West Village in January 2009. When I texted Bob this news he texted back, "God spoke to you on the vernal equinox and declared you a New Yorker for the indefinite future. And an artistic direc"[cut]  

Does that go in the bio? 

I know, but...

It's hard to explain, but some of the ideas that I couldn't get together for this Motherlodge were not necessarily time consuming. Some of them are a matter of a phone call. But they are, as I often say, "one call too many" - if I numbered the great suggestions I've got and then considered how easy they would have been if the person suggesting them had started with, "How bout I do this for you..." what a change that could have made. 

I dunno. Maybe I'm blowing it up because I am someone who from being so over extended all the time can easily spot someone who is too consumed to ask for help. These are the people upon whom it's easy to try out one's generosity and helpfulness. "What can I do", I'll ask them (like so many people have asked me lately) even when I know that they are too overwhelmed to know where to begin in answering. So I feel like I offered, and don't have t sweat being expected to follow through. 

Here's my list for anyone who is reading this and has good follow through ...

We need a morning show! Terry Meiners, WHAS!

We need posters to go up for Taylor Mac and our opening concert on March 29th.

We need big audiences!!! (If for no other reason than because it makes it more fun. But there are other reasons as well...)

Today I planned the last Motherlodge event. It will be a panel discussion about ideas of profit and not for profit with regard to artists getting funding, making a living, and having freedom to do so. I don't know if it will be a discussion open to the public or just something we broadcast on our soon-to-be network channel. But 3 speakers are confirmed: me, Julia, and a puppet.

  

Curation Creation Motherblog Paddy Day

If you were a flower bud in the ground, how would you know the count of your pedals or even what color they'd be before you bloomed? If you were  bacteria in a skin pore on the nose of a 13 year old, how could you predict what you'd come to look like in the mirror until you became a zit?

These are the kind of wise rhetorical questions my attempts for complete understanding of Motherlodge have brought me. Every once in a while I'll have a moment of "Oh, so this is what it is going to be!" Sometimes the realization catches me off guard. Other times, it's the incarnation of my earliest hopes for what could happen.

Yesterday, mogulus.com contacted me and they are very excited to partner with Motherlodge in time for Motherlodge Louisville. So one of my very earliest ideas for Motherlodge - a network channel for the greater creative community around me - is going to happen.

Then, today, Mark Langley of Clifton's Pizza called me to tell me that after many years and numerous attempts, the kitchen crew at Cliftons finally has a bona fide cover band. "We're playing our first paid gig this weekend at Longshot Tavern". Motherlodge on March 30th after Less the band will be their second. (Now if only I could get them on a double bill with Chef Tim Tucker's Shelby Park Soul Stew... ahh - next Motherlodge.) 

The Clifton's Kitchen Band settled some questions for me regarding what I have been up to with Motherlodge. (Aside from upturning the schedules of my friends and risking complete financial ruin for my family.) What I'm doing is multi-tasking, but that's hardly news - I've been multi tasking since I learned to suck a nipple and shake a rattle - it's the tasks themselves that have been hard to identify. Now, a nearly fresh realization of what I have been up to...

1) creating Motherlodge, but also, especially for this first Motherlodge Louisville, I have been 2) curating Motherlodge Louisville. 

People like to throw titles around as if it says something about themselves that they need to convince other people of. I tend to come from the other direction hoping that the work will make it obvious, but that's not always been the sanest approach and here lately, I've learned that a fair grasp on naming your tasks helps everyone understand what's going on. I sent an e-mail to everyone who appears to be on the Motherlodge team to write me back with descriptions of what they are doing. I had failed to respond up to this point. This seems like a good place to start: I'm creating. I'm managing/producing. And I'm curating.  

From Sunday's  Opening concert at Salvation Army to Molly Rice's Saints Tour.... Taylor Mac and A Boy Called Noise....Lady Rizo and Big Diggity....live theater in Ear Xtacy records....Joe Hanna, Tom, and Opus Ditty's children's concert....RONNIE DORSEY (you will have to meet her to understand) and Adam Rapp having a week to do everything he does except maybe a game of basketball (next Motherlodge, Adam!)....no one could be more pleased by the universe that is coming together than me. And having Less the band and Clifton's Kitchen Band share a bill takes the cake.  (That one kind of curated itself.)

