A model airplane is a hobby; a drone is an instrument of death

Warren G. Harding said "normalcy." No, no, no! The word is normality. Well, it was. Now it is accepted usage. Politically, I'm some kind of radical, but many of my views are very conservative. I don't think we should allow linguistic mistakes to replace legitimate words. Hell, even Sarah Palin has coined words and dictionaries rolled over for her.

Enough! The thing that pisses me off right now is the misuse of the word "drone." When I was a kid I mooned over model airplanes - the ones that you could fly. Since the sixties a lovely expansion of flying model plane models has occurred. There are still the gas-powered engines, but also CO2 and electric engines abound. There has been remote control for some time.

And now we get all these stories about drones. Amazon deliveries by drone. Paparazzi use of drones. What the hell? The misuse of model aircraft is one thing. The label "drone" is going to smear a lovely hobby with the patina of death. 

This just in! News flash! An important John Fahey update!

Ha! My old brain dredged up a critical memory about the iconic guitarist John Fahey. I’m combining my previous two blogs about him and will add the new memory in italics.

The Guardian has an article about the American guitarist John Fahey. Read it here. John's best music is so radical that I somewhat disagree with characterizing him as a blues player. He would hate the term "New Age," but he invented a New Age in steel-string guitar playing. I like the term someone came up with - "American Primitive Guitar." If one tunes to an open tuning (such as G, Keith Richard's favorite tuning - DGDGBD), and then fingerpicks Travis Style (alternating thumb on the bass and use of the first two fingers) - it's hard to go somewhere John did not go first.

I bought "Dance of Death and other Plantation Favorites" sometime around 1965 just because the cover and title were so unusual and the store clerk spoke highly of the music. I instantly fell under the spell! One of my friends who I turned onto the music was named Steve Clark.
Fast forward to 1972. My son was born in November and the three of us went to Los
Angeles to visit Steve, only his name was now Tiramal. I might be misspelling it, but that's
phonetically correct. Tiramal was the director of the LA Integral Yoga Institute, Swami Satchidananda's ashram. Tiramal invited my wife, son, and I to live there in a beautiful old mansion that was
the Institute. So we started getting up at 4 am for meditation, then Hatha Yoga. Steve, I
mean Tiramal, told me, "You'll never believe who I'm giving private yoga lessons to." He
said that one day he got a phone call from a man who told him he was at the end of his
rope. He was depressed and drinking too much. He called the Institute with the remote
hope that there was help there. The caller was John Fahey. Tiramal had been going to John's house for a few weeks. One night he told me that John might come that night for Kirtan (sacred chanting). I had never seen a photograph of  John, but when I walked into the room and saw this man in rolled-up blue jeans I knew who he was!
I started visiting John's house. I just hung around his house a few times talking. One day I asked him how often he changed strings. He answered,
"Everytime I play" Wow, I said, can I have your old strings? "Why, they're dead." That shut
me up.  Another time he picked up a guitar, fingered an A chord in standard tuning and
stretched his little finger up to the fifth fret on the high E string. He looked at me with
rather arched eyebrows. I thought the unspoken message was- do you know this move?
I felt funny that he was showing me such a simple thing and didn't know at all how to
respond.
Well, you can see that I wasn't a close pal, but that every single moment with him was
special for me if not for him.
I'll end this post with this...one day at the Yoga Institute John told me that his guitar was
upstairs and I could play it. I went up. It was tuned DADGAD, a tuning often used in Celtic guitar playing. I'd played in DADF#AD of  course but this DADGAD was new to me. Of course I instantly recognized the sound from some of John's pieces. I was wrapped up in this special moment when John walked in and lay down on the floor. I kept playing not daring to look at John. When I stopped I looked over and heard the gentle sleeping snore of my hero.
Yesterday's post told, briefly, what I know of the story of John Fahey and the Intregal Yoga Institute in Los Angeles. I did not specifically point out, as I will now, that the story begun by John is that he was trying to get close to a lady in the ashram. My close friend Tiramal was in overall charge of the ashram at that time and the lady in question was a secretary. Tiramal never said a word about this. He said that John had called the ashram with suicidal thoughts and was reaching out for help. I believe Tiramal. I'd have to hear from the lady in question before I could believe the story. This woman was a serious devotee and I can't see her joking around with John. That may be why he picked her to tell that story.
I remember Tiramal telling me that John was recording a new album in honor of Satchidananda. I first saw it at the Institute. It was called "Fare Forward Voyagers (Soldier's Choice). Tiramal and others seemed a bit upset about something. They didn't want to talk about it, but it hit me recently. There was a picture of folks in the liner notes. Quoting now from http://www.johnfahey.com/pages/ffv2.html   "The Fahey Files"
     "On the reverse of the sleeve there is this: “I respectfully dedicate this album to my guru, Swami               Satchidananda”. Inside the first issue of the album there was a 4 page pamphlet entitled “Yogaville West”,  which, we were informed, was “a growing spiritual community in the beautiful mountains of Lake County,  Northern California”. Surmounting three pictures of the community was the following message:

