I grew up on a farm because of my father who, at the age of 40, decided that he’d always wanted to be a farmer. My folks were both Chicago kids who’d ridden their bikes to outlying towns just to see farmland. Mom was born in Lombard, and Dad on Western Avenue in Morgan Park. He was passionate about art, and knew from a very early age that he was going to be an artist, and somehow, during the heat of the depression, managed to attend the prestigious Art Institute of Chicago.
When World War II broke out, he was so passionate about enlisting and becoming a pilot that he threatened to move us all to Canada because the RAF would accept him – a doddering old man at the age of 27 – and the fledgling Army Air Corps here in the States would not (the men in his flight class called him “Pops”). Eventually, The USAAC resolved the issue by admitting him. He trained in Texas, where I now live, flying B-25s until the war ended, never seeing action. His uniform, his wings, his service was a source of extreme pride to him to his final days.
He worked as a commercial artist for most of his career, designing well known packages for Kleenex, AC spark plugs, logos for UpJohn, Wammo, and retired from this to teach commercial art at Northern Illinois University. He appeared in an ad in Time magazine when I was a child, something that inspired complete awe and wonder in me.
He’d played baseball as a young man, eventually working his way up to a small farm unit for the St Louis Cardinals, but “gave it up for women” (my mom.)
From my father, I inherited my creativity, my sensitivity, but also my addictiveness and depression. As is the way of all people, we inherit both the good and the bad from our folks. Despite this, I wouldn’t trade who my father was with anyone. When my mom met him, she thought he looked like Tyrone Power and was immediately smitten.
There is not a single day of my life that passes that I don’t think about my father. He was enormously prideful in equal amounts to his sensitivity, and at time very irascible, belligerent, at others as caring and compassionate as any living man.
Once, when he and my mother were courting, walking along Lake Michigan, they’d seen a crowd gather at the breakfront watching a dog that was struggling in the breakwater, unable to climb the rocks. It infuriated my father, and after belittling the crowd verbally (which I can easily image him doing), he stripped off his shirt and dove into the churning, icy water. The dog, near drowning, clawed at him, scratching him, but he clung on, and was helped out of the water with the dog (by the same people he’d belittled). My mom was won over.
Here’s to you, Dad. I’ll love you always.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Bob Curell's 1929 Gibson Style 5 original 5 string banjo
Today, friend Bob Curell was in town from Arizona and, after two years of trying to hook up, we finally got together. An hour and a half later I am still goose bumps. He has a Pre War Gibson banjo. This prewar has an original 5 string neck. This banjo is a flathead. This banjo has been in his family since 1935. It is a Style 5. Perhaps the ONLY ONE IN EXISTENCE. It was in my lap…
(Note to non banjo-files out there: Before WW II, dating back to the 1920s, banjo production was very high. Banjo "orchestras" and clubs popped up everywhere. Lest you think this meant bluegrass, remember this was 25 years before the term was coined. Banjo meant jazz and blues, was played with a "plectrum" (pick), and was a 4 string affair. Most modern day banjos are of the 5 string variety, the fifth string providing that driving, chiming sound that makes for bluegrass and mountain banjo. Prior to WW II, only a very few country artists were in the market for a 5 string banjo (most made their own), and Gibson made very few. These are generally considered to be the finest examples of 5 string banjos ever made, and some fetch upwards of 100,000 dollars. Of these, most are owned by top bluegrass pros today. Earl Scruggs famously played a 1930s Granada by Gibson for most of his career. Of all the models made, there is perhaps only one Style 5, with it's garish art deco designs, in existence. This is it.)
I owned a 1927 TB-3 archtop conversion, so I was accustomed to the feel of a pre-wwII Gibson, but to say that I was in any way prepared for this would be a lie. Folks can go on all day about the differences between flatheads and archtops, 1 piece flanges and tube and plate, and these all absolutely contribute to different sounds, so I had a pretty open mind on what to expect. But to hold the real deal in my hand - the holy grail of banjos – well... I was a bit surprised to feel my hands shaking. I was nervous, if not from the anticipation, simply from the fact that I was holding a pretty good sized home mortgage in my lap. I hit a few notes. I have a habit when I play a new instrument of leaning my head over the pot to catch as much of the sound as I can. On most banjos made by mere human hands, the sound can be loud, but not overwhelming. I was OK until I happened to hit a good solid 1st and 5th pinch. My ear is still ringing. I’m not talking about volume, although there was tons of it, but clarity – precision, the sound of the most piercing bell ring you can imagine. No harsh overtones, no buzzy, ringy after tones or harmonics. Just unbridled, get the hell out of my way, pure, pulsing 5 string banjo.