Every exciting new understanding of the mechanics of Motherlodge comes joyfully with a task to mark for the not too distant future...CURATORS for the next Motherlodges!

skeleton of an invisible man

Adam texted at 3:30 that he couldn't make 4:00 rehearsal. He was pissed, but two conference calls with HBO "came up". I texted him back asking him to make sure HBO had my new number and proceeded to Dumbo where our already skeleton-crewed Less rehearsal was down to Rob and I. 

I've been tired of playing drums so I pulled out the Guild and found a space in which to maneuver with some ideas Rob had. At the end of our second burst of energy, I started thinking of Aaron Stout, and I felt a vastness stirring in me, with words to say and melodies to spit.

You left at dawn to be first in line for the beheading. You came back wide-eyed and asked me do you realize where we are heading. It's been hard to talk to you.

The words are not the thing yet. It's the feeling. Here's some more:

.......(uh)......

Okay, I can't think of it now, but this line - the one I can't remember -  woke me from my sleep the other night and it was good. And it's somewhere in the dusty apartment I call my head.  It went something something something something, "over the bridge unabridged, from 1 to 5."

Today was a day not to think about Motherlodge too much. I got up at 5:30 a.m. and went to the Fulton Street Social Security Office to apply for a Social Security card.  With my birth certificate and marriage license I was approved. If I'm lucky I might get it before we leave for Louisville.

On the way out of the building, I was mocked by the security man at the door for not holding the door for a blind man. But I was confused. I'd just gone through applying for the SS card feeling like no one was going to be convinced that I was who I was. Walking out to see the blind man who had no regard for me, my first reaction was to feel even more convinced that I was not there. And on top of this, the guy was going in the wrong door. So I didn't know what to do - Do I help him go through the wrong door, or direct him to the - "HEY!" (before my thought was complete the security guard was on me) "That's great, sir! Thank you. Thank you for holding the door for him! Can't you see the man is blind?" 

I had my reasons, but reasoning aside, as they say, the facts the facts: Today I stood aside and made a blind man open a door himself. I did some cool shit, today, too, but this is the story to end the day with.

And this completes today's blog from Ray - the guy who still sometimes thinks more than he acts.

Motherblog 12 Mar. 2009

Needs for the day: 1) help with contacting for Louisville High Schoolers who WON'T be leaving town on Spring Break. We need volunteers. We need actors. We need responsible drivers.  2) someone to contact potential food sponsors for our meals. 3) someone with printing capabilities to help with programs the week of Motherlodge.

Commence naval gazing...

We lost Moby a few days back.

Okay. That's just fun to write. Really, we never had him, he's just cool enough to have considered coming to Motherlodge. He thought it sounded like fun, and said he'd check his schedule. I can't argue with him passing us up to play a benefit for transcendental meditation with Jim James and Sir Paul McCartney.

"Hopefully next year!" said Moby. 

Yes Mobes, yes.

I can see why J.K. McKnight visualizes a ship for his Forecastle Festival. Organizing our humble first Motherlodge feels like equal parts witnessing and navigating the balance between natural systems and structures that have uniquely different behaviors and rhythms. (Like ships to water, venues to bands, or, say Brigid Kaelin and Shannon Lawson.) Yet somehow amidst the crashing of seemingly unrelatable manners, THE VESSEL that is the thing takes on shape and a direction.

Seriously - this wasn't the best Motherlodge for Moby. Or Jim James or Paul McCartney for that matter. This is the year for me, Traci, The Rud, Melanie, Bill, Derek, Myron, Matt, and everyone else who is going to be involved in Motherlodge to discover what it is.

Motherblog #1

Bill had another great idea. 

"Why don't you blog about the Motherlodge as its coming together, that way next time you'll have notes on what happened and what to improve on."

My first note of what to improve on has been with me since day one - never schedule as many shows with me in them again. But there was no way of avoiding that this year. To start, the only way I could imagine filling 8 days was to think of the people and ideas within my reach. 

The Opening Concert is going to be the last thing that ultimately comes together, which figures, because it is the mission statement of Motherlodge. And like every good mission statement, it eludes containment like a dolphin covered in vaseline writhing on the deck of a tuna boat.