“I would like to introduce you to this healthy, spiritually based concept of living. The 46 people living here follow the ideals of Integral Yoga as taught by Swami Satchidananda. To the extent that I have practised these techniques, they really seem to work. – John Fahey.” "

John had stiffed his Los Angeles friends! For them to complain would would be a show of ego which they were practicing to get beyond.
John was an exasperating person. He was contrary. Read Glenn Jones' liner notes for The Epiphany of Glen Jones here and you'll get the idea. I think it's safe to say that only his supreme artistry (when he was on) could account for his friendships over the years. Like Picasso or Dylan, he was hard to deal with, but his art saved him.
A few years after I hung out with John a bit in '72 I saw him perform at the Armadillo World Headquarters in Austin, Texas. Afterwards, I was among a few folks backstage waiting to see him. We waited and we waited. Finally, some dude, said, "This is ridiculous" and pushed open the restroom door. Instantly, we heard loud voices - "Hey, man, how you doin'?" "What the hell are you doing in here?" "Hiding out, man." They burst out together with talk of a party somewhere. John didn't talk much to the rest of us backstage. He gave me a look like "who the hell are you?" I was too embarrassed and shy to say anything.
Want a guitar lesson from John? Go here for a fascinating story and a lesson in open C tuning.
I will wait to possibly share another John Fahey memory. It's funny. I'm putting it to my subconscious to remember the Texas dude's first name who plays a critical role. Last name is Dean. Hummm....

what my Native American students thought about "Redskins," "Indians," and Tomahawk chops

I have lived most of the last 20 or so years on an Indian reservation. I taught high school and middle school students for 17 years. If I ever blog at length about my experiences and insights gained from the experience, I might decide it matters to identify the tribe, the school district, etc., but for this blog I’ll leave it there.

It took time, but eventually for most school years I had a very good relationship with my students. Actually, when it came to discipline and class control issues I said more than once to a recalcitrant student something like this: ‘There seems to be a battle between you and me about who going to run this show. I know that right now we have the kind of office leadership that would let you win this battle, but I want you to know something. If you win I’ll probably be fired or I will quit and if you win, I don’t want to work here. So, I’m not sending you to the office, but I do want you and every student in this class to go home tonight and tell your parents or guardians all about what is going on. Tell them every single thing including what I just said about working here. Tell them they can call the office and set up a meeting with myself and the principal. I’ve been here so long that I’ve forgotten I’m a white man. I won’t put up with this any more than you’re grandparents would. So bring it on.” I won every time.

Most of the time, of course, my classes were fun. I was a funny teacher, too. I was liked. So, that’s my background in a nutshell to set up what I’m going to share with you about using words such as “Redskins,” “Indians,” and actions such as the “Tomahawk chop.” Simply put, at least at a national level (which was the context in which I held these discussions), my students didn’t give a rat’s ass about such things. In fact many of them went out of their way to wear a Cleveland Indians baseball cap or a Redskins symbol. Didn’t bother ‘em a bit.

Now Obama can be a war President, too

If I don’t dwell upon the horrible nature of American journalist James Foley’s murder I think you will understand. The horror needs no words. I must say that the photograph I saw of Mr. Foley before the sword was raised showed the face of a brave man, of a remarkable courage. It is the face of Obama’s war. Now he can end his term as a War President, too.

American politicians do not learn. If they did the lesson of Viet Nam, surely, was that even a poor people can send the greatest military in the world packing if they persist. And thus died so many brave humans, and Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society.

The American people relished so the feeling of being the saviour of Europe in WWI, the saviour of Democracies in WWII, that they haven’t noticed that, trillions of dollars in military spending later, we haven’t saved so much else.

But we have become a military-minded nation. We will spend billions believing that Mr. Foley can be avenged. Our presidential hopefuls will have to outdo each other in bluster. Many brave volunteers will die.

Many other innocent people will die in the Middle East. Israeli government deprecations  will be funded by the American taxpayer. And, it follows as night follows day, there will not be enough money for US infrastructure, health care, housing, public schools, parks, and town squares, you know - all those nice things that some countries have because they tax the rich.