One of the things I remember about my ’27 TB-3 was the petite nature of the finish. Once, I’d taken my tenor neck down to dust it using a damp paper towel and was horrified to see deep red finish come off on the paper. Curtis McPeake assured me this was OK, and that these finishes were typical of instruments from that period. Today, in the days of absolutely perfect deep gloss finishes, the thought of making a new instrument where you can actually feel the boundary between the binding and the wood is unthinkable. I remember also looking at the Mastertone block, obviously hand cut, with small scratches where the grave had overshot the mark. Heavens, a CNC machine would be returned to manufacturer if it put out such shoddy work.
This banjo, from its wear worn neck, friction 5th string peg, crackled finish on the resonator (where the finish is so thin, you can actually see the grain lines when held against the light just right), hand chalked serial number in the resonator, gaudy rhinestoned peg head overlay just screamed art deco from the ‘30s. And it could not have been more beautiful. I could “see” the luthier. I could see the work on his hands.
Bob told me the history, as best he knew it. It was owned by an L. K. Miller for a fairly short period of time before his father bought it in 1935. One owner, for the most part, for the entire life of the instrument. This is like finding a ’63 split window Corvette in someone’s garage with the price sticker still on it. Bob is a gracious, magnanimous owner. His goal is to get as many pickers to see this piece and play it. It’s not meant to be in a vault somewhere, he says. And I agree. And now I’m lucky to have been chosen to be one of these pickers.
I played a few tunes and marveled at the balanced tone from top to bottom. The neck intonates perfectly as high on the fret board as you choose to play. My hands were unaccustomed to the feel (I play a Doug Dillard type super high head tension, thin bridge, light string archtop) and stumbled to “get” the instrument for a while. Bob has it setup with a thicker bridge, medium strings, fairly high action and medium head tension to get a more primitive tone from it. The banjo was patient with me, though, and simply lay there as if it was saying “I’m ready to do more anytime you are.” One of the things that really struck me was that usually banjos setup like this don’t respond to soft playing. Not here. This responded with the lightest touch, but never “overrode” the sound when played hard. By the end, I was pretty sure the banjo was capable of doing far more than I was able to plug into it, but it tolerated me.
I want to thank Bob for this opportunity, and have posted a set of pages on my site to document the occasion photographically. Bob, thanks a million. I will remember this day on my last day.
(Note to non banjo-files out there: Before WW II, dating back to the 1920s, banjo production was very high. Banjo "orchestras" and clubs popped up everywhere. Lest you think this meant bluegrass, remember this was 25 years before the term was coined. Banjo meant jazz and blues, was played with a "plectrum" (pick), and was a 4 string affair. Most modern day banjos are of the 5 string variety, the fifth string providing that driving, chiming sound that makes for bluegrass and mountain banjo. Prior to WW II, only a very few country artists were in the market for a 5 string banjo (most made their own), and Gibson made very few. These are generally considered to be the finest examples of 5 string banjos ever made, and some fetch upwards of 100,000 dollars. Of these, most are owned by top bluegrass pros today. Earl Scruggs famously played a 1930s Granada by Gibson for most of his career. Of all the models made, there is perhaps only one Style 5, with it's garish art deco designs, in existence. This is it.)
I owned a 1927 TB-3 archtop conversion, so I was accustomed to the feel of a pre-wwII Gibson, but to say that I was in any way prepared for this would be a lie. Folks can go on all day about the differences between flatheads and archtops, 1 piece flanges and tube and plate, and these all absolutely contribute to different sounds, so I had a pretty open mind on what to expect. But to hold the real deal in my hand - the holy grail of banjos – well... I was a bit surprised to feel my hands shaking. I was nervous, if not from the anticipation, simply from the fact that I was holding a pretty good sized home mortgage in my lap. I hit a few notes. I have a habit when I play a new instrument of leaning my head over the pot to catch as much of the sound as I can. On most banjos made by mere human hands, the sound can be loud, but not overwhelming. I was OK until I happened to hit a good solid 1st and 5th pinch. My ear is still ringing. I’m not talking about volume, although there was tons of it, but clarity – precision, the sound of the most piercing bell ring you can imagine. No harsh overtones, no buzzy, ringy after tones or harmonics. Just unbridled, get the hell out of my way, pure, pulsing 5 string banjo.
One of the things I remember about my ’27 TB-3 was the petite nature of the finish. Once, I’d taken my tenor neck down to dust it using a damp paper towel and was horrified to see deep red finish come off on the paper. Curtis McPeake assured me this was OK, and that these finishes were typical of instruments from that period. Today, in the days of absolutely perfect deep gloss finishes, the thought of making a new instrument where you can actually feel the boundary between the binding and the wood is unthinkable. I remember also looking at the Mastertone block, obviously hand cut, with small scratches where the grave had overshot the mark. Heavens, a CNC machine would be returned to manufacturer if it put out such shoddy work.