To start, the centerpiece of the concert is meant to be the audience, not the performers, but how exactly do you get people to come without a good reason? So tonight, a little over 2 weeks out, I am scrambling with the list of performers to advertise. The poster has yet to be made (!) It is going to say "10.00 suggested cover. Pay what you can. Just come." The emphasis is on just come. It stems from an idea that Chef Tim at Salvation Army and I feel strong about - everyone at some point can use a free meal. But for some reason, we attach a meaning to the kind of person that accepts a free meal. And this is block one in us being able to understand ourselves and anyone else in the context of our community. I hope some people who can barely afford the cover pay, because we will give them something worth paying for. And I hope some people who can afford to don't, so they can enjoy being taken care of. Don't get me wrong - we need to make money from the show. Quite a bit of money would be great, because the idea of Motherlodge is that everyone gets paid as well as possible. But for this, our opening concert, it is more important to stress community. There are nearly 1300 seats to fill. Just come.

The name of the opening concert is a tricky bugger, and I imagine at this very moment our co-organizer Todd Hildreth stretching his best German Mother Frown across his face as he reads some of the titles we have come up with for the opening concert.

But I should share some ideas before I get to the title options (which, by the way, are only options in my head because Tim and I settled an hour ago on a title - I'm just still pondering in my usual Ray way.)

So, some backstory - a few years ago - 15 or so actually, Craig Wagner and Joseph Castriota and I came up with a concert idea for our jazz trio. We were students at Bellarmine at the time and in our short jazz careers we had what I now think was a surprising knack for arrangements of spiritual songs. We also loved the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar (the funky one with Ian Anderson and Murray Head). So Bellarmine College (at the time they hadn't found their way to University status) could only say yes to our idea to do a themed concert of music that turned a secular eye to the last story of Jesus.

Keep in mind, this was long before Mel Gibson or Southeast Christian. 

I'm not sure what I mean by pointing that out, but there it is.

We never ever addressed the idea of Jesus resurrecting because we thought it was the part of the story that sold out the intelligence of the people who found inspiration in the man's story. In terms of song selections, we had some missteps. I really had no business singing "Simple Song" or "They Won't Go When I Go". And one year, when Craig failed to edit down a video we borrowed, the program ran with 4 excruciatingly long minutes of a televangelist hitting his peaks accompanied by overdubbed fart sounds. 

But by the third year, there was a focus and drive to what we were doing that made for some of the best theater, music, and live art that I've ever participated in. 

These days we are post Gibson and present Southeast Christian (a Louisville Church that has the budget to take out full page adds for their Passion spectacular show that sells out their church which seats thousands). With the Jesus story staying current with the modern temper, I don't see anything wrong with the next gospel contextualizing Jesus as an X Man, or a South Park character for that matter. But what has changed for me since our last concerts has come from living in New York: whatever you believe had best be of use to your neighbor or else it's not worth a shit. And by neighbor I don't mean the neighborhood, the demographic, the high school. I mean everyone sharing this world with you. 

In his poem "Motherlodge", Kipling writes, "We met upon the level and parted on the square". He talks of the distinctions of religions recognized in the outside world, but of the little consequence they had inside the Motherlodge. (Which was, by the way, a Free Mason lodge).

Sure, Kipling didn't speak of women or homosexuals, but giving him the benefit of the doubt, we arrive at what I hope will be the core of the concert on the 29th - a warm, inviting place where everyone is welcome and encouraged to belong. Because of this it is my hope that Jesus stories are just part of the meditation, and that we land more firmly in the contemplation of everyone's story.

Tim and I like the title: "The Passion Fruits". I also like "SUP". Whatever it's named will taste and sound marvelous.    

Spacemen have Orbituaries

Published yesterday by the Indy Sun...

Aaron Joshua Stout, 29, died February 27, 2009. He was a loyal and cherished friend, brother, and son. He was a singer, songwriter, musician and composer, poet, artists, actor, and filmmaker. He is loved and missed by his parents, Stephanie and Jim Stout; brother and sister-in-law Simon and Liz Stout, James and Shalonda Cheatham; girlfriend Amia MAdole; grandparents Ronald and Carolyn Sue Doak, James and Eileen Stout; uncles and aunts MArk and Christi Doak, John and Gloria Comstock, Tim and Joan Doak, Doug Stout and Jill Warvel, Bob and Penny Stout, and Beth Coleman-Valdettaro; cousins Liz, Loren, Andrew, Tim, Christopher, Anna, Jordan, Betsey, Colleen, Bobby, Jeff, and AJ. Born August 6 1979, Aaron graduated from North Central High School in Indianapolis and attended Indiana University and University of Prague, Czech Republic, and wandered the world making music. He was blessed with rare creativity and passionately pursued his dreams. Aaron had thousands of friends. He brought much happiness and inspiration with his wacky humor, kind heart, remarkable intelligence and his wonderful talent. Aaron leaves a body of artistic works as his legacy. Many knew him by his art and we are left with sadness that we will not be able to create the new music that was his vision. He never knew how amazing he was. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to the Indiana Organ Procurement Organization or The United Way. Donations made to the family will support Simon's congregation Adonai Roi in Israel. Come visit with friends and family at the Conkle Funeral Home, Speedway Chapel, 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. Tuesday March 3, 2009, with a service to celebrate Aaron's life at 7 p.m.