And billions of dollars later, no, trillions of dollars later, someone somewhere will famously terrorize the US again and we will begin again. Collateral damage be damned – until we finally see that we all, Americans and allies, Palestinians and poor, are potential collateral damage and not just to the enemy, but to our governments.

In the End

Weird, but I can ‘confess’ things on my blog that I don’t talk about to people in person. Every blog I write gets some readers; always the readers include people from outside the US. That’s a lot of what keeps me posting.

Weird, but I remember once, around 1970, telling a fellow that I wish I could be a musician without having to perform in public. I wanted to record and release albums, but not perform in public. He said, “That’s weird.” Yes, it is, but here I am doing it. Yet, (don’t think I’m ignorant) the thing that allowed me to fulfill my dream, the internet, also is so full of stuff that it doesn’t register near as much as if I had, say, become a hit in my hometown, Amarillo, Texas.

Yet, I know a woman, Judith Nelson, Judith Nelson Clark- Judy Clark as I knew her back in the ‘60s, who was a hit in Amarillo, who almost got a song accepted by none other than Roy Orbison, who had a song (I Just Dropped By to See the Show) recorded my Marcia Ball, and yet who never “made it.” Weird. Oh dear, I just googled her old band, the Last Chance Band, and see that there is a band from Maine with that name, and the first reference to Judy and her Texas bros was from one of my blogs. Weird.

Don’t think I don’t know that the only reason I have so many sites that carry my name is because the ‘cloud’ is cheap. I carry on because “you can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket.” My dream, at this point, is that someone, somewhere, someday will discover a song and that that ‘someone’ has connections – maybe a song placement in a TV show or a movie or …

I still dream about finally overcoming my performance anxieties and making a mark in some city, but it’s kinda hard to think it’ll happen. I’m 64. “Will you still need me, will you still feed me …” Why should you? I never stood in your food line. Well, not very often.

If one is autistic or has Asperger Syndrome, or whatever the hell helped me hide, I’d recommend you not to pursue music as a career. But what do you do if you don’t know yourself well enough, and you fall in love with the idea of ‘making it’ in a world that requires more social interaction than you are capable of? Are you simply fucked? Oh no, not necessarily. I wouldn’t trade my musical adventure for the ‘straight life.’ The adventure was very much in my own head, but that doesn’t mean it was wasted time or foolish. I’ve lived a life. Most of my young adventures were tied to work – on the Bering Sea on a fish processing ship, in Chicago and Florida as a race horse groom, to name two big adventures. And there were those young days when I could smoke a joint that would fuel four or more hours of guitar improvisations.

At this point, if I were to come into money, I’d want it to be for my children and my grandson, Forest William. The hardest thing to kick, and it must be kicked, is the desire to “prove myself” and to seek recognition. I’m over the fame thing (kinda), but not the desire for recognition – and there lies the rub. You can’t count on recognition, but you can count on the journey being interesting and rewarding. Mine has been.
                                      ****************************************
When I listen to my son's first big production, 1972 AND YOU, I hear an awful lot of the history of pop. Pop became Forest's thing. I bought him a Taxi subscription the last year of his life. Taxi is a service that posts stuff that's said to be directly from the film/movie/recording companies. So the posts give the description. I'll make up a typical listing:
Needed. A song a la Ricky Nelson about breaking up. Company will buy performance rights so only submit completely orchestrated songs.
Yeah. I tried it and the feedback always said I was off base. Forest got feed back like
         You really nailed it. That's exactly what the description said. 
But he never got anything placed
I'm not bringing this up as directly relating to the song posted below. I'm telling you that he had moments of experience, of the musical life, that are the real deal. He lived a life. When he wanted something he couldn't do (he played bass, drums sometimes, rhythm guitar, vocals, any keyboard) he posted a note on a bulletin board at U of A in Tucson. He did this for saxophone and classical guitar. I need to tell the names of those guys some day, but I can say this - Rick Moe played drums until he went to New York City, and Forest's beautiful wife Jessi sang real good. Yep.
I'll get to work with CD Baby on Forest's album "1972 and You."

For now, here is a song, In the End, I recorded with my late son Forest Arturo Dunn. Forest never had a piano lesson. He was simply gifted. Forest is playing and singing everything that's not me and a Martin. Forest did his thing in no time. This came from his "hitting the woodshed" on so many multi-track recordings.

This song was written in honor of my wife Rosemary; there is no one else like her in this world; one does not need to ask Rosemary, "Are you a Christian?" She is a woman of works, not words.