This banjo, from its wear worn neck, friction 5th string peg, crackled finish on the resonator (where the finish is so thin, you can actually see the grain lines when held against the light just right), hand chalked serial number in the resonator, gaudy rhinestoned peg head overlay just screamed art deco from the ‘30s. And it could not have been more beautiful. I could “see” the luthier. I could see the work on his hands.
Bob told me the history, as best he knew it. It was owned by an L. K. Miller for a fairly short period of time before his father bought it in 1935. One owner, for the most part, for the entire life of the instrument. This is like finding a ’63 split window Corvette in someone’s garage with the price sticker still on it. Bob is a gracious, magnanimous owner. His goal is to get as many pickers to see this piece and play it. It’s not meant to be in a vault somewhere, he says. And I agree. And now I’m lucky to have been chosen to be one of these pickers.
I played a few tunes and marveled at the balanced tone from top to bottom. The neck intonates perfectly as high on the fret board as you choose to play. My hands were unaccustomed to the feel (I play a Doug Dillard type super high head tension, thin bridge, light string archtop) and stumbled to “get” the instrument for a while. Bob has it setup with a thicker bridge, medium strings, fairly high action and medium head tension to get a more primitive tone from it. The banjo was patient with me, though, and simply lay there as if it was saying “I’m ready to do more anytime you are.” One of the things that really struck me was that usually banjos setup like this don’t respond to soft playing. Not here. This responded with the lightest touch, but never “overrode” the sound when played hard. By the end, I was pretty sure the banjo was capable of doing far more than I was able to plug into it, but it tolerated me.
I want to thank Bob for this opportunity, and have posted a set of pages on my site to document the occasion photographically. Bob, thanks a million. I will remember this day on my last day.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
How Many to Follow?
One of the trends I’ve noticed over the last year is people whose following numbers are about as impressive as their followed by numbers. I’ve never messed around with auto-following, and in principle, I don’t think it’s wrong, but at some point I believe there is a maximum number of people one can legitimately say that they are “following”. I think my current number is about 800, and I’m beginning to feel I’m not doing most of them any favor by missing most of their tweets as my timeline rips past me.
I supposed we’re all on here to “market” something. Even if it’s just to meet new people, we’re kind of marketing ourselves. Some, on the other hand, are all about marketing some product or service (most of my new followers, lately), and their following/follower numbers reflect an effort to broadcast as widely as they can. I’m going to suggest that if you follow 16,879 people, you’re probably going to miss that tweet from your sister inviting you to her kid’s birthday party.
One of the side effects of this proliferation of following numbers is as follows: You wake up in the morning, send out a tweet saying that you’re doing pretty well, then, trickling in over the next couple of hours, you’ll receive tweets from followers saying “How are you today?” Well, I’ve already said how I was today, right? The underlying problem is that some people use this mini-blog system as a sort of souped up messaging service/chat program. But I suspect the real problem is that they are just following too many people to see your morning tweet.
Twitter was originally designed to network small groups of people, like a project team at a company, so that everybody could see updates on everyone else’s activity. I don’t think one thought was given to celebrities who garner millions of followers, or marketers who follow hundreds of thousands of people. At this point, there’s not much difference between this and email spam (and tweets from them are probably treated about the same).
There are no rules in Twitter. You can use it however you want to. And I suppose that’s the beauty of the thing, as it allows for constant evolution. But the next time your Aunt Minnie wonders why you’re snubbing her on Twitter, you might look at your following number.
Later.
Jim
I supposed we’re all on here to “market” something. Even if it’s just to meet new people, we’re kind of marketing ourselves. Some, on the other hand, are all about marketing some product or service (most of my new followers, lately), and their following/follower numbers reflect an effort to broadcast as widely as they can. I’m going to suggest that if you follow 16,879 people, you’re probably going to miss that tweet from your sister inviting you to her kid’s birthday party.
One of the side effects of this proliferation of following numbers is as follows: You wake up in the morning, send out a tweet saying that you’re doing pretty well, then, trickling in over the next couple of hours, you’ll receive tweets from followers saying “How are you today?” Well, I’ve already said how I was today, right? The underlying problem is that some people use this mini-blog system as a sort of souped up messaging service/chat program. But I suspect the real problem is that they are just following too many people to see your morning tweet.
Twitter was originally designed to network small groups of people, like a project team at a company, so that everybody could see updates on everyone else’s activity. I don’t think one thought was given to celebrities who garner millions of followers, or marketers who follow hundreds of thousands of people. At this point, there’s not much difference between this and email spam (and tweets from them are probably treated about the same).
There are no rules in Twitter. You can use it however you want to. And I suppose that’s the beauty of the thing, as it allows for constant evolution. But the next time your Aunt Minnie wonders why you’re snubbing her on Twitter, you might look at your following number.
Later.
Jim
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