Before/After

Tomorrow night Corporal will play with Caithlin DeMarrais. While setting up the show, I had a moment when I wasn't sure what would make the best order for the bands. Caithlin and half of her band are from Ranier fuggin' Maria. This will only be Corporal's 5th show I think, but with Mike fresh from the Oscars, a lot of friends are psyched to check in with him... no one in either band really cared and the matter was easy to decide, but it had me reflecting on some stories where order made a difference.

One of the best band-order stories was told to me by Ben Daughtery. In the late 80's, Squirrel Bait opened up for GG Allen in Cinncinatti. Even for soundcheck, GG was the consummate professional, knocking a light tech off a ladder and checking the mic by sticking it up his anus. When it was Squirrel Bait's time to check (for those that don't know, soundcheck order goes in the opposite of show order), Peter Searcy had to use the mic GG had christened. (As the story goes, later that night the show was raided and Squirrel Bait, most of whom were underage, were locked in a closet with GG who had been in the middle of a set where he was painting himself with his excrement. Showbiz!)

I realized writing this that Ben told me this story on the way to a Love Jones show in Phoenix Arizona where LJ was on a bill with All and (I think) The Descendents. Ben had a bit of a meltdown with the billing and we never played.

Which reminds me of the time I travelled with the Impressions for a show in Houston, but that is a whole story unto itself.

Other band order memories:

Playing after Foo Fighters. This was back when their 3rd album had just come out. It was my 5th show with Days Of The New.  This went amazingly well in part because after seeing them destroy the stage, I felt like there was no point in being psyched out. I never noticed David Grohl and Taylor Hawkins sitting behind my drum riser during the set, which would have freaked me out. I remember Taylor's drum tech telling me about when FF's had played with Alanis Morissette that Alanis had made a stink about who played when and Grohl stormed into her dressing room, said he didn't give a fuck and played before her for the rest of the tour.

Playing after Black Keys at Rudyard Kipling. That sucked. This was the first time the BKs came through Louisville and I, being afraid of nothing, did not count on how less confident I could feel singing and playing guitar rather than drums, which was what I was doing at the time. I spent the set staring at every open space in the room, which seemed to be many after the Black Keys set. 

IAJE 1991. Craig Wagner and John Skaggs and I were made the "host band" for a late night jam session. What a mess.

Days Of The New and Sevendust at Louisville Gardens. Travis and his management felt that because it was Louisville, Days Of The New should headline no matter what. By this time, (5 weeks after the Foo Fighters show,) I was beginning to understand the virtue of playing next to last. It is really the best time slot. It saves you from watching hundreds of drunk people stream out of the auditorium while you play the forth song of the set. I have great memories of the show, though. It was Dad's first quasi-arena show. Sidestage videotaping the topless chicks makes any set time a good time.

 

The week that totally was

I'm not making this up. We really have a new President. Traci really got a client. Shannon really got an Oscar nomination and Lucas really got a gig at Humana Festival. 

There isn't enough money between Traci and I to have a significant trip to the grocery this week, but there is food in our bellies, a world full of staggering change, and warm nights to share at home where we can shake our heads, look at each other and say, "Can you believe this?"

Inauguration Day

Yesterday I woke up in a place I could have killed myself in. I was feeling the age in my bones and thinking that every decision I'd made in the past three years was wrong. It took most of the day to recognize that I was only thinking of the choices I'd made that were unfortunate. They were piled like dirty clothes on the wrong side of my bed and they were the ones I rolled myself into when I woke. But I wasn't thinking of all the choices I had made. Some of them haven't sucked. 