Winfield, Kansas where you're not in Kansas anymore at the Walnut Valley Festival

If you are a foreign or domestic tourist (scary phrasing in this day and age) I’m about to do you a favor. If you don’t know what the Walnut Valley Festival is, read on for a real Americana treat, even a shocking , yet delightful treat. The locals call it simply “Bluegrass.” If you ask for directions in Winfield, Kansas you can just say, “Where’s Bluegrass?” (Doesn’t work the same way in Colorado.)

I’m going to tell you about the unofficial festival which is just across the street from the official one, but first a bit about what the promoters would want me to say. At this music festival you can attend contests wherein outstanding musicians from all over the world compete for glory and great prizes.

Thurs. 9:00 AM	Stage 4	International Autoharp Championship
Thurs. 3:00 PM	Stage 4	International Finger Style Guitar Championship
Fri. 9:00 AM	Stage 4	National Mountain Dulcimer Championship
Fri. 1:00 PM	Stage 4	National Mandolin Championship
Fri. 5:00 PM	Stage 1	Finger Style Winners (victory lap)
Fri. 6:00 PM	Stage 4	Walnut Valley Old Time Fiddle Championship
Sat. 9:00 AM	Stage 4	National Flat Pick Guitar Championship
Sat. 3:30 PM	Stage 4	National Hammer Dulcimer Championship
Sat. 5:00 PM	Stage 1	Flat Pick Winners (victory lap)
Sun. 10:00 AM	Stage 4	National Bluegrass Banjo Championship

There are the contests; the days this year refer to the dates from September 17^th through the 21^st, but the chart online said 2012 so just know this years festival is Sept. 17-21. Past winners of one or more of the contests include Mark OConnor, Alison Kraus, Chris Thile, and Peter Ostroushko. If you have no idea who these folks are, no matter. Also, look online for the artists who will be performing. The party I’m going tell you about is across the street. If you don’t like to par-tay, scroll down to one of my political blogs! Or, you can search online for the festival info.

You need to search wvfest.com and select ‘camping’ info because I’m telling you too late to get a motel room unless you drive to St. Louis. If you do that you mis the party. Camp. Now, in 2009, there was a flood of rain and I managed to get a motel room because so many people canceled, but the festival went on. (Bring mosquito repellant and coils to burn) You’ll be camping and trust me, you want to camp! You want to camp in Pecan Grove, my partying friend. You’re too late to bring an RV this year, but you can find a place to park a car and pitch a tent. Stake a reasonable amount of space for your tent by placing stuff or stakes around, because on the weekend a Pecan Grove that seemed full all week will swell to half again that full of college kids.

Here is a picture from 2009 that gives you an idea of the funky fun to be had in Pecan Grove. This is not Pecan Grove, they had to move Stage 5 that year due to mud.

Yeah, Stage 5 man! Wow! You want to see and hear three barefoot hillbillies get DOWN jammin’? You want to hear folk tunes on a concert harp? You want to hear songs about drinking? Smoking pot? And, really – songs about killing bad cops? Whoa. Yep, I’ve heard it all at Stage 5. There are bands that sing songs sooo deeeeep in Americana that they must know they have no chance of hitting the big time, but they have big followings in and around the Ozarks. You will see crowds heading places around Pecan Grove. Follow them. They are heading to other stages where a popular person or group is about to play. Stages 5, 6, etc. all began as unofficial projects, but Stage 5 is now semi-official. Let’s say not official enough to be censored. I didn’t specify that this is an acoustic instrument festival – I mean its Bluegrass. They don’t even want a drummer! I wandered into a dispute one year that ended with a drummer getting kicked out of a roadside jam. He took it like a man, but I was drunk and, after another song I called out, “Great, but it’d be perfect if you got a drummer!”

There's a lot of drinking going on, but most people are sober (most of the time). Then there's the dude who yelled, “Play on, I’m just hitting my first wall.” I’ve never drunk enough to get past the first wall, but you will see plenty of more experienced drinkers.

This raises the question – bring the kids? Hell, no, but people do. I guarantee you that no one will change their set list. They’ll still sing songs like Suck My Balls. Fights? I wouldn’t worry. Cops? Yes, enough, but they have backed off a lot. The festival lost money during years when the police were overzealous about arresting people. It’s so much a let-your-hair-down event that one year I even questioned things. A young woman left her drunken man after an argument. He drank on, yelling shit. We were camped by the river. He yelled, “I’m gonna kill someone.” Then there was a big splash. “Fuck, I fell in the river!” The cops came, talked to him and left. His friends spent the rest of the day baby sitting. I commented to a friend, surprised he had not been arrested. The regular attendee said, “You see that camp? All cops off duty having fun. You see that one? All firefighters. That asshole was just al talk.” The firefighters were taking turns hitting each other with a swat board (like in old-time schools). “A young woman called out, “You made a welt!” I don’t think she minded that much.