The last line of the Hopi poem says, "We are the ones we have been waiting for." In the new year that started at 12 noon, I would hope that these words can be appreciated without a) sacrificing the whole of the poem they came from or b) being taken, mistaken or assumed for a slogan of arrogance. This Is about Inheritance. It is the work of the responsible to articulate all that can be imagined, and turn dream to action. These next few months are shaping up to satisfy those who can think freely. The searchlight for new ideas may not likely be this bright again (...one speech cannot sway nearly half a life of guarded cynicism...) or it could keep getting brighter.

I listened to the man speak, kicked myself in the ass once for the times I checked out and didn't continue to apply myself, and then resumed the uncharted program. 

The end always feels near if you feel yourself nearing the end. 

I spent Inauguration night with people who had been checked out of the system longer than I've been. Every one of us found reason to take a step closer, and reach for more in our thinking. 

A mouse walked into a hole...

This morning there are holes in the new snow that covers the sidewalk on Goodwin. These drops of nothing in the pristine white reveal dark wet concrete beneath, glistening like lizard skin. I think today that I could be the snow, boundless and insistent, or a hole, which I'd describe as an absence of something expected that is more remarkable for what it makes room for than what it is.  I'm definitely not the ground under my feet.

No, today I am a hole. Definitely. I make my footprints respectfully, and with caution.

In the shower I heard a quote from a Monk who once lived in Bolognia. He said something like "in the world of todays poetry there are many mice who, when dusted with flour, consider themselves millers."

But the holes in the snow are what speak loudest.

People ask "What" and "How"

Astroland is a Phantasmallegory (put Trademark symbol here). 

The story continues to reveal itself in clangs and whispers, just as the problems of arranging it come clearer. (We are two weeks from our dress rehearsal.) [Cue sound of teeth popping off hard candy to sound like biting nails.] 

There's THIS...Less the band started focused work on Astroland a year ago, but the seeds of the story started shaking in a few of us much earlier.

OR...In early 2005 I took a hit of weed in the back of a rental van traveling east from Pittsburgh to New York City and had a mild yet transformative breakdown. On the previous day, Less the band had breakfast with my Dad at North End Cafe in Louisville. Afterwards, we got in the van and I left Louisville for what seemed like permanently. We had to drive to Pittsburgh to play Gooski's, and then we would drive to New York City where I would wait for Traci to join me to begin the rest of our life. I was on my pilgrim's ride to a new home, to a place where I would always be a visitor, with four guys I barely knew.

By time the van pulled in to the rest stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I'd cleared up the whole fascination with aliens thing: "Of course we relate. We're not at home, either. We think of aliens because we are them." (Things I've added since that talk: we think of God for much the same. If only we didn't have to spend so much time getting over ourselves.)

We ate Mc Donalds outside on the handicapped ramp. Two pudgy kids in cardboard-colored Boy Scout uniforms locked the doors of a station wagon and walked into the food court.

"Poor bastards," said Paul. 

Everyone has memories of that talk at the Rest Stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It is part of the picture of Less the band. It's in our history. Thank God.

Last night at Mercury Lounge Paul told the audience anytime we played an "old song". (Funny to have old songs when we've played less than 75 shows in our lifetime. ) Later as we rode in the back of the Zip Car with Rob's ten speed banging our knees Paul said, "Ray, remember after that one trip, how you had to piss real bad and we pulled over on Canal Street so you could do it?" 

How could I forget? It was the end of the big trip, my first moment in New York feeling like a New Yorker. I stood on the curb and filled two McDonalds Extra Large cups with warm piss. Adam held one of the cups for me just for the hell of it. 

Riding in the Zip Car last night I had another flashback to the "old days". It was also a day when Less the Band returned to New York from a run of shows and mixing our record in Chicago. Unlike the first trip, this one was a little more tense. No one was volunteering to hold the cup.

But as we crossed George Washington Bridge, Chernus told us that a photographer friend of his had called and asked if we wanted to play a battle of the bands at a metal club that night. Chernus thought the guy might take band photos for us if we did. We discussed extending our time together one more day.

"Are we fucking high?" asked Paul. But then he volunteered to go rent a U Haul for the gig. 

We didn't qualify for another slot in a future band battle, but we played the best show of the year that night.

Blue Tooth

I got a root canal. The tooth on the back lower right part of my jaw couldn't handle it anymore. The nerve was too big to stay exposed like it has been and it had been through a lot in a matter of weeks. Two dentists tried to put it back together before dentist #2 yanked out a sliver of broken tooth and said it was hopeless.  It was time. I had been unreasonable with the foods I'd asked the tooth to chew for a long time. The Welsh I think first I cracked the enamel years ago biting on an olive pit, but the final irreparable split of the tooth's walls came from a piece of breakfast sausage containing a mean and nasty fennel seed. CarrRACKK!

Tomorrow I'll visit my dentist to make my weekly payment for her work and inform her that the right side of my jaw hasn't taken well to all the recent attention. I am worried about any more bad news (really hoping to put off the crown work). Everything had been going great until last week's appointment to fill the root canal. I could not physically sit still and deal with any more mouth trauma. I tried to get it under control, breathe deep and think myself a ut eventually she finished with, "I did as good as I could with you moving." I told her I understood.

If this were Facebook, I could post that Ray Is Chewing Up A Bowl Of Popcorn With The Left Side Of His Mouth. 

She's gonna love seeing me.

Why Wouldn't We say...

"Have you ever heard people say that they are worried about figuring things out because then they'll die?"

"I've heard you say it."

"Seriously?"

"You say it all the time - "

"No, I mean seriously I'm the only one? Because I hear a lot of people saying it. (pause) Men mostly. Maybe its a guy thing."

"Everything ends in death with boys."

"No, no. I think when you hear someone say, "I'm figuring it out", they have pulled themselves from their usual strand of living towards a new approach, a new idea. Some of these new ideas can completely shift a person from their axis and by doing so, give them a new life. As the new life starts to take hold, the old struggle, or the old life, disappears.  This can be very frightening for people my age who feel like they are figuring things out."

"Your age?"

"Forget I said that. The point is, when a revelation of that which is happening around you comes, you feel yourself in that same moment one step closer to nothing. Someone might take these feelings for the sensation of being near death - "

Traci has the keys that get us through the door of our apartment.

"- and that sensation could make people afraid to see things in a new light. Afraid enough to remain with the things they know. Because knowledge, my love, is destructive of many things we aren't sure we don't need."

She opens the freezer door. The sound of ice in a glass.   

"Bourbon?"

"Yes. Please."

  

 

Oh. (or Lost in Space)

I excused myself from the rest of the house guests here in Austin and rushed upstairs.

"I have to go take my passport photo off of the internet and go to bed."

The conversation had been winding down when Traci finished her description of soft red winter wheat by turning to me and saying, "...that reminds me. You have to take your passport picture off of your my space."

My first thought: "Huh. Usually I’m the one being paranoid..."

My second thought:  "..........................................."

"What’s the matter with it,"asks Kat. "Is his picture that bad?" 

"No," says Traci. "Its that has a picture of his whole passport up there. A scan of his entire passport!"

"Oh," says everyone else in the room.

My second thought finally arrives. "That’s not good, is it?" 

"No," says Guitar Shorty, shaking his head lightly and grinning. "Somebody could have some fun with that."

With that I excused myself and came upstairs. If you spied my passport while it was up on my My Space, I'm sure you were as stunned as I am now to see the precision and detail with which my HP Officejet 7410xi All-In-One Scanner/Printer rendered my document. Amazing.

If ever I thought identity theft was something worth putting on my list of worst case scenarios, it is at this moment as I read all the letters and numbers of my passport from my My Space page, displayed in erotic clarity on the screen of somebody else’s computer. If ever I questioned the integrity of my liberal come-one-come all attitude towards accepting My Space friends, well, that's now, too.

Now I am definitely the one being paranoid. What happens to our Gmail accounts when we move on or die? Did Google really just make search engines for advertising? ARE WE ON LOCKDOWN????

I think being paranoid is the best alternative to asking myself what kid of idiot puts his passport online. Therefore, in these final moments when my internet naivete still lingers in Texan air,  I must go full Rooney.

Does every space we cut out for ourselves in this universe an eventual pit for someone else’s stuff? Are we really this ready to give our world away, or make commerce with it? Some of my friends wondered how Borat got those people to say things in the movie. I thought they were crazy. Look all over this My Space Facebook world. Most of us are all too ready to hand it over. And we don’t even know what it is.

The space.

What to give to the space?

Soothing as these deep thoughts are, I'm still little anxious and, well, paranoid. So since I am fairly certain in this moment that someone who peeked my passport on my My Space page is capable of being an identity thief, (I don't mean you necessarily - but maybe) I feel that its time to start clearing out of the My Space digs and have Tom spray for bugs. This may seem extreme and I don't want to make too much of this, but in the wrong hands, my identity in particular (compared to, say, some other peoples identities) could be, well, lets just say DANGEROUS!