Well, this crap is not why I would want to go so let’s move to music. Do you play? Guitar, banjo, mandolin, acoustic bass, fiddle? Just carry it with you as you stroll around anytime day or night. There will be a jam session going. Join in! I jammed with a band called Whistle Pig (a word for, I think a groundhog). Three mind-bogglingly good musicians man, I hung on by the seat of my pants. Sometimes I play softly on the outskirts of a jam until there’s a song I know. Then, I get louder, maybe get nodded to for a solo, “You want one?)  Fun, fun, fun until Daddy takes your T-Bird away.

Here’s a thing. Years before I attended there was a tradition of some large camp putting up a façade that looked like it came from “Streetcar  Named Desire.” Folks began standing front of it doing their best Marlon Brando. “Stellllllaaa!!!!!”  So, I’m  sitting with a new friend, somewhere in the distance we hear “Stella” and he tells me the story. The façade hasn’t appeared for years! It’s just that some old-timers still yell out “Stella!”

There you go. Will one more thing – all the other campgrounds are for normal people so you can camp there and just go slumming in Pecan Grove if you don’t drink too much to find your way back to reality.

Oh, yeah, I am, after all shamelessly promoting my music and my son’s. I’m a Winfield Winner! YeeeeFuckingHaaaaaa! I won a category of the song contests (across the street) and, new contest that it is, the only prize is getting to sing your song on an official stage. That was enough for me. I overcame my horrific performance anxieties (we won’t talk about my humiliations in the dulcimer and autoharp competitions- “How’d you do?” “I sucked.” I heard you practicing, you’re good!” “I sucked – donkeys.” “Oh sorry man, here have a beer.”) and did good! That was the highest high of the year for this old man! Here is a link to my picture onstage. The guy copyrights his work so I won’t paste it here.

 And here is my Winfield-Winning song, as recorded in Texas with Big John Mills and Sterling Finlay. The song category was “religion/spirituality.” The gospel truth is that I was runner-up, but There Bible (yes) couldn’t attend so I won.

Oh yeah, one more thing. I mean you will be right next to Missouri so people of color might want to know - you'll see hip Japanese tourists, hispanics, and some black folks. This thing is very white, but I'll bet you will not experience any racism. In fact, this year I bet people will go out of their way to make you welcome. Come for the bluegrass and not to gawk. Gawking would raise hackles. Don't come to laugh at people. Come to get crazy and/or jam. You may even get kissed by a libertarian. Many local attendees might have right-wing leanings, but they ain't there for political or religious reasons. What happens in Pecan Grove stays in Pecan Grove.

My great grandfather was a great exporter, he took a load of syphilis out of Italy...

Sins of our fathers. In Adams fall, we sinned, all. This song has been misinterpreted as a complaint. Oh, no. It’s a statement of fact.

When my son Forest Arturo Dunn (middle name for Toscanini) recorded with me, I think for him it was a way to make up to me. He had little to make up, but the last time I left him, his mom, and his sisters he was in high school. He challenged me, “old man,” to fight him. It was one of the several times in my life I let my ego go. I just stood and looked at him. I thought, “This is really the end. He hates me. His mother hates me.” I made no threatening moves and we did not fight, thank God.

Oh, those sins of our fathers. I remember once when I was small and had a new bike, my Dad took me to Sam Houston Park in Amarillo, Texas. I took off riding. Dad was sitting on a bench. The park had many sidewalk paths and I went around and around. Very soon I realized I didn’t know where my father was. Unknown to him, I was not riding ‘round and ‘round enjoying my new bike. I was looking for my Daddy.  He told me later that I rode past him several times and he thought I was having fun. He should have said something as I rode past, no? My father was a depressed man. I was an depressed man. Damn it, this nature/nurture thing ain’t easy, huh?

The mother of my children and I had one hell of a rocky marriage. I was always leaving and coming back. I never, ever failed to send money. No child support needed to be demanded from me. Those times I left Frances after we had children, I sent money home. I used to be angry when I heard men talk about not sending money to their children. In my mind, I was a superior father because I paid. Dads, let me tell you if you don’t know. Sending money has no emotional impact on your children. It doesn’t count. What counts to them is that Mommy is ALWAYS there. The money won’t count when it comes to winning their love. To win their love you’ve got to BE THERE.

On this song, as usual, I play guitar and sing. Forest plays a 12 string guitar for lead, organ, bass, percussion, and sings harmony. This song has not been sweetened in a studio, but it comes through. I wrote this around 1973 when Forest was a baby.