In the meantime, I’m wondering if this blog is better transmitted from my more secure, as-yet-to-my-knowledge unbreached site at www.mooselamp.net 

At mooselamp.net get Vicodin for .12 each.

I want to mooselamp.net and ssee big penitty stuff.

Rayd

This blog ownedz by Google.

Nate Dawg

Last week on a date that doesn't really matter, the second anniversary of life without Nathan quietly passed. Phil and I observed it simply and in a way Nate would have appreciated - we went to a bar and got drunk.

If Days of The New are a constellation (and we are) then Nathan Robinson is very likely the black star at the center, keeping up the gravitational pull.

At the time of Nathan's death, Travis and I hadn't talked or seen each other in a few years. We got back together to play a memorial for Nathan. We played "Wish You Were Here" and Nate's brother accompanied us on guitar. It was the first time we had played in four years and, in ways that I still don't think we understand, it was the beginning of a new chapter that runs up to and includes this moment. The following is a piece I wrote for the Louisville Eccentric Observer (LEO) the week of the memorial.


Nathan Robinson Remembered

by Ray Rizzo


I cannot tell you about Nate in 500 words. I will try to find him in a few haikus printed in a paper that I am pretty sure he never read. Not that he disliked LEO. I think Nathan appreciated LEO because his friends and the musicians he spent his time working with read it, if only to see their names written inside.

It is good for the paper – hell, this city - that Nate’s friends are among its community.

It is good of this paper to give 500 words to Nathan Robinson, sound engineer, musician, friend, brother, son, grandson. All over the city this week, many of Louisville’s Most Eccentric Observers can gather upon this quarter page memorial, smoke a Red or a Green, toss back some Makers and ask our newest space traveler, “S’uuup?”.

It isn’t good that we’re here and Nate is gone.

For those who didn’t know him, Nate would like you to take these 500 words and rearrange them in any manner you see fit so that they may work for someone you know who might leave this world loved but with not as much in print.

Now you know.

For those who did know him, 500 words are just not enough. And yet – Nathan: one word opens a universe. Nathan, a memory: “Let me eat it!” Nathan, a sign: “Peace!” Nathan, a sound: “The bass tone is the fuunk!”. Nathan is reaching beyond his body now. That is some wild shit, Nate! It’s crayyyzy!

You better cut this out and put it on your fridge. Because any place of Nathan’s was a place worth gathering. Dog shit on the floor, ashtray runneth over, fuck it. In Nathan’s home, pizza from last night’s crew was daily bread. You bet your ass I gave thanks to have it. Nathan showed me that there was nothing in the loaves, ya dummy. It was the people you broke the bread with. He also tried to talk me out of eating stale pizza.

Nathan never sat at table, at a bar or recording studio where he didn’t take you in as a friend. I believe the ledger of Nate Dawg balanced all debts, graces, and minor thefts in the currency of essence. Now, Nathan would be first to say that “essentials” like friendship, sonic alchemy, and laughter were not as good as cash when you are starting your own recording business, but he was just starting to get calls from people who understood his worth. In his presence I always felt lucky.

I’ve thought about Travis Meeks a lot this week. The day Nathan died, Travis told me he saw Jesus once. In Los Angeles, late into an emotional night. Travis looked upon his couch to see Jesus sitting smoking a Marlboro Red. When he outed Jesus from his disguise, Travis says Jesus sat back on the couch, got real quiet, and grinned a shit-eating grin until the sun rose.

Nathan, the word in Hebrew: “God has given!”

One more thing – I’m sure I’m over my limit, but this is important. I’d like to tell the other driver, on behalf of at least a few of Nathan’s friends gathered here at the Quarter-Page Memorial, there is nothing you need forgiveness for. But if it helps, you are forgiven. I mean, I am sure if Nathan could have got up and kicked in your bumper and cursed for a month, you would have heard nothing like it, laughed your ass off, and eventually become “cool”. If he were here Nathan would tell you that this is just some fucked up shit that happens. I know you don’t know me, but here it is in Nate’s 500 words.

Or you could take Travis’ Mom’s word for it. When she called Travis she said, “Goddammit, Trav, I know that boy, and when he went into critical condition I knew he’d take one look at the other side, look back at us and say, Fuck ya’ll!